Primed and preened for the Presidency

Mob Rule: Part 27

I felt like a prize poodle just before the big dog show. They clipped and razored and washed my hair a few times, applied something foul smelling to it… I shut my eyes through most of it and thought murderous thoughts.

By John Armstrong

When I say campaign, obviously we couldn’t do it in the traditional electioneering style, rolling up with brass bands playing and banners flying. This was going to be what Bobby called a “stealth campaign”; as one of the conspirators, a hardware chain tycoon from Des Moines put it, “like we’re coming into town on a wagon pulled by cats.”

Regardless, it was an all-out blitz to get out the vote. Bobby said, “We’ve got a comprehensive list of potential supporters in the key cities and what we need to do now is go out and meet them in person and lock them in,” he said. “We know who to approach, and who’s going to be receptive – or a good idea, anyway. What we have to do is convince them to get on board now.”

I was in a chair while he said this, a barber tssk-ing and clucking and shaking his head, flipping my hair with his fingers, clearly unhappy with the poor materials he was expected to work with. Apparently I needed to do more than change my clothes in order to be president.

“The first thing we have to do is get that grease out of your hair,” Bobby said as the man was tucking his barber’s drape around me and surveying my head, trying to figure out where to start. I’ve worn my hair the same way since I was a teenager, short back-and-sides and long on top, pomaded into a minimal pompadour. I always thought it looked quite dashing but it was strictly a no-go with my new mentors.

“No offense, but you look like a guy who carries a knife and hangs around dark alleys,” Bobby said. “We need you to look a little more like a statesman, a man people can trust.”

I felt like a prize poodle just before the big dog show. They clipped and razored and washed my hair a few times, applied something foul smelling to it, then washed it out again. I shut my eyes through most of it and thought murderous thoughts.

When they were done the barber whisked away his sheet and spun me around to see the mirror. I wasn’t sure who I was looking at but it certainly wasn’t me. He’d left my hair dark but at the sides he’d put in grey patches like the fenders on a two-tone car and instead of being brushed back like a grownup, the hair on top was parted to the side and a big chunk now fell across my forehead. I pushed at it with my hand and he slapped my fingers back.

I was in a chair while he said this, a barber tssk-ing and clucking and shaking his head, flipping my hair with his fingers, clearly unhappy with the poor materials he was expected to work with. Apparently I needed to do more than change my clothes in order to be president.

“No, no – leave it alone. It looks good. Very handsome.”

He reminded me of a cook defending his stew. I thought I looked ridiculous and turned to Bobby for help. I got none.

“It’s exactly right – a touch of grey for maturity, the rest youthful, gives the impression of vigor and vitality. Just right.”

I thought I looked like a prematurely grey 12-year-old. I wanted to ask him if I was allowed out after dinner to play baseball down the park. Instead I got out of the chair before the barber was tempted to do anything else. No such luck.

He pushed me back and said, “Oh, we still have to shave you, Mr. Kennedy.” For a second I thought he meant my head, which I didn’t entirely think could be any worse than what he’d already done. Then I got his drift.

“Not a chance. You’re not touching my mustache.” I saw Marcello Mastroianni in Divorce, Italian Style about 10 years ago and started growing mine when I walked out of the theatre. I would put up with a lot, but the hair on my lip was not a subject for negotiation.

He already had his cup of lather out and was whipping it up in happy anticipation, like a headsman hefting his axe.

“It has to go, Jack. It just doesn’t portray the image we’re trying to give you. It’s … too Italian.”

“I thought that was my appeal, ‘former Mafia underboss’ and all that.”

“We’re going to sell your background as a mobster, yes, but we don’t want you to look like one. Don’t worry, it’ll grow back … when your term is over.”

I stared at him and he stared right back, a standoff. But I knew I was sunk – I had a job to do. I couldn’t queer the whole deal over some facial hair. I sat back down slowly and closed my eyes again.

