Vincent Zandri's Blog - Posts Tagged "hillary-clinton"
My Openly Naked Shameless Heartbreaking Publicity Seeking Monica Lewinsky Story
The following blog post is now published at The Vincent Zandri Vox in slightly different form: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Monica Lewinsky, the young woman who gained infamy by becoming then President Bill Clinton's illicit Oval Office sex kitten, is back in the news. Now forty and rapidly approaching a period of her life when most women (and men) are hitting high gear in both their careers and relationships, poor Monica just can't seem to shake the stigma of the Clintons, which according to her new Vanity Fair expo, has cost her both her ability to land a job and a husband. Funny how Slick Willy hasn't seemed to suffer from the blue-dress-"I did not have sex with that woman" scandal that dominated the news for more than a year back in '98/'99 even with his having been impeached. In fact, Bill, is considered a great statesman while Hillary prepares for her 2016 White House run. Go figure!
I feel badly for Monica. While she claims that her relationship with her boss was consensual, I have trouble swallowing the legitimacy of the whole affair. Let's face it, she was twenty-three and he was old enough to be her dad and then some. To put it as frankly as possible, it was a power trip for him to bang the young hot intern, and he knew it. Maybe the scandal proved to be a real pain in the rear end for the Clintons, but by some sort of oddball twist of political irony, it might have even served to make them more famous and desirable in the public eye.
Monica and her DNA stained blue dress certainly hasn't stopped the Clinton machine from conquering new territory in DC. If anything, it has made the power duo more alluring (One can picture Slick Willy gripping a cocktail at a Dem fundraiser while Pres. Obama leans into his ear, whispering, "Come on, Billy, tell me. What was she really like?")
Well, I'm sick of the Clintons getting all the glory. Sick of them sucking on the publicity tit that is Monica Lewinsky. Fact is, I have my own Monica story to expose after keeping it hidden for sixteen years. That's right people, I too have enjoyed a run-in with the Black Widow of the Beltway and it happened entirely by surprise.
It all went down in the Winter of '98, which as some of you might recall, was a killer. I was a very young novelist fresh out of writing school and who had just signed his first big quarter million dollar deal with Delacorte Press (Random House) for the publication of my first big novel, THE INNOCENT (back then it was called, As Catch Can). Being young and stupid and living within close proximity to NYC up in Albany, I would often find myself in the city on weekends, not only to play drums in my then editor's band, Straw Dogs, but also to, well, party like a rock star.
It was during one of these weekends that I found myself sitting on the floor of Penn Station on a late Sunday morning, trying to stave off the ill effects of a gargantuan hangover. Armed with coffee and a double Nathan Hot Dogs value meal, I awaited the train that would cart me back up north to Albany, where I looked forward to sleeping off my weekend for twenty four hours or more.
It was snowing outside. Correction, the entire East Coast was engulfed in a major Nor'easter, and the airports were shut down, which meant that many travelers who had planned on flying upstate were quickly snatching up train tickets. I'd prepaid for a seat in what was then called Amtrak Business Class, because at the time, I had money to burn, being the promising new Norman Mailer, minus the Pulitzer talent and audience. But hey, it was fun to pretend.
When the call came for my train I peeled myself up off he floor like a piece of chewed up old Juicy Fruit, and gladly barreled my way through the throngs of tourists until I found my train car down inside the steaming bowels of the station. As I located my seat inside a car that was mostly filled with Business Class passengers dressed in sharp clothing, not a single eye took notice of me, my black jeans, worn combat boots, leather coat, and Nathan's Hot Dogs. In fact, their eyes were glued to their respective copies of the New York Times Sunday Edition, which bore a headline that went something like, "CLINTON AND LEWINSKY KISSING IN AN OVAL OFFICE TREE!" Okay, I jest, but our president and his sex scandal was indeed the top news of the day. I myself might have taken a vested interest in it, were my head not ready to explode. But all I wanted was to crash in my seat, chow down my hot dogs, close my eyes, and pass out for the two hour ride north.
I wasn't seated against the window for more than a minute, the first of the two Nathan's Hot Dogs just inches from my open mouth, when a conductor interrupted me.
"Excuse me," he said. "But is this seat next to you taken?"
We both gazed down at the seat in question. The cushion didn't contain the ass end of a human being, but instead, my yellow cardboard Nathan's Hot Dog container, the already mustard-covered number two dog lying in wait.
I looked up at the tall, blue suited man and noticed two women standing directly behind him. Both women were tall, dressed expensively, and holding carry-on bags. They stared at me with wide, almost pleading dark eyes that never once blinked as the question about the empty seat lingered in the air like the aroma from my Penn Station lunch. The two women were none other than Monica Lewinsky and her mother.
I looked at them without saying a word, far longer than I should have. Because the conductor repeated the question about the seat. A little more emphatically this time.
