All the Presidents' Pets

by Mo Rocca

  “If that’s what it takes to make this country safe again, then yes, Candy. Because guess what? I happen to love my country.” Ann was puffing so hard, she was shrouded in a cloud of white smoke. That’s when the waitress returned, looking none too pleased.

  “Uh-oh, here we go,” sighed Candy, resigned to yet another Coulter spectacle. I had never witnessed one of Ann’s famed knock-down drag-outs in person. On TV she would stake a claim that even her staunchest partisans were afraid to take and she’d do a surprisingly good job of defending herself. Smoking at the Outback seemed smaller stakes than the legacy of the Red Scare, though.

  The waitress wasted no time getting personal. “Miss, I guess I’m surprised that you of all people are not understanding some basic law and order here.” She glanced down at the copy of Sedition. “Maybe you should be carrying a dictionary. ‘Prohibited’ means ‘against the law.’ ”

  The battle lines were drawn. Ann was facing an unambiguously smug opponent. Suddenly she was Dick Nixon staring down the haughty East Coast establishment. She wasn’t going to skulk away to some backroom to plot revenge, then deny responsibility, though. A liberal Democrat with balls, a threat to national security, was standing in her crosshairs. It was time to unload a bunker buster.

  “Thanks for the explanation, Justice Ruth Bader Lezbo, but guess what?” she taunted. “It’s not a law. A rule, yes,” she puffed on her cigarette, “but not a law.” Hannity snickered. Colmes looked terrified—and aroused.

  The waitress laughed. “You actually think that insulting me is going to work?”

  “Oh, sweetie, don’t take what I say so seriously. I’m sure you’ve laid all kinds of dirtbags in your day. You know, we should get you down to Gitmo. The prisoners down there would love a whore like you.”

  I had to say something. “Ann, can we please go someplace else? I think it’s a little unfair to expect the restaurant to let us smoke.” I used “us” because, frankly, I was too scared to challenge her directly.

  “Fine. Let me put this out first.” For a split second, I thought Ann had come to her senses and backed down—until she suddenly grabbed the waitress’s right wrist and began grinding the cigarette into her hand! The waitress shrieked.

  “Holy shit, Ann! You’ve lost your mind!” screamed Candy.

  I reached across the table and pushed Ann against the banquette, away from the waitress. The waitress managed to wrest away her hand. She looked at the burn with wide-eyed horror, then narrowed her eyes at Ann.

  “You fascist bitch,” she snarled.

  “You can do better than that,” Ann laughed, then took another puff off her weapon and exhaled. “Bring it on.”

  The waitress leaped forward and started strangling Ann. Ann was unfazed. The cigarette still dangled from her lips.

  “Smoking! . . . Is! . . . PROHIBITED!” raged the now unhinged waitress, tightening her grip. The best I could do was try to pull the waitress from behind but years of hiking and gorp consumption had made her strong as an ox. Only Hannity and Colmes were in a position to help stop the madness but they seemed paralyzed.

  “Playtime’s over,” said Candy, who opened her purse and reached for her pearl-handled revolver.

  “Candy, no,” I snapped. “That’s not the answer.”

  Candy crossed her arms and sat back. “I tried.”

  Meanwhile Ann was turning beet red, eyes bulging, her body trembling from the lack of oxygen as the waitress gripped harder. Like the flag at Iwo Jima, though, the cigarette was still there. This could well be her last breath and she knew what to say.

  “From . . . my . . . cold . . . dead . . . hands.” Other restaurant patrons had gathered round and began screaming—a couple of them even tried to help me, to little avail. Then with her trembling left arm Ann felt her way around the Bloomin’ Onion to a bottle of Corona. She carefully lifted it up and smashed it over Colmes’s head, creating a jagged weapon. Before she could plunge it into her enemy’s face, the waitress came to her senses and jumped back.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” she asked. It was a reasonable question.

  Ann shook her head, amused. “Democrats. Always weak on defense.” She took a sip of water, stood up, and hobbled out of the restaurant still puffing away.

