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Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Preface: SKYWRITING
One: FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Two: AT BROWN
Three: FRATERNITÉ
Four: GRAND TOURING
Five: ON BENEFIT STREET
Six: AT HOME IN THE CITY
Seven: BACK TO SCHOOL
Eight: HIGH ALTITUDE
Nine: RITES OF PASSAGE
Ten: ON THE VINEYARD
Eleven: MATTERS OF THE HEART
Twelve: MANHATTAN IS AN ISLAND
Thirteen: PASSING GRACE
Fourteen: BUSINESS CLASS
Fifteen: SOUL MATES
Sixteen: SETTING UP HOUSE
Seventeen: THE HOME TEAM
Eighteen: HEARTACHE AND HOPE
Nineteen: AS GOOD AS IT GETS
Twenty: SAD DAY
Twenty-one: LIVE FOR THE DAY
COPYRIGHT
To Coco, Tate, and the Mighty Wee
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
LOVE AND THANKS beyond words to Francesca Hayslett, my wife, friend, and a talented writer who helped turn my tales of friendship into a book. Boundless love to Colette and Tate, my children. Thanks to superagent Denise Marcil for her support, hard work, and extraordinarily good judgment; to my editor, Charlie Spicer, and publisher, Sally Richardson, for believing in the book I wanted to write and then making it better; to my great friend John Hare, for faith and philosophical ponderings to last a lifetime. Love and gratitude to my mother and stepfather, Connie and David Katz, and my sister, Linda Littell. To Brian Alexander, thanks for reminding me how to tell a story. For help, guidance, and inspiration of every kind, thanks to Todd and Jennifer Turchetta, Joy Konarski, Maura Kye, Mary-Kate Przybycien, Miriam Kazdin, Gary Ginsberg, Roseanne Brandon, James Murphy, Herman Besselink, Marshall Chambers, Dom Starsia, and the man who invented Jiffy Pop. And, of course, a prayer of thanks and gratitude to John, who’s still bringing out the best in me.
Preface
SKYWRITING
IN ANCIENT GREECE, heroes who died were sent to the night sky, where they offered guidance and inspiration for those left on earth. We all have our own constellations, filled with the public and private heroes of our time. I am one of many people for whom the night sky changed on July 16, 1999, when the plane carrying John F. Kennedy Jr., his wife, Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, and her sister Lauren Bessette went down in the waters off Martha’s Vineyard. Unexpected, unbelievable, unalterable. John had been my closest friend for twenty years. We were going to be buddies until we died. Of old age. But John didn’t grow old, and I don’t have my buddy anymore. All I’ve got is the memory of his friendship and two decades of stories.
In The Secret Life of Bees, Sue Monk Kidd writes, “Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we are here.” I don’t want the stories to die. John and I were friends from the age of eighteen to thirty-eight, the years when we became the men we became. In losing him, I lost a part of myself, a chunk of my past as well as a future that included him. So be it. Nobody can change the ugly facts. But neither can anyone take away that we lived so well together. Or that we built an honorable friendship. Or that I loved him like a brother. I still love him. And I miss him dearly. He was such a bright light that my world is a lot darker without him. An anonymous Chinese poet once said that to re-create something in words is like being alive twice. In that sense, this book is a memoir of a friendship and a resurrection of sorts, an effort to fix John’s bright star in my own sky.
It’s also a tribute to an unusually graceful and gifted man, someone who was famous from birth but who was never, in my view, credited for his best qualities. A lot has been written about John since his death, but I don’t recognize my friend in most of it. Maybe that’s normal. We see our friends in a special light. But maybe it’s because those of us who were closest to John—and he had a lot of friends—have never spoken publicly about him. It was like an unspoken oath: Those who truly loved John were rabidly protective of his privacy. Now that he’s gone, though, our private admiration falls short. I’m biased, sure, but the man deserves better. To endure, with great success, your entire life in the public eye and then be dragged, without recourse, through the mud upon your passing is an injustice. He was not a prince but something better, a good man and a much-loved friend. I think that’s a story that should be told.