I shook my head, dumped my first hot dog back into the container along with its partner, then picked the entire package up off the seat and gripped it in my hands. Sliding out of the seat, I faced Monica and her mom, and tried to work up a smile.
"Why don't you take both seats?" I said, knowing full well they were the only two seats left in Business Class, or perhaps the entire train.
But Monica shook her head. I recall she was wearing a black baseball cap, black acrylic stretch pants, and a snug fitting zippered jacket that accentuated her ample bosom. That very famous bosom that Bill so craved day in and day out. But I digress.
"I'll sit on the floor," Monica insisted, pointing to the empty space directly behind the two empty seats that might otherwise house a handicapped person and his wheelchair. "It's no problem," she added.
I stared down at the uneaten hot dogs and considered offering one up. But then raising my head, I peered at all the people reading their Clinton Scandal newspapers, all of them oblivious to the scene taking place only inches from their faces. History was being made here. How could they not see it unfolding? Here stood not only the major player in a sex scandal that was shaking the entire world, but so was her mother. How they could miss the obvious was beyond me and my sore head.
"Why don't you take both seats for you and your daughter?" I said again to Monica's mom, at which point, she shook her head in frustration, and issued a slight, if not tearful cry. Maybe all those people were glued to their newspapers, but they wouldn't be for long. Not if Monica and her mom continued loitering in the aisle.
"Please," she said. "Don't do this."
My heart sank for this attractive, middle aged woman who seemed so stoic yet so vulnerable and hurt. Peering down at my hot dogs, I slipped back into my seat, while Monica sat down on the carpeted floor behind me and her mom took the seat beside me.
Silence ensued while the train left the station and I, no longer hungry, slipped my hot dogs under the seat in front of me. After a time, as the train began winding its way along the banks of the iced over Hudson River and the snow fell on the tress of the Hudson Valley, Monica and her mom began conversing over the seat back. They were discussing someone "who would get theirs in due time." Someone who had no doubt played an integral role in the uncovering of the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. They spoke in hushed whispers and in a kind of mother/daughter code that, while not entirely understandable to me, wasn't completely Greek either. The two women were pissed off and I guess they had a right to be. A young life was in the process of being ruined.
After a time, Monica got up and quickly darted through the aisle to the bathroom, passing by all those travelers and their newspapers, her shapely but sizable posterior creating a slight wind that blew back the edges of the newspapers like an American Flag caught in a stiff breeze. I remember staring at her butt. Her very very very famous butt, and knowing how much Slick Willy must have enjoyed it. It was not the most unattractive sight I'd ever witnessed in my life. But then, hey, I harbor a particular fetish for meat-on-their-bones brunette girls. I'll go so far as to say that I might have even, for a split second or two, contemplated asking Monica for her phone number, knowing that she was, at present, not dating anyone. What the hell, I was young novelist on the rise and her face was plastered on every newspaper and cable news network on the planet. We might make a powerhouse team.
After Monica returned to her seat on the floor, her mom leaned into me.
Looking out the window, she said, "I've heard the Hudson Valley is like the new Hollywood."
I was taken aback by the comment.
"It is?" I said like a dummy, once more taking in the aroma of my hot dogs as they sat unattended only inches from my toes. "I mean, yah, lots movies being filmed here now. Where are you headed?"
"Rhinebeck," she said. "My boyfriend lives there. We need a little time to ourselves."
That bit about "a little time to ourselves" is as close as the woman came to acknowledging hers and her daughter's true identities, and despite a little more small talk, I didn't push her further. By then, all I wanted was to try and figure out a way to get Monica's phone number.
But then the train came to stop as we pulled into a station.
The Rhinecliff/Rhinebeck station.
The woman beside me exhaled a relieved breath and stood up. As she grabbed hold of her carry-on from out of the overhead rack, she issued me the nicest and most genuine of smiles.
"Thank you," she said. But I knew she wasn't thanking me for the seat so much as not blowing their cover.
That's when Monica stood and gazed at me. She looked so young and innocent in her cute baseball hat, her long dark hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. I wanted to say something to her. Something profound and promising. I wanted to ask her if she'd like to get together sometime, shoot the shit, have a beer or two. Maybe even have me ghost a tell-all book for her. I just couldn't get the words out. It was a total choke.
But then she did something I'll never forget: Before she turned to exit the car with her mother, she locked eyes with mine, and smiled.
"You're very sweet for giving up your seat," she said.
I wanted to tell her it wasn't mine to give up in the first place. But the words just wouldn't come.
She turned then and exited the train car. I watched them walk the concrete platform through the window, and for a brief moment, I thought she might turn and once more lock onto my eyes with hers as the train began to slowly roll forward. With the snow coming down in heavy flakes, it was like a scene out of Dr. Zhivago. I the broken hearted young revolutionary knowing that he was losing his young Lara forever and ever.