  Hannity was halfheartedly holding a wadded-up napkin against Colmes’s profusely bleeding head wound. “I’m sorry for bleeding on the tablecloth, Sean,” stammered Colmes. Hannity wasn’t listening but looking off in Ann’s direction. “She’s going to go hook up with Drudge, I know it,” he muttered desperately before giving his ailing cohost one last look. “Sorry, guy.” He instantly let the napkin drop and chased after Ann. “Hey, Ann, wait up!”

  It all seemed so surreal. I turned to Candy.

  “Politics,” she shrugged, then turned to the waitress. “Could you wrap up the rest of the onion?”

  11

  Federalist Smackdown

  “Take a deep breath. You’re hysterical,” Helen said.

  I’d made my way back to her lair; I’m not sure why. Something told me she’d give me perspective. But first I needed to be talked down. I was hyperventilating.

  “And Ann was so angry and Candy had a gun and the waitress’s flesh was burning and Colmes was just bleeding everywhere.” My voice started to crack. “Oh, Helen—”

  Helen pulled my head to her breast and dabbed it with a cold compress. “There, there, Colmes’ll be fine. The truth is, he likes getting roughed up. That’s his job.” Helen was so motherly and I didn’t want to reject her, but pressed up against her like that, my nose immediately began itching. Was there a cat somewhere? I backed off as I let out a big sneeze.

  “Bless you, dear!” Helen exclaimed.

  “Pardon me. Anyway, Helen, I couldn’t believe the disgusting display. I can appreciate people disagreeing but it was so uncivil, so deeply personal. Violently personal. Maybe I’m sounding naive.”

  “You’re sounding naive. If I’ve learned anything about Washington culture, it is that it’s about extremes. On the one hand you’ve got the cocktail party set who like to make nicey-nice. With them you can’t tell the difference between a San Francisco Socialist and a Birmingham Bible Belter. Then you’ve got the true believers, also known as the Screamers. The problem with them is they don’t just believe they know the truth. They know they know the truth.”

  “Okay, you can call me a drip, but why can’t anyone just talk calmly, honestly—and substantively? I’m sure that the Founding Fathers would be appalled—”

  “Darling, you’re sounding like a drip. You don’t think the Founding Fathers could go on the attack? They were the ones who started all this partisan nonsense. Sure, there were a few who tried to keep discourse on a higher level. President Washington was pretty ‘dignified’—which is a nice way of saying he was boring,” she added under her breath.

  “Boring?”

  “Oh, please. The man’s biography was written by a guy named Parson Weems. Jefferson on the other hand? What a life. Kitty Kelley would have gone to town. But I digress. Washington didn’t like conflict and more than anything he feared the creation of parties. But the minute he was out and back at Mount Vernon, battle lines were drawn. That’s not to say there weren’t some calmer voices of reason.”

  With that Helen opened up her file and handed me a scrolled-up sheet of parchment. I unfurled it. The title of the document—it appeared to be a transcript of some kind of discussion—written out in calligraphy, read “A crossfire of opinions concerning the Alien and Sedition Acts.”

  I only had a workingman’s knowledge of the Alien and Sedition Acts, which were the most serious restrictions on freedom of expression ever passed by Congress. Hotly debated in the press, the most infamous of the four articles, the Sedition Act, included a $2,000 fine and imprisonment for “writing, printing, uttering or publishing any false, scandalous and malicious writing” against the President or Congress. Passed by a Federalist-controlled Congress purportedly in response to the hostile behavi
or of the French Revolutionary government, the acts inflamed allies of Thomas Jefferson and precipitated the creation of the party system in American politics, setting the stage for the electoral revolution of 1800.

  At least that was my vague recollection.

  The scroll was dated 1798, the second year of John Adams’s administration. The names Toddy the bulldog and Buzzy the Briard sheepdog were included below the title.

  “Toddy the bulldog belonged to John Adams,” I said, a little uneasy. “And Buzzy was the dog that Jefferson brought back from Paris.”

  “So tell me something I don’t know,” Helen said flatly. I read on.

  October 1, 1798

  Tonight!

  A CROSSFIRE

  of opinions concerning

  The Alien and Sedition Acts

  To be debated this even in Rittenhouse Town Square

  On the Federalist side, Toddy the Bulldog.