That wasn’t the end of it. My room was filled with new clothes. For the suits I could take my choice of dark grey or dark blue. The ties were either solid colors – though the word colors suggests they were in fact colorful; they were not – or regimental stripes. Like the suits they were somber, suitable for a funeral but too depressing for a wake. The shoes were likewise a testament to monotony, several pairs of plain black brogues.

While I was dressing for the final okay on my wardrobe Bobby went out and came back in with two men. One was a slender white man in his late 50s with slicked back grey hair and a sizable mustache – I wondered if he knew it was standing between him and the presidency – and a tallish, middle-aged black man, heavyset but still carrying himself like an athlete.

“Jack, I’d like you to meet Sydney Lineburger and Otis Byrd. They’ll be writing the speeches with me and coaching you on public appearances, all that.”

We shook hands and then I did a turnabout to show Bobby my new look.

“Well?”

“Perfect,” he said. “You look great.”

I shot my cuffs and wriggled my shoulders. “I feel like I should be showing you gentlemen something in a nice mahogany casket.”

That wasn’t the end of it. My room was filled with new clothes. For the suits I could take my choice of dark grey or dark blue. The ties were either solid colors – though the word colors suggests they were in fact colorful; they were not – or regimental stripes. Like the suits they were somber, suitable for a funeral but too depressing for a wake. The shoes were likewise a testament to monotony, several pairs of plain black brogues.

Lineburger – I assumed he was Lineburger; the black man didn’t look like a Sydney, to me – said, “The grey at the temples is a good touch. Dignified. We want something between the chief executive of a large corporation and a favorite uncle, the one with a sports car and the good-looking young wife.”

I didn’t much like the idea that people I’d never met got an opinion on how I looked and dressed when I didn’t so I asked Lineburger how he rated one.

“Sydney is a wizard, an advertising man,” Bobby answered. “He’s with Lineburger/Lambert, in New York. You can trust him. He’s the best there is.”

“We like to say we can sell popsicles to penguins,” Lineburger said. I wondered how the ability to sell people things they didn’t need or want was one that should inspire my trust, but like so many things about this whole affair I kept the thought to myself.

“You’re going to make me the new, improved, 1965 Jack Kennedy, I take it?”

He twinkled, no offense taken at all. “You got it – ‘Now with 50 per-cent more Presidentiality.’”

I found myself liking him, at the same time realizing it was probably a necessary skill for the job. His partner hadn’t said anything yet.

“What about you, Mr. Bird? You a Popsicle salesman, too?”

“Not exactly,” Bird said. He stuck a large hand out for me to shake. It felt like he could crack walnuts with it.

Bobby was flipping through a sheaf of papers. “Otis is a colleague of Syd’s, here to help with the Negro vote.”

“That’s right,” Bird said with a smile. “Sydney sells the popsicles, I sell the fried chicken and watermelon. I’m the secret weapon.”

“Otis grew up in the South, ” Sydney said by way of explanation. “The Negro population has tended to run their own show up here since the Bosses took over. Down south things have gone back to nearly what they were before the war, except for actual slavery.

“There’s different ways to enslave a man,” Otis said. “The modern way, you just don’t have to feed and shelter him, too.”

“We want to bring them all back into the fold.” Sydney said. “Our fold. After all, the Democratic party is the party of civil rights.”

“Really? I thought the Republicans freed the slaves.”

Lineburger waved a hand, as if he were clearing smoke. “Lincoln was a Democrat in everything but name.” Sydney said. “Preserving the Union, restoring the republic – it’s the same thing, just a hundred years later.”

“Let us worry about the political theory,” Bobby said. “You’re going to be busy enough with your own job.”

I nodded at him in agreement, all the while thinking that so far as I’d heard what we had was a so-called election with one party and a single candidate, and a team of advertising people just to bedazzle the rubes just in case the odds weren’t stacked enough. But since no one had mentioned letting them actually vote, I supposed it didn’t really matter. I’d had more choice in my suits and ties than they were going to get.

Mob Rule is a work of fiction, serialized exclusively in The Ex-Press. To read past instalments, click here.