As the train took on speed, Monica never did look back. I pressed my right hand up against the glass and I watched her disappear from my life forever, and all that remained was the snow falling on the glass as it melted into tear-like streaks of water.
Maybe a half hour passed before I pulled my eyes away form the safety glass. Not a soul was stirring in Business Class. A few people had given up their newspapers for nap time. Some people were chatting it up, gossiping about current events, totally ignorant of what had just occurred right before their eyes. Or had I dreamt the whole thing and was only now waking up from a bizarre hungover dream?
But then I smelled just a hint of the perfume Monica's mom had been wearing and I realized they they had indeed been here for that brief time. I sat there for a while, missing them, until I remembered my Nathans. Reaching back down under the seat, I retrieved the yellow cardboard container and rested it in my lap. Picking up the first hot dog, I bit into it. It was cold, but not too cold. The hot dogs were still good. I finished every bit of them. Small reward for a young novelist who had just played a tiny role in modern political history, and had his heart broken in the process.
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Monica Lewinsky, the young woman who gained infamy by becoming then President Bill Clinton's illicit Oval Office sex kitten, is back in the news. Now forty and rapidly approaching a period of her life when most women (and men) are hitting high gear in both their careers and relationships, poor Monica just can't seem to shake the stigma of the Clintons, which according to her new Vanity Fair expo, has cost her both her ability to land a job and a husband. Funny how Slick Willy hasn't seemed to suffer from the blue-dress-"I did not have sex with that woman" scandal that dominated the news for more than a year back in '98/'99 even with his having been impeached. In fact, Bill, is considered a great statesman while Hillary prepares for her 2016 White House run. Go figure!
I feel badly for Monica. While she claims that her relationship with her boss was consensual, I have trouble swallowing the legitimacy of the whole affair. Let's face it, she was twenty-three and he was old enough to be her dad and then some. To put it as frankly as possible, it was a power trip for him to bang the young hot intern, and he knew it. Maybe the scandal proved to be a real pain in the rear end for the Clintons, but by some sort of oddball twist of political irony, it might have even served to make them more famous and desirable in the public eye.
Monica and her DNA stained blue dress certainly hasn't stopped the Clinton machine from conquering new territory in DC. If anything, it has made the power duo more alluring (One can picture Slick Willy gripping a cocktail at a Dem fundraiser while Pres. Obama leans into his ear, whispering, "Come on, Billy, tell me. What was she really like?")
Well, I'm sick of the Clintons getting all the glory. Sick of them sucking on the publicity tit that is Monica Lewinsky. Fact is, I have my own Monica story to expose after keeping it hidden for sixteen years. That's right people, I too have enjoyed a run-in with the Black Widow of the Beltway and it happened entirely by surprise.
It all went down in the Winter of '98, which as some of you might recall, was a killer. I was a very young novelist fresh out of writing school and who had just signed his first big quarter million dollar deal with Delacorte Press (Random House) for the publication of my first big novel, THE INNOCENT (back then it was called, As Catch Can). Being young and stupid and living within close proximity to NYC up in Albany, I would often find myself in the city on weekends, not only to play drums in my then editor's band, Straw Dogs, but also to, well, party like a rock star.
It was during one of these weekends that I found myself sitting on the floor of Penn Station on a late Sunday morning, trying to stave off the ill effects of a gargantuan hangover. Armed with coffee and a double Nathan Hot Dogs value meal, I awaited the train that would cart me back up north to Albany, where I looked forward to sleeping off my weekend for twenty four hours or more.
It was snowing outside. Correction, the entire East Coast was engulfed in a major Nor'easter, and the airports were shut down, which meant that many travelers who had planned on flying upstate were quickly snatching up train tickets. I'd prepaid for a seat in what was then called Amtrak Business Class, because at the time, I had money to burn, being the promising new Norman Mailer, minus the Pulitzer talent and audience. But hey, it was fun to pretend.
When the call came for my train I peeled myself up off he floor like a piece of chewed up old Juicy Fruit, and gladly barreled my way through the throngs of tourists until I found my train car down inside the steaming bowels of the station. As I located my seat inside a car that was mostly filled with Business Class passengers dressed in sharp clothing, not a single eye took notice of me, my black jeans, worn combat boots, leather coat, and Nathan's Hot Dogs. In fact, their eyes were glued to their respective copies of the New York Times Sunday Edition, which bore a headline that went something like, "CLINTON AND LEWINSKY KISSING IN AN OVAL OFFICE TREE!" Okay, I jest, but our president and his sex scandal was indeed the top news of the day. I myself might have taken a vested interest in it, were my head not ready to explode. But all I wanted was to crash in my seat, chow down my hot dogs, close my eyes, and pass out for the two hour ride north.
