Urban Flight

by Jonathan Kirshner

  Jason looked up and down the now abandoned station. Only one guy had gotten off the train, and he was doing everything he could to avoid eye contact. Jason could hear the sound of footsteps, shoes running on concrete, and he felt fenced in by the train tracks. Those guys might have been after Adam, but they couldn’t have been too pleased with him, especially the one he kicked in the head.

  Jason jumped down onto the tracks, and gave the third rail a long hard look before running off in the direction of the train, which pulled ahead of him until it disappeared completely from sight. He ran as hard as he could. Even drunk and dazed he could feel a surge of adrenaline, and he ran past the end of the station, continuing on the elevated tracks and into the darkness.

  Jason heard the footsteps again. He couldn’t see anything when he looked over his shoulder, but they must have followed him onto the tracks, and it sounded like they were making good time. That fat guy was in better shape than he looked—William Conrad had gone his whole career without so much as breaking into a trot. Maybe he could outrun them—maybe he would trip in the darkness. Maybe they would get close enough to try their luck with their guns.

  Jason kept running, and looking up he saw headlights—a train was approaching from the opposite direction on the parallel track. Without hesitation he leaped over the third rail—though in mid-air he heard nothing but the sound of his beating heart—landed safely, and ran forward in the small space between the tracks, his eyes on the headlights. At the last moment he danced over the other third rail and dashed across the parallel tracks just as the other train rushed by. For a moment the train separated Jason from his pursuers, but the back of the train was fast approaching, and the victory was fleeting. He quickly looked around. Whatever he did, he only had a few seconds more to do it with no chance of being seen. He climbed to the far edge of the track and looked out. There was no way to get down, but not far away was a rooftop, about ten feet below. If he stood on the retaining wall, the height would probably make the distance reachable. He couldn’t run much farther, and with little time and no other options he pulled himself up, held his breath, and threw himself across the abyss.

  25

  Jason reached the rooftop, but hit it on one foot, awkwardly and hard, and tumbled out of control. Two skylights were coming up fast, one open and one closed, and he managed to aim for the open one. He fell through it and dropped another good seven feet, landing on the floor with a thud. He was starting to feel like a cartoon character, except that the lumps were adding up, and he didn’t see the humor in it.

  Letting his eyes close for a moment, he took a deep breath, and then another, before looking around. The room was poorly lit, but between the skylight, a small lamp, and the partially open door, you could see pretty much everything, if not well. He was at the foot of what must have been a large circular bed—and then suddenly was face-to-face with Richard Nixon, who peered at him from over its edge.

  “Pardon me!” Nixon said loudly.

  A second Nixon appeared. “Pardon me!” he said in exactly the same way.

  Jason scrambled backwards in terror until a wall stopped his progress. Half-sitting and staring wildly ahead as if he’d seen two rattlesnakes, he took two quick breaths through his nose, eyes riveted on the apparitions in front of him. If this wasn’t a nightmare, he thought, he’d never be afraid to go to sleep again. It took him longer than it should have to realize that they were wearing masks. However unlikely it was that the first one was really Nixon, two Nixons were almost certainly impossible. But the masks were thin rubber, and very realistic, and he was having a rough day.

  From his new vantage point against the wall, he could make out that there were a total of four people on the bed. Two Nixons, each wearing dark jackets, white shirts and skinny black ties on top but only boxer shorts on the bottom, were sharing the company of two women who were wearing evening gowns. They weren’t actually having sex, but they seemed to be well on their way. He heard giggles and figured they were all high on something, or at least very drunk, not that he cared much what people did with their free time. One of the women leaned forward. It turned out to be Pat Nixon, though it only took him a split second this time to realize that it was a mask.

  “Come on over!” she called out.

  A second Pat emerged from the shadows. “Always room for one more Dick!”

  All the Nixons found this hilarious, and let out screams of laughter. One pair of Nixons got into a more heated embrace, and quickly they were all rolling around the bed, their apparently limited attention spans exhausted. Jason looked toward the bedroom door, and, unwilling to turn his back on any Nixon, real or fake, he felt his way toward it. Circumnavigating the room, he kept his distance from the bed like he was backing away from a Mexican standoff. He was just a few feet away from freedom when one of the Pats rolled over and called out to him.

  “Where you going?” she asked cheerfully.

  The second Pat popped up on her knees, losing what was left of her gown in the process.

  “Don’t be shy, now!” she said, leaning forward and tilting her head invitingly.

  Jason looked her up and down in horror, going back and forth between her ebullient figure and Pat Nixon’s tight, frozen smile. He figured it would take a year of primal scream therapy to get the image out of his mind.

  “Uh…maybe later,” he managed to squeeze out, taking one more step back and reaching for the door.

  “Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” one of the Nixons called out from the darkness.

  “I am not a crook!” finished the other, coming into view as he playfully tackled one of the women and climbed on top of her.

  Laughter erupted again as the foursome returned their full attention to each other. Jason backed quietly out the door, only to bump into someone in the next room. It was yet another Nixon, holding a drink. He also wore a dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie, and boxer shorts. This one still had his black shoes and socks on.

  “Pardon Me!” he said loudly.