One
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
ON A SUNNY September afternoon in 1979, I stood at the water’s edge of 1st Beach in Newport, Rhode Island. It was orientation week for the freshman class at Brown University, and we were on a school-sponsored outing. I’d spent the day swimming, playing football, and catching Frisbees. Happy and tired, I was soaking up the sun before we headed back to campus. Not far from me sat a handsome, bored-looking group, obviously private-school graduates. They were easy to spot: set off to themselves, a blasé tribe wearing Vuarnet sunglasses, untucked button-downs, and baggy shorts. Only one of them, a good-looking guy with an athlete’s body and a head full of brown curls, seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself, swimming and horsing around in the water.
I had just graduated from the Lawrenceville School, an all-boys prep school in New Jersey, where I’d been a day student. I’d spent the summer in Venice Beach, California, surfing, drinking San Miguels, and hanging out until the sun went down. I thought I knew the beach better than anyone. So, being eighteen years old and competitive, I’d used the day to establish my alpha-dog status among my new peers. I’d caught more passes, ridden more waves, and spiked more volleyballs than the next guy.
I looked nothing like the J. Crew ad seated near me. I was six foot two and weighed 210 pounds, built more like a Midwestern farm boy than an East Coast patrician. My hair was plastered with seaweed and I had a mouth full of stainless-steel orthodontic work. I realized later, to my horror, that there were flecks of seaweed—the exact same green as the yin /yang symbol on my board shorts—stuck in my braces. But none of that seemed to matter to the curly-haired fellow I’d noticed a few minutes before. He walked up to me, stuck out his hand, and said, “Yo, my name’s John. What’s yours?”
Matching his friendly tone, I answered, “Rob Littell,” and we shook hands.
John and I swapped high-school war stories for half an hour or so. He’d gone to Andover, a storied prep school in Massachusetts. I told him I was playing lacrosse for Brown. He told me he’d never played a team sport but was thinking of trying rugby. We hit it off immediately. He was cool, funny, and restless. He laughed at my oddball sense of humor. I liked his good-natured confidence.
Someone blew a whistle and we filed back onto a bunch of old yellow school buses. Bouncing toward Providence, battling motion sickness and a carbon monoxide headache, I dimly heard my new roommate, Bradley Foerster, say that the guy I’d been talking with was John F. Kennedy Jr. This was news to me. I’d had no idea that he was at Brown or even that “he” was such a big deal. In high school I’d played sports. Period. If People magazine existed in those days, we didn’t get it at our house. I muttered to Bradley that John seemed friendly enough and I returned to my nausea. I remember being vaguely proud of my ignorance.
The next time I saw John was the following week, at my dormitory on the north side of campus. I was returning from class one afternoon and found him pennin
g a note on the little bulletin board I’d Velcroed to the wall of my cinder-block alcove. He’d stopped by to say hi, so I treated him to a sampling of the B-52’s and the Talking Heads. I was glad to see him. We clashed immediately over music—I was into New Wave while John was a throwback, a purist who preferred rock ’n’ roll to pop, and the Rolling Stones to everything—and argued happily for an hour. John told me to come by his room sometime, so a few days later I headed over there. I remember thinking it was like an experiment. I’d see how it felt: if it would be easy and fun, or awkward and not worth the effort.
John’s room was a classic freshman dorm room. Furniture from the fifties, a rotary phone, two narrow twin beds, and a roommate seemingly chosen at random. The roommate, John Moubayed, was from Providence, a local guy with a perpetually slightly sheepish smile. He didn’t get too involved in the whirl of attention around John. They had a live-and-let-live arrangement that seemed to work well enough.
When I arrived at his room, John put his “master recording” of Supertramp’s Breakfast in America on the stereo. I still don’t know what a “master recording” is, but it sounded better than my records did. I soon learned that—no surprise—there were a lot of perks to being famous. John constantly received freebies and upgrades and “master recordings” of Top 40 hits. It didn’t faze him, though, partly because it had been the norm all his life. He certainly didn’t go looking for freebies, accepting most gifts just to be polite.