I wasn't seated against the window for more than a minute, the first of the two Nathan's Hot Dogs just inches from my open mouth, when a conductor interrupted me.
"Excuse me," he said. "But is this seat next to you taken?"
We both gazed down at the seat in question. The cushion didn't contain the ass end of a human being, but instead, my yellow cardboard Nathan's Hot Dog container, the already mustard-covered number two dog lying in wait.
I looked up at the tall, blue suited man and noticed two women standing directly behind him. Both women were tall, dressed expensively, and holding carry-on bags. They stared at me with wide, almost pleading dark eyes that never once blinked as the question about the empty seat lingered in the air like the aroma from my Penn Station lunch. The two women were none other than Monica Lewinsky and her mother.
I looked at them without saying a word, far longer than I should have. Because the conductor repeated the question about the seat. A little more emphatically this time.
I shook my head, dumped my first hot dog back into the container along with its partner, then picked the entire package up off the seat and gripped it in my hands. Sliding out of the seat, I faced Monica and her mom, and tried to work up a smile.
"Why don't you take both seats?" I said, knowing full well they were the only two seats left in Business Class, or perhaps the entire train.
But Monica shook her head. I recall she was wearing a black baseball cap, black acrylic stretch pants, and a snug fitting zippered jacket that accentuated her ample bosom. That very famous bosom that Bill so craved day in and day out. But I digress.
"I'll sit on the floor," Monica insisted, pointing to the empty space directly behind the two empty seats that might otherwise house a handicapped person and his wheelchair. "It's no problem," she added.
I stared down at the uneaten hot dogs and considered offering one up. But then raising my head, I peered at all the people reading their Clinton Scandal newspapers, all of them oblivious to the scene taking place only inches from their faces. History was being made here. How could they not see it unfolding? Here stood not only the major player in a sex scandal that was shaking the entire world, but so was her mother. How they could miss the obvious was beyond me and my sore head.
"Why don't you take both seats for you and your daughter?" I said again to Monica's mom, at which point, she shook her head in frustration, and issued a slight, if not tearful cry. Maybe all those people were glued to their newspapers, but they wouldn't be for long. Not if Monica and her mom continued loitering in the aisle.
"Please," she said. "Don't do this."
My heart sank for this attractive, middle aged woman who seemed so stoic yet so vulnerable and hurt. Peering down at my hot dogs, I slipped back into my seat, while Monica sat down on the carpeted floor behind me and her mom took the seat beside me.
Silence ensued while the train left the station and I, no longer hungry, slipped my hot dogs under the seat in front of me. After a time, as the train began winding its way along the banks of the iced over Hudson River and the snow fell on the tress of the Hudson Valley, Monica and her mom began conversing over the seat back. They were discussing someone "who would get theirs in due time." Someone who had no doubt played an integral role in the uncovering of the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. They spoke in hushed whispers and in a kind of mother/daughter code that, while not entirely understandable to me, wasn't completely Greek either. The two women were pissed off and I guess they had a right to be. A young life was in the process of being ruined.
After a time, Monica got up and quickly darted through the aisle to the bathroom, passing by all those travelers and their newspapers, her shapely but sizable posterior creating a slight wind that blew back the edges of the newspapers like an American Flag caught in a stiff breeze. I remember staring at her butt. Her very very very famous butt, and knowing how much Slick Willy must have enjoyed it. It was not the most unattractive sight I'd ever witnessed in my life. But then, hey, I harbor a particular fetish for meat-on-their-bones brunette girls. I'll go so far as to say that I might have even, for a split second or two, contemplated asking Monica for her phone number, knowing that she was, at present, not dating anyone. What the hell, I was young novelist on the rise and her face was plastered on every newspaper and cable news network on the planet. We might make a powerhouse team.
After Monica returned to her seat on the floor, her mom leaned into me.
Looking out the window, she said, "I've heard the Hudson Valley is like the new Hollywood."
I was taken aback by the comment.
"It is?" I said like a dummy, once more taking in the aroma of my hot dogs as they sat unattended only inches from my toes. "I mean, yah, lots movies being filmed here now. Where are you headed?"
"Rhinebeck," she said. "My boyfriend lives there. We need a little time to ourselves."
That bit about "a little time to ourselves" is as close as the woman came to acknowledging hers and her daughter's true identities, and despite a little more small talk, I didn't push her further. By then, all I wanted was to try and figure out a way to get Monica's phone number.
But then the train came to stop as we pulled into a station.
The Rhinecliff/Rhinebeck station.
The woman beside me exhaled a relieved breath and stood up. As she grabbed hold of her carry-on from out of the overhead rack, she issued me the nicest and most genuine of smiles.
"Thank you," she said. But I knew she wasn't thanking me for the seat so much as not blowing their cover.