  On the Jeffersonian Republican side, Buzzy the Briard Sheepdog.

  Wassail to be served.

  TOWN CRIER: Come one, come all to witness the Crossfire!

  TODDY: Good evening and welcome to our crossfire, an opportunity to exchange ideas in the hopes of edifying ourselves and the public, all in the service of better governance. On the Federalist side I’m Toddy the bulldog.

  BUZZY: And on the Jeffersonian Republican side, I’m Buzzy the sheepdog. The Federalist-controlled Congress has just passed four articles known as the Alien and Sedition Acts. Are the acts an unnecessary curb on free speech?

  TODDY: Or are they simply meant to protect this young fragile nation against foreign hostilities and the anarchy of the recent French Revolution? Joining us to explore these questions are, on my worthy opponent’s side, bestselling author of the Constitution, Mr. James Madison.

  BUZZY: And on my respected colleague’s side, architect of our financial system and former aide-de-camp to Washington, Mr. Alexander Hamilton.

  TODDY: Mr. Madison, let’s start with you. Can you see any merit in the argument that the national government may need some protection from potentially subversive elements?

  MADISON: Look, Toddy, let’s cut to the chase here. Your retro-royalist plot to strip Americans of their newly enshrined individual rights and bigfoot the rest of us with your overbearing London-loving central government is totally transparent. So the only thing I have to say to you is, Shame on you, Toddy the English bulldog, shame on you.

  TODDY: Actually I’m an American Bulldog but I—

  ALEXANDER HAMILTON: Can I get a word in edgewise? Let me explain something to our wine-swilling Limoges-lusting France-First friends across the aisle. While you stroll around the plantation, philosophizing about America as some weirdo agrarian utopia, the rest of us are busy building an industrial base and protecting ourselves from enemies. So I guess my question for Buzzy and Mr. Madison is, why do you hate America so much?

  BUZZY: Mr. Hamilton, I don’t hate—

  MADISON: Get yourself some new talking points, Hamilton. Neither of us is going to be put down by the hardball tactics you and your Federalist cronies consistently enlist in trying to subvert my Constitution.

  HAMILTON: Your Constitution? The last time I checked I wrote fifty-two of the Federalist Papers in support of its ratification. You wrote how many?

  (Silence.)

  MADISON: I’m not going to respond.

  HAMILTON: How many?

  MADISON: I’m not taking the bait again.

  HAMILTON: Twenty-six, is it?

  MADISON: Twenty-eight!!

  HAMILTON: Oooh, big man with twenty-eight Federalist Papers under his belt. I’m sooo impressed.

  MADISON: You know, Hamilton, you’re not just a bastard. You’re a total arsehole.

  HAMILTON: Hey, I’d rather be an arsehole than have my lips locked around Jefferson’s codger 24/7!

  MADISON: I hope you get shot.

  BUZZY: Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Madison, please!! Can we stick to the issues?

  MADISON: He started it.

  HAMILTON: Sorry, but the numbers don’t lie. It’s twenty-six, right?

  MADISON: Twenty-eight!!

  TODDY: Enough, gentlemen. Now, Buzzy, here’s the way I see it: The President may have reason to be nervous about France or any other foreign power who might benefit from discord in this country.

  BUZZY: Yes, Toddy, national security is of the utmost importance but I really don’t think criticizing our government is going to make France more likely to invade us. My fear is that the Federalist Party may want these acts signed into law so that they can consolidate power and avoid any criticism at all.

  TODDY: Buzzy, that’s an absolutely valid concern and one that I’ll bring to President Adams’s attention. But grant that an unfettered freedom to criticize the government does smack of mob rule. And who trusts a mob?

  BUZZY: I certainly don’t. But trying to suppress a “mob” is only going to create more dissent.

  TODDY: True, true.

  BUZZY: People will only want more freedom more quickly. Besides, inevitably this Republic will become a true democracy as more people are given the right to vote.

  TODDY: I certainly concede that point. But until then how do we balance security concerns with liberty?

  BUZZY: Well, I think we should agree that treasonous acts are outlawed—acts of deliberate betrayal against the government, rather than written words that purportedly incite rebellion.