We started to hang out together, doing the normal things kids do at college. We went to parties, drank beer, and played Frisbee. Sometimes we hung out at Toad Hall, the lacrosse fraternity. Although I didn’t think about it at the time, John had other options besides drinking beer and meeting jocks. Within weeks of the beginning of classes, and before the social cement had set, I met John’s cousin Kerry Kennedy, who was also at Brown, and her beautiful friend Nancy Richardson, who eventually married John’s cousin and confidant, Bobby Kennedy. I recall a Wednesday conversation with them about the upcoming weekend. John and I had run into them at the Blue Room, the mid-campus coffee shop and center of social activity at Brown. After a bit of small talk, I asked Nancy, “What are you guys doing this weekend?”
She replied, “We’re going to Virginia to ride horses. It should be fun.” She added, “Do you want to come? I think John’s going.”
Shocked that anyone might opt out of a beer-soaked weekend at the local fraternities to go horseback riding in another state, I answered, perhaps a bit defensively, “We’re going to Phi Psi.”
John changed his weekend plans on the spot. Assuming a perfect lockjaw accent, he exclaimed, “To Phi Psi!” as if it were the fox at the end of the hunt. We all laughed. And that weekend John and I went to Phi Psi, an on-campus fraternity with a reputation for rowdy parties. He had cast his lot with the regular guys.
Later, when I knew him better, I learned that John worked hard to be a “regular guy.” His friends weren’t famous, he never asked for special treatment (though sometimes he got it anyway), and he loved being “one of the guys.” As easily as he moved about in the aristocratic world he’d grown up in, he was never intrigued by it. By the time I met him, he already knew that his fulfillment would come from less-privileged pursuits. It’s not that he wanted to give up his fame, which was as familiar to him as air is to the rest of us. And he guarded his privacy. But he wanted to be able to walk down the street or ride his bike just like everyone else, whether he was recognized or not. He deserves credit for this: He was one of the most famous people on earth and he rode the subway, played in the park, and hung out with his friends in full view of the world. No bodyguards, no Secret Service, no subterfuge. By refusing to be a recluse, he forced people to give him some space. And he returned the favor by being a generous and gracious public figure.
Freshman year friends. From left: John Hare, John Kennedy, Jeff Gradinger, Billy Way, Dee Richards, Kim Witherspoon, me (in the hat), and Mary Kahn. (Courtesy of Taylor Gray)
But I digress. My point is that starting college wasn’t easy for him. He had to reestablish his hard-won freedom all over again, at a new school, in a new city. Supposedly there were television news crews on campus the first day, filming John as he registered for classes. I hadn’t met him yet, but I’m sure he hated that. He wanted to be a college kid, not a freak show.
Coincidentally, I arrived at school feeling out of sync myself. I’d had a wild ride from birth to eighteen. The short version: My parents divorced when I was seven, my father moving on to seventies-style bohemian freedom with my wonderful stepmother, Tina Sloan. Freedom was short-lived, though, followed by drugs, then serious mental illness. My mother remarried as soon as he left, and for a while I had a stepfather as well as a stepbrother my own age. I loved them both. They left when I was fourteen. Two years later, my real father—whom I didn’t see much anymore, but still …—hurled himself off a sixteenth-floor balcony of the Hollywood Holiday Inn, a suicide. We were living in another house by then, with my mother’s new boyfriend, though he didn’t last. Over the years we were rich and we were poor. We moved often. By the age of eighteen, I’d lived in fourteen homes—not foster homes, mind you, and some of them would qualify as mansions. But I would have traded them all for a permanent tree house. By the time I got to school, I was certain that I was special for everything I’d been through.
John and I, despite the obvious differences, shared similarities that connected us quickly. We had both weathered turbulent childhoods and emerged with the confidence of survivors. Neither of us had a father, nor could we really talk about our fathers’ deaths. We’d been raised by and with women—she-wolves, as I called our strong-willed mothers and brainy sisters. And we shared a belief in our own future greatness. John’s destiny was thrust upon him at birth, when he became the first (and last) child born to a President-elect who was then assassinated. Mine was harder to explain, a genetic quirk maybe, or the resolve of a child determined to wrest control of his fate.