That's when Monica stood and gazed at me. She looked so young and innocent in her cute baseball hat, her long dark hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. I wanted to say something to her. Something profound and promising. I wanted to ask her if she'd like to get together sometime, shoot the shit, have a beer or two. Maybe even have me ghost a tell-all book for her. I just couldn't get the words out. It was a total choke.
But then she did something I'll never forget: Before she turned to exit the car with her mother, she locked eyes with mine, and smiled.
"You're very sweet for giving up your seat," she said.
I wanted to tell her it wasn't mine to give up in the first place. But the words just wouldn't come.
She turned then and exited the train car. I watched them walk the concrete platform through the window, and for a brief moment, I thought she might turn and once more lock onto my eyes with hers as the train began to slowly roll forward. With the snow coming down in heavy flakes, it was like a scene out of Dr. Zhivago. I the broken hearted young revolutionary knowing that he was losing his young Lara forever and ever.
As the train took on speed, Monica never did look back. I pressed my right hand up against the glass and I watched her disappear from my life forever, and all that remained was the snow falling on the glass as it melted into tear-like streaks of water.
Maybe a half hour passed before I pulled my eyes away form the safety glass. Not a soul was stirring in Business Class. A few people had given up their newspapers for nap time. Some people were chatting it up, gossiping about current events, totally ignorant of what had just occurred right before their eyes. Or had I dreamt the whole thing and was only now waking up from a bizarre hungover dream?
But then I smelled just a hint of the perfume Monica's mom had been wearing and I realized they they had indeed been here for that brief time. I sat there for a while, missing them, until I remembered my Nathans. Reaching back down under the seat, I retrieved the yellow cardboard container and rested it in my lap. Picking up the first hot dog, I bit into it. It was cold, but not too cold. The hot dogs were still good. I finished every bit of them. Small reward for a young novelist who had just played a tiny role in modern political history, and had his heart broken in the process.
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My Brief Affair with Monica Lewinsky
The following essay is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox in slightly different form: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
1998 was the year the White House went insane. After what had been a relatively successful second term as POTUS, Bill Clinton was suddenly blindsided by damning revelations concerning an extramarital affair he’d been conducting with former staff intern Monica Lewinsky. Clinton was, at the time, defending himself against another lawsuit leveled by a woman named Paula Jones, who also had conducted an affair with the President. During his testimony for Jones case, Clinton apparently lied under oath about his relationship with Lewinsky. When Linda Tripp, another White House aide, handed over phone recordings of Clinton discussing oral sex with Lewinsky, further adding credence to a perjury charge, the scandal snowballed into a case of impeachment on behalf of the House of Representatives, making Mr. Clinton the second President in the history of the United States of America to be impeached (Andrew Johnson was the first).
The young writer
I was a young writer fresh out of writing school at the time. I’d been one of those rare lucky stiffs who’d managed to nail a big book deal right out of the starting gate with my novels The Innocent and Godchild. Along with the success came the usual party-like-a-rock-star marathon drinking and carousing sessions in New York City with my then agent and editor. We were young, and stupid, and on top of the world in the greatest city on the planet and we had the publisher’s money (and corporate American Express) in our pockets to burn.
The Nor-easter
Fast forward to early winter, 1998. A huge Nor’easter was making its way up the coast. It was snowstorm like no one had seen in years. A once in a generation snowstorm, in fact. I found myself in Penn Station at mid- morning, sitting on the floor nursing a hangover, back pressed up against the metal support beam, waiting for the announcement of my train which would carry me north to Albany. The place was packed tighter than a drum due to people who’d either missed their flights, or whose flights were cancelled. When the train platform was announced, I got up, and barreled my way through the throngs of people, down the stairs, until I made it to my car. Luckily, I’d purchased a ticket in Business Class earlier or there was a good chance I wouldn’t have secured a place on the train.
Nathan’s hotdogs and Monica Lewinsky
Seated in the car, I could breathe easy and finally enjoy the late breakfast I’d purchased earlier, which consisted of two Nathan’s hotsogs, smothered with the works. Hangovers invite the munchies, so naturally Nathan’s was particularly enticing that morning. With no one as of yet seated beside me, I started in on the first dog, chomping into the tangy, meaty goodness like a man who’d been deprived of sustenance not for hours but days or weeks. But then suddenly, I notice a man standing beside me in the car aisle. He bore the blue uniform and officer-like cap of the train conductor.
He excused himself and asked me if anyone had claimed the empty seat. No one’s claimed it as if yet, I told him, my mouth and cheeks filled with hotdog and relish. The conductor turned then, and waved someone over. It wasn’t just someone. Nor was it just one person. It was two women, one late middle-aged and the other young. Maybe a few years younger than me. Maybe my brain had been reduced to so much mush from a night on the town, but I recognized the younger one right away. It was Monica Lewinsky.