  TODDY: That, my friend, sounds like a fair compromise. We certainly don’t want to violate a central freedom we just fought so hard to safeguard. It would be too too ironic. I think we should also engage the French and English in strict policies of neutrality to minimize threats from overseas.

  BUZZY: Good point. That is what President Washington advised us in his Farewell Address.

  TODDY: Then it’s settled. Now this has been a very fruitful discussion. Mr. Hamilton, what do you think? Mr. Hamilton?

  BUZZY: Mr. Hamilton?

  HAMILTON: Was someone talking?

  BUZZY: Well, yes. We were just having what I think was a productive discussion.

  HAMILTON: That’s great because I was just having what I think was a productive naptime.

  BUZZY: Mr. Madison, do you have any thoughts?

  MADISON: Yes. First of all, this show is in trouble. You’re doing it all wrong.

  TODDY: How would you prefer we behave?

  MADISON: Oh, I don’t know. Like dogs? Call Buzzy a mongrel.

  HAMILTON: Maybe bite him.

  MADISON: At least bark.

  HAMILTON: There’s more barking on The Burr Factor and they just have one host. No wonder more people show up at their town square.

  MADISON: You should try to rip his throat out.

  (Hamilton laughs.)

  MADISON: What’s so funny?

  HAMILTON: I’m trying to imagine you ripping someone’s throat out. How tall are you? Twenty-six inches?

  MADISON: Twenty-eight!!!

  (Madison lunges at Hamilton.)

  BUZZY: Oh dear.

  TODDY: Please join us tomorrow when our guests will discuss this year’s wedge issue, the three-fifths clause of the Constitution.

  It was quite a read. The hosts were so cordial and the guest debaters were like animals.

  But of course this was all fiction. Who knew that the leading lady of the American press corps was a closet short-story writer?

  “How did you make it look so old?” I asked, referring to the wrinkled scroll.

  “I didn’t. Two hundred-plus years will do that to a piece of paper.”

  “So this is original. It just happens to include two dogs. Helen, do you really expect me—?”

  But before I finished the question, I heard Wolf Blitzer’s voice in my head. “Mo-san, you must keep an open mind. And believe.” Wolf had never actually said those words but they seemed like words he would have said if confronted with a scene like this.

  Helen was pondering the scroll. “It might interest you to know that Toddy ended
up advising President Adams to veto the legislation. But Adams chickened out. He was too afraid of what his ‘supporters’ in the Federalist Party would do if he didn’t sign it. So he signed it. Then he tried to make it up to the Virginians by making peace with the French and talking a lot about individual liberty. Poor guy tried so hard to stay in the middle of the road he got run over,” Helen said, adding cryptically, “not that there’s anything wrong with roadkill.”

  “Yes, Adams got devoured by the party system,” I said. “Only Washington was strong enough to remain above party division.”

  “Then in came Jefferson, our first partisan President,” said Helen.

  “So whatever happened to that run of Crossfire?” I asked.

  “It did well for a while and played most of the town squares in prime time before it started getting very very shouty. At first that excited people. But by the time Monroe was President people had turned against it. All they wanted to watch were minstrel shows. Lord, that was a vapid time.”

  “You’re referring to the Era of Good Feelings,” I said.

  “ ‘Good Feelings’?” Helen shook her head. “Everyone acted like they were on Prozac. Monroe ended up running unopposed in 1824.”

  Helen did have a point there. The only thing worse than a stupid debate was no debate.

  But I still had a question about the Alien and Sedition Acts. “After all was said and done, do you really think Hamilton believed those acts were justified?”

  Helen laughed. “He rails against the dangers of sedition, then three years later he starts the New York Post.” She pointed to a yellowed clipping on her wall.

  “They had Page Six back then?”

  “And it was actually on the sixth page,” Helen added. “Life was so much simpler.”

  A blind item from this Page Six caught my eye. It read: “Which strapping redhead has declared his own independence from conventional standards and taken on a new housebound gal pal?”

  “My God, is that a reference to President Jefferson and—”

  “—Sally Hemings. Yes, it was the first mention.”