1.
It was another one of those days but Richard Nixon scarcely seemed to notice. He was tired and already he could tell that it was going to rain through the grey early morning haze. It was October 28, 1967 and Richard Nixon felt like he was coming down with a flu.
“This is ridiculous.” He muttered, behind him his wife stirred, still shrouded in blankets.
“Hmm?” She asked, muffled by the pillow over her head. Nixon shook his head and looked out the window again, there was a cardinal pecking for something in the front yard but aside from that the ground was bare.
“I think I’m coming down with something. For Christ’s sake, I haven’t even been sick in seven years...” He blinked heavily, the last time he had been sick was right before the debates in 1960, and that had cost him the election.
Everything that came after that seemed to be a blur of failure. First had come the sinking feeling as he had watched Kennedy slip past him, first in electoral votes, then in popular. A part of him had been expecting it since the debates but it still felt like a punch in the gut anyways.
He had existed in a haze for several days afterwards, meeting with donors and supporters, expressing his deepest apologies and ensuring them that he would be back in the game as soon as he was able, but behind the smile and the firm handshake he gave the public he just felt numb. He had been slapped out of the sky like Icarus and now he was on his way to earth, flaming feathers and all.
He had tried to slog his way out from the wilderness, challenging Pat Brown to be the governor of California in 1962, but as he watched the results pour in he felt a very similar sinking feeling, and the image of Icarus plunging to earth came to his mind again, the flames larger, the ground closer.
He had made a concession speech, he had railed against the media for shamelessly supporting his opponent over him, in a country that was supposed to have freedom of press too, but instead all he got was mockery and in his mind, Icarus ended his descent with a final sickening smack.
He had continued to exist after that, but it was clear that few believed him capable of the political steps he had taken with ease in better days. Instead of running for president he had helped send another man off, Barry Goldwater, that funny Arizonan senator with his natural charisma and fierce dislike for social conservatism.
But that venture had ended poorly as well, with Goldwater shattered in the election by Kennedy’s tough talking, shamelessly brash vice president Lyndon Johnson. But despite the disaster of 1964, he had walked through the entire thing without a scratch and even as many of his colleagues foundered in the aftermath, Nixon found himself still standing, and even in a position to repair his battered credentials.
1966 was better still, and as the midterm results came in and the Republican party made gains against the Democrats for the first time in years, Nixon felt a little ball of success begin to burn through the clot of stress that had seemed to gather at the bottom of his gut. Icarus had found new wings.
But now he was sick, and whenever that was the case bad things never seemed too far behind.
“I think I’m going to go for a walk.” He said, rising from bed and stretching. But even as he got his blood flowing, the odd stuffy feeling in his head just wouldn’t abate. Yup, he was definitely sick.
“Without breakfast?” Pat was sitting up now, her hair tousled. Nixon nodded, he didn’t feel hungry.
“