An awkward moment
The mom smiled, nervously, and asked if I minded if she took the seat. Slowly, awkwardly, I set the cardboard container of hotdogs down onto the floor and shoved it under my seat. I told her I didn’t mind getting up so that she could have both seats for she and her daughter. My heart was racing. I didn’t smell so good from not having showered and no doubt my breath was anything but pleasant having filled my face with Nathans hotdog.
“You sure I can’t give you my seat as well?” I pushed.
But the woman’s face became distraught and tense. The car was filled with men and women reading the New York Times, the headline of which went something like this: Clinton Impeached! People were starting to stare. The train car, not to mention the world, had taken a turn for the surreal.
“Please,” she said, in what I can only describe as a screaming whisper. “Just let me sit down.”
Secret not-so-secret discussions about Bill and the blonde peril
I nodded, smiled and she took the empty seat while Monica sat down on the empty floor beside us. Moments later, the train pulled out of the station. Monica and her mom were talking to one another over the seat back. The name Linda came up several times in a bitter tone. Linda, as in Linda Tripp no doubt. There was also the name Bill, and then there was “that woman.” The blonde peril. Hillary. The two seemed to speak in code, not exactly coming out with anything of substance, such as the specifics behind what it must have been like to have sex with the POTUS for instance. Sex inside the oval office. But the two knew one another as well as any mother and daughter can, and there was real love there, and understanding.
The new Hamptons
After a time, the woman turned back around in her seat and stared out the window along with me. The snowy, Hudson River Valley flew past. The trees were bare and looked like ice-covered sculpture and the river was thick and swift moving and gray, and when we passed by Sin Sing Prison, she whispered, “I hear the Hudson Valley is the new Hamptons.” I admitted I’d never hear that before, but for sure I was aware that a lot of wealthy New York City natives were buying estates in the region. My heart was still pounding. I could feel Monica behind me. I could smell her perfume, and I could hear her humming a tune to a song I did not recognize. She had long dark hair, and her eyes were big and brown and her skin smooth. Her body was shapely if not on the larger side, but in a voluptuous way. I almost hated to admit it, but I could definitely see what Slick Willy saw in her. She was an attractive vivacious young woman.
Oblivious passengers
After a short time, Monica got up to use the Lady’s room. And when she made her way down the narrow, never steady aisle, I thought for sure the jig was up and that she would be recognized. But the passengers continued to read their papers without so much as giving Monica a sideways glance. Either they were oblivious to her, or were acting purely out of respect for her rather fragile situation. Maybe it was a combination of both. It was at this time, I too decided to get up to use the bathroom. When I came back out, I once more asked Monica’s mom if she would like to use my seat for her daughter and she once more insisted it wasn’t necessary, which when translated meant, if Monica sits here, the whole world will be on her like flies on you know what. Rather than take my seat back, I decided to do something else. I sat on the floor beside Monica.
Chatting it up with Monica. Or not…
My heart was still pounding. I had no idea how much longer she’d be on the train, but I could bet dollars to donuts she wouldn’t be riding it all the way up to Albany. My guess is she would be getting off soon. I was a writer. A novelist, but also a journalist. I was sitting only inches away from her. Our shoulders were practically touching. We hadn’t said much to one another other than, Hi how’s it going? One of those stupid nothings young people say to one another when they either have nothing else to say or are too embarrassed to say anything else. But I could sense that she might want to engage in conversation. But what the hell was I going to say? How’s Bill?
There was also an opportunity here. If I were half the writer then that I am now, I might have slipped her one of my cards. I might have offered to ghost write her life story. I might have offered to take her testimony and write the article of the decade. Maybe if I could have convinced her to work with me, I could have gotten her to open up about her time in the White House, her time with the Clintons, her time with Bill in the Oval Office. She would have told me everything. How long he’d courted her, how often he called her, what were the specific circumstances that led to the tell-tale DNA stains on the infamous blue dress.
Monica and I alone
But it was not to be. When the train stopped in Rhinecliff, Monica and her mother got up. They grabbed their bags and buttoned their coats. Even then, no one else in the car bothered to give the two ladies a second glance. I stood up and asked them if they needed help getting off the train. The mother smiled, thanked me for my kindness and said that it wouldn’t be necessary. She turned and made for the now open door on the opposite side of the coupling. That left me and Monica alone for the briefest of moments. I told her it was nice meeting her. The pleasures mine, she said. At least, that’s what I think she said. Then she smiled, and for the briefest of moments, I felt the urge to say, “Hey, would you like to grab a coffee? Would you like to talk?” But she turned quick, and made her way to the door and disappeared in the newly fallen snow.