  Jason staggered backwards and leaned against a large column. He was in a vast open living room with a very high ceiling—the apartment must have been something between a duplex and a loft. Hanging over a raised platform at one end of the room was a giant banner that read: “PARDON ME! SEPT 8, 1974-SEPT 8, 1975.” The din of the party contrasted with the relative quiet of the bedroom where the Nixons were enjoying their orgy. It was very bright, and the loud, inevitably awful disco music pounded so relentlessly that you could feel the bass competing with your heartbeat. The party was a crowded, catered affair, with most of the guests dancing euphorically under flashing lights. As he studied them, Jason realized that they were all made up to look like figures from the Nixon administration. Some wore masks; the Nixon outfit, in particular, was very standardized: mask, black suit and tie, no pants. There must have been twenty of them. Others were more creatively made up, probably because it was hard to find an Ehrlichman or Haldeman mask, even at the finest costume store.

  A woman with a long flowing gray wig danced over to him, tall mixed drink in hand. “C’mon, baby, let’s dance!” she said in a very thick southern accent.

  Before Jason could respond, the music came to a halt, and the crowd let out a big cheer. A man who had a big “PRESS SECRETARY” button pinned to his lapel walked up to the podium on the stage. He made a reasonably plausible Ron Nessen, and he pulled the mikes forward and tapped on them before he spoke, the amplified thuds calling the room to some semblance of order.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! Let’s hear it for my boss, without whom none of us would be here, the President of the United States!”

  Accompanied by a fresh round of cheers from the crowd, and “Hail to the Chief” blasting over the speakers, a man in a convincing Gerald Ford mask trotted up the three stairs on the side of the stage, stumbling on the last one. It wasn’t obvious that he did it on purpose, but the crowd roared in laughter, and as he righted himself, he pointed to the large
Band-Aid he had placed on the forehead of his mask, to more laughter. He stumbled again at the podium.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said, pretending to struggle with the microphones. “Rest assured that if any of you misbehave tonight, especially you ladies, you can stop by the Oval Office for a little something I like to call the full Presidential pardon!”

  There was still more laughter from the crowd, and Ford hammed it up, pointing at people in the audience.

  “Before things get any more out of hand,” he continued, “my advisors have informed me—Ron, is this true? That it’s time to give out the awards.”

  Nesson leaned over and spoke into the microphone. “Yes sir, Mr. President.”

  Ford leaned back in. “So here with the inside info on the awards—he may have been disbarred, but still knows where all the bodies are buried—first fink John Dean!”

  There was enthusiastic applause as a small man approached from the wings.

  “Thank you. I’d first like to say a few words about the process by which—”

  “No!” the crowd shouted him down almost collectively, as if they had rehearsed.

  “Very well, but it would be unwise not to heed my counsel.” The Dean character hadn’t worked much on his costume, primarily an oversized set of glasses with the left lens much larger than the right, but he nailed the voice and monotone modulation so well it was spooky.

  “The award for most realistic Watergate figure goes to.…” He pulled an envelope out of his jacket. “…Gordon Liddy, for holding his hand over a candle until we could all smell the flesh burn!”

  A man who looked way too much like Gordon Liddy leaped up onto the center of the stage in one bound. His hand was wrapped in a towel, and he waved it to the crowd, eliciting cheers. He stiffened as he approached the podium.

  “Thank you,” he said coldly. He turned to Dean but leaned into the microphone as he whispered, “You know, I urged the President to have you killed. But he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Jason lost his ability to focus and saw the ground coming up at him. He instinctively reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the woman next to him, which was just enough to keep his balance.

  “Hey there!” she said, “Y’all okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said unsteadily, taking his hand back.

  “You sure, honey? You don’t look so good.”

  He studied her face, and found it more reassuring than the awards ceremony that continued on stage.

  “Who are you?”

  “Why, I’m none other than Martha Mitchell.”

  That wasn’t what he meant, but he’d always had a soft spot for Martha. She was the only one of the lot of them who told the truth, or at least said what she was thinking.

  “I thought they had you sedated and locked in a hotel room to keep you quiet.”

  “Now don’t you make fun of me, boy,” she said sharply, but seemed pleased he knew her story.

  “Where’s John?”

  “Still in jail, I’m afraid. Couldn’t make it.”

  “I always knew he’d end up there,” Jason said wearily.

  “Me too. He was a no good.…” She stopped and touched his face. “Hey, you’re bleeding. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  She took him by the hand and led him across the room, weaving their way through the crowd, most of whom were still watching the stage and bursting out in occasional whoops of glee and applause. They reached the bathroom door, which was closed, and Martha knocked repeatedly, to no response. She shrugged her shoulders and opened the door.

  They entered to find a man on his knees sniffing a line of cocaine off the closed toilet seat. He looked up—it was a very convincing Henry Kissinger.

  “Excuse me,” he said with a thick German accent, “these are very delicate negotiations. My work here cannot be interrupted. It may take years before success is achieved.”

  “But the President needs you,” Martha said sincerely.