My big Teflon-coated ego was an important part of our fast friendship. Irreverent and cocky, I believed that I was John’s equal or better. I could be wowed by the trappings of his lifestyle—maybe—but I felt I deserved just as good. I can’t explain this and don’t defend it; it’s just the way I was. And John liked it. We found friendship easy. From the start, we were each other’s best audience. We each knew the other to be hilarious, brave, and brilliant. That’s one of the key conditions for male bonding—deep, unconditional admiration. Add a constant stream of well-intentioned abuse and you’ve got the recipe for a great friendship.
*
In 1979, the year we started college, the Kennedy name carried a lot of baggage—good or bad, depending on whom you talked to. My grandfather, who asked me maybe three questions during our twenty-five years together on earth, popped one of them during a Thanksgiving visit I made to Florida that year. He was an old-line WASP from Barrington Hills, Illinois, where he’d made his name and fortune in banking. Granddad spent his winters in Naples, Florida, and while we stood together on the porch of his beachside home, the old sage asked whom I’d met at Brown. I told him about my roommate, Bradley, about a couple of lacrosse players I’d fallen in with, and about Francesca Hayslett, a girl from Connecticut with whom I was fast falling in love. I also mentioned that I’d met John Kennedy Jr. Granddad’s left eyebrow rose slowly above the dark frames of his Ray-Bans. “Those Kennedy boys are no good,” he stated.
“Oh, really,” I responded respectfully, uncertain what else to say. I admired my grandfather more than anyone else in the world.
A silence. Thirty seconds later, Aunt Lee, Granddad’s wife, walked by and added, “Those Kennedy boys are a pack of drunken wolves. They’re always crashing parties up and down the coast.”
I didn’t find this new information especially crushing. But clearly, in the view of the conservative WASPs from whose nest I had recently flown, the Kennedys were masqueraders at best. Indeed, Aunt Lee made clear that but for their moonshine fo
rtune, the Kennedys would be chauffeurs, not the chauffeured.
I had a chance to run with the Kennedy wolf pack the following weekend, when John and I decided to take a road trip. John wanted to pay a visit to his cousin Timothy Shriver, who was attending Yale. Since he didn’t have a car—his mother wouldn’t let him have one until junior year—we loaded two sports duffels and a cooler of Budweiser on ice into my Mazda GLC. We wore our best rugby shirts, with real rubber buttons, to honor Timmy’s position on the notoriously hard-partying Yale rugby squad. Then we hit the highway, visions of bar dancing, coed cohabitation, and Animal House revelry in our heads.
The truth began to dawn on us somewhere south of Mystic, Connecticut. We were rolling along the East Coast’s big family driveway, I-95, when we realized that we were going to New Haven. Ostensibly the Gateway to New England, New Haven has all the charm of a bus depot (though it does have great pizza). And we were visiting a seminary student. Whatever hope we still held for a wild weekend was dashed when we pulled up in front of Timmy’s house. A large, light-filled town house, it was clean, comfortable, and eerily quiet—there wasn’t a leaf out of place on the genteel block. Timmy was living there with his girlfriend, Linda Potter, whom he married not long after graduating. We’d come to New Haven to visit a quietly studious, as-good-as-married minister.
The rest of the weekend was like the house: clean and quiet. Linda was the perfect hostess in a milk-and-cookies way. We didn’t crack open the cooler. We didn’t light up the town. We didn’t even get to town. Instead, we had a glass of wine at dinner that evening, the four of us discussing apartheid as though part of a televised panel. We finished the night on the couch, watching TV and falling asleep before Saturday Night Live came on. My guess is that Timmy wasn’t always so staid. But that weekend he chose to set a good example, giving John and me a glimpse of a quiet, purposeful campus life.
The Men We Became Page 1