Mothers and daughters
I took my seat back and as the train slowly pulled out of the station, I peered out the window at the mother and daughter as they made their way across the platform towards the station. It felt a little strange knowing the part they were playing in the history of the United States of American, that the name Monica Lewinsky would forever live in infamy. But as the train picked up speed and they went to enter the station, they just looked like any other mother and daughter spending their day together in the cold and the snow of the Hudson Valley.
Nathans hot dogs and dreams
Reaching under my seat, I grabbed hold of my breakfast, set it onto my lap. The hotdogs were cold by then, but they tasted good anyway. When I was finished, I took a long nap and was woken up by the conductor warning that Albany, the end of the line, was coming up in ten minutes. My first thoughts were of Monica Lewinsky. Had I truly hung out with she and her mother? Or had I dreamt it all? Was it all just a figment of my overly active fiction imagination? I smiled and shook my head. It had happened and damn if I didn’t whiff the opportunity of lifetime by not asking her if I could write her story. Damn if I missed my chance to become a part of sordid Presidential history.
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Vincent Zandri
Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal
1998 was the year the White House went insane. After what had been a relatively successful second term as POTUS, Bill Clinton was suddenly blindsided by damning revelations concerning an extramarital affair he’d been conducting with former staff intern Monica Lewinsky. Clinton was, at the time, defending himself against another lawsuit leveled by a woman named Paula Jones, who also had conducted an affair with the President. During his testimony for Jones case, Clinton apparently lied under oath about his relationship with Lewinsky. When Linda Tripp, another White House aide, handed over phone recordings of Clinton discussing oral sex with Lewinsky, further adding credence to a perjury charge, the scandal snowballed into a case of impeachment on behalf of the House of Representatives, making Mr. Clinton the second President in the history of the United States of America to be impeached (Andrew Johnson was the first).
The young writer
I was a young writer fresh out of writing school at the time. I’d been one of those rare lucky stiffs who’d managed to nail a big book deal right out of the starting gate with my novels The Innocent and Godchild. Along with the success came the usual party-like-a-rock-star marathon drinking and carousing sessions in New York City with my then agent and editor. We were young, and stupid, and on top of the world in the greatest city on the planet and we had the publisher’s money (and corporate American Express) in our pockets to burn.
The Nor-easter
Fast forward to early winter, 1998. A huge Nor’easter was making its way up the coast. It was snowstorm like no one had seen in years. A once in a generation snowstorm, in fact. I found myself in Penn Station at mid- morning, sitting on the floor nursing a hangover, back pressed up against the metal support beam, waiting for the announcement of my train which would carry me north to Albany. The place was packed tighter than a drum due to people who’d either missed their flights, or whose flights were cancelled. When the train platform was announced, I got up, and barreled my way through the throngs of people, down the stairs, until I made it to my car. Luckily, I’d purchased a ticket in Business Class earlier or there was a good chance I wouldn’t have secured a place on the train.
Nathan’s hotdogs and Monica Lewinsky
Seated in the car, I could breathe easy and finally enjoy the late breakfast I’d purchased earlier, which consisted of two Nathan’s hotsogs, smothered with the works. Hangovers invite the munchies, so naturally Nathan’s was particularly enticing that morning. With no one as of yet seated beside me, I started in on the first dog, chomping into the tangy, meaty goodness like a man who’d been deprived of sustenance not for hours but days or weeks. But then suddenly, I notice a man standing beside me in the car aisle. He bore the blue uniform and officer-like cap of the train conductor.
He excused himself and asked me if anyone had claimed the empty seat. No one’s claimed it as if yet, I told him, my mouth and cheeks filled with hotdog and relish. The conductor turned then, and waved someone over. It wasn’t just someone. Nor was it just one person. It was two women, one late middle-aged and the other young. Maybe a few years younger than me. Maybe my brain had been reduced to so much mush from a night on the town, but I recognized the younger one right away. It was Monica Lewinsky.
An awkward moment
The mom smiled, nervously, and asked if I minded if she took the seat. Slowly, awkwardly, I set the cardboard container of hotdogs down onto the floor and shoved it under my seat. I told her I didn’t mind getting up so that she could have both seats for she and her daughter. My heart was racing. I didn’t smell so good from not having showered and no doubt my breath was anything but pleasant having filled my face with Nathans hotdog.
“You sure I can’t give you my seat as well?” I pushed.
But the woman’s face became distraught and tense. The car was filled with men and women reading the New York Times, the headline of which went something like this: Clinton Impeached! People were starting to stare. The train car, not to mention the world, had taken a turn for the surreal.
“Please,” she said, in what I can only describe as a screaming whisper. “Just let me sit down.”