  “Very well,” Kissinger said, adjusting his glasses. “As you know, I serve at the pleasure of the President.” He turned and snorted one more line, shook his head like a bridled racehorse, then stood up, drew himself into an impossibly dignified pose, regarded them both, and left.

  Jason sat down while Martha wet a washcloth. It was a relief to be in the bathroom with less noise and no crowd. She knelt down next to him and wiped some of the scrapes on his face. When she switched sides he grimaced.

  “Hey,” she said. She pulled back, her eyes widening. “You really are hurt.”

  She adjusted her wig and studied his face more closely, evaluating the bruises.

  “What did you think?”

  “You can’t see anything in there.” She still had a southern accent, but it was much softer. “I thought you came as a war protester or something.”

  Jason smirked. “No, I just dropped in by accident.”

  “Really?” Her eyes traveled from his beat-up jeans to his bruised face. “Do I know you? You look kind of familiar.”

  “No. I’m just—”

  “Haven’t I seen you on TV?”

  The door burst open, and a man in a Spiro Agnew mask took one step into the room. “Have you seen Secretary Kissinger? He was holding something for me.”

  “He just left, honey,” Martha said, picking up her accent, “I think he had his own plans.”

  “Everyone in this administration has abandoned me!” Agnew shouted, slamming the door as he left.

  Jason took a deep breath. He had seen enough of these people, and his head was clearing up just enough for him to feel more of his injuries.

  “You want to go somewhere else?” Martha asked.

  “I just need to find a quiet place to crash.”

  “Come with me. My apartment’s on the fourth floor.”

  She took him by the hand and led him out of the bathroom and back again through the pounding music. The dancing had resumed. A pale, thin woman with very short jet-black hair wearing a dark man’s suit walked right around Martha and leaned against Jason.

  “I’m Deep Throat,” she whispered in his ear. “I can prove it.”

  He tried to make eye contact with her, but there was nothing there, just the vacuum of her dilated pupils. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  She was gone in an instant.

  “What’d she want?” Martha asked.

  “I’m not sure…nothing really,” he said, leaning more heavily on her arm.

  It was only two flights down to Martha’s apartment, but they took the elevator. Her place was blissfully quiet and cozy, with a very homey feel. It wasn’t small but there was a little too much furniture, with two sofas and big ornate wooden pieces that made Jason wonder if she’d inherited the stuff from an old relative.

  “Wait here, I want to get out of this dress,” she said, leaving him on one of the couches.

  She was gone for longer than he expected, and after a while he kicked off his sneakers and lay back on the couch. It was really a nice place—she lived like a grown-up, with real art on the walls, nice rugs on a well-maintained floor—and everything where it was supposed to be. A big gray cat walked toward him and hopped up on the couch, resting on his stomach. He pet it absent-mindedly, but felt a little trapped by its girth.

  What was taking her so long? Some of those women at the party were scary, and she was pretty quick to bring him home. But the couch felt good, and he shook those thoughts off and rested his eyes. Anybody who dressed up as Martha Mitchell couldn’t be that bad.

  Something cold landed softly on his head. He reached up—it was a wet washcloth. Pushing it up slightly, he opened his eyes and saw her sitting in a big easy chair across from him, with her legs tucked up under her arms. She was wearing sweats and sipping tea from a ceramic cup.

  “You want some?” she asked, raising the cup. “Or something else? A beer?”

  “No thanks. I’ve had my share and then some.” He rubbed his eyes. “Jeez, what the hell was that?”

  “David Goldstei
n’s first annual pardon party. It was a year ago today, you know. The pardon.”

  “No,” he lied.

  “Well, it’s a huge deal with this crowd. Dave and his friends are second-generation Nixon haters. Their parents hated him in the ’fifties, then their kids picked up the torch.”

  “Some life, hating for a living.” Jason shifted his position slightly, dislodging the cat, of whom he had enough.

  “How’d you know?” she asked.

  “How did I know what?”

  “That they did it for a living?”

  “I didn’t—it was just a figure of speech.”

  “Well, they do, or at least they did,” she explained. “They’re mostly lawyers who work for a public interest firm that challenged his policies in court.”

  “The good fight,” Jason said passively.

  “They were hoping to prepare a brief for his trial, but when the pardon came.…” She didn’t seem sure how to describe what they must have felt.

  “There was nothing left for them to do,” Jason said, finishing the thought for her.

  “Right. You know, we were probably the only two people there who weren’t lawyers—you’re not a lawyer, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. I’m just a neighbor. I mean, I hate Nixon and all—don’t get me wrong,” she said with a disarming smile. “But I was never much of a radical. I was ‘Clean for Gene’ in ’sixty-eight, and even with that my parents almost disowned me—but I’m in publishing.”

  She looked at him like it was his turn to talk. “What do you do?” she asked.

  It wasn’t an easy question to answer. He studied her face, and wondered what she was thinking about.

  She put her tea down on the table and leaned toward him a bit. “You’re that guy with the helicopter, aren’t you?” she asked. “I saw you on TV.”

  “No…yeah.” He was tired of lying. “But I’d just as soon not—”

  “What did it feel like?” She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them closer. “I mean that moment, right before. Right before you decided what to do. It must have been terrifying. I know I would have been just paralyzed.”