Secret not-so-secret discussions about Bill and the blonde peril
I nodded, smiled and she took the empty seat while Monica sat down on the empty floor beside us. Moments later, the train pulled out of the station. Monica and her mom were talking to one another over the seat back. The name Linda came up several times in a bitter tone. Linda, as in Linda Tripp no doubt. There was also the name Bill, and then there was “that woman.” The blonde peril. Hillary. The two seemed to speak in code, not exactly coming out with anything of substance, such as the specifics behind what it must have been like to have sex with the POTUS for instance. Sex inside the oval office. But the two knew one another as well as any mother and daughter can, and there was real love there, and understanding.
The new Hamptons
After a time, the woman turned back around in her seat and stared out the window along with me. The snowy, Hudson River Valley flew past. The trees were bare and looked like ice-covered sculpture and the river was thick and swift moving and gray, and when we passed by Sin Sing Prison, she whispered, “I hear the Hudson Valley is the new Hamptons.” I admitted I’d never hear that before, but for sure I was aware that a lot of wealthy New York City natives were buying estates in the region. My heart was still pounding. I could feel Monica behind me. I could smell her perfume, and I could hear her humming a tune to a song I did not recognize. She had long dark hair, and her eyes were big and brown and her skin smooth. Her body was shapely if not on the larger side, but in a voluptuous way. I almost hated to admit it, but I could definitely see what Slick Willy saw in her. She was an attractive vivacious young woman.
Oblivious passengers
After a short time, Monica got up to use the Lady’s room. And when she made her way down the narrow, never steady aisle, I thought for sure the jig was up and that she would be recognized. But the passengers continued to read their papers without so much as giving Monica a sideways glance. Either they were oblivious to her, or were acting purely out of respect for her rather fragile situation. Maybe it was a combination of both. It was at this time, I too decided to get up to use the bathroom. When I came back out, I once more asked Monica’s mom if she would like to use my seat for her daughter and she once more insisted it wasn’t necessary, which when translated meant, if Monica sits here, the whole world will be on her like flies on you know what. Rather than take my seat back, I decided to do something else. I sat on the floor beside Monica.
Chatting it up with Monica. Or not…
My heart was still pounding. I had no idea how much longer she’d be on the train, but I could bet dollars to donuts she wouldn’t be riding it all the way up to Albany. My guess is she would be getting off soon. I was a writer. A novelist, but also a journalist. I was sitting only inches away from her. Our shoulders were practically touching. We hadn’t said much to one another other than, Hi how’s it going? One of those stupid nothings young people say to one another when they either have nothing else to say or are too embarrassed to say anything else. But I could sense that she might want to engage in conversation. But what the hell was I going to say? How’s Bill?
There was also an opportunity here. If I were half the writer then that I am now, I might have slipped her one of my cards. I might have offered to ghost write her life story. I might have offered to take her testimony and write the article of the decade. Maybe if I could have convinced her to work with me, I could have gotten her to open up about her time in the White House, her time with the Clintons, her time with Bill in the Oval Office. She would have told me everything. How long he’d courted her, how often he called her, what were the specific circumstances that led to the tell-tale DNA stains on the infamous blue dress.
Monica and I alone
But it was not to be. When the train stopped in Rhinecliff, Monica and her mother got up. They grabbed their bags and buttoned their coats. Even then, no one else in the car bothered to give the two ladies a second glance. I stood up and asked them if they needed help getting off the train. The mother smiled, thanked me for my kindness and said that it wouldn’t be necessary. She turned and made for the now open door on the opposite side of the coupling. That left me and Monica alone for the briefest of moments. I told her it was nice meeting her. The pleasures mine, she said. At least, that’s what I think she said. Then she smiled, and for the briefest of moments, I felt the urge to say, “Hey, would you like to grab a coffee? Would you like to talk?” But she turned quick, and made her way to the door and disappeared in the newly fallen snow.
Mothers and daughters
I took my seat back and as the train slowly pulled out of the station, I peered out the window at the mother and daughter as they made their way across the platform towards the station. It felt a little strange knowing the part they were playing in the history of the United States of American, that the name Monica Lewinsky would forever live in infamy. But as the train picked up speed and they went to enter the station, they just looked like any other mother and daughter spending their day together in the cold and the snow of the Hudson Valley.
Nathans hot dogs and dreams
Reaching under my seat, I grabbed hold of my breakfast, set it onto my lap. The hotdogs were cold by then, but they tasted good anyway. When I was finished, I took a long nap and was woken up by the conductor warning that Albany, the end of the line, was coming up in ten minutes. My first thoughts were of Monica Lewinsky. Had I truly hung out with she and her mother? Or had I dreamt it all? Was it all just a figment of my overly active fiction imagination? I smiled and shook my head. It had happened and damn if I didn’t whiff the opportunity of lifetime by not asking her if I could write her story. Damn if I missed my chance to become a part of sordid Presidential history.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Vincent Zandri
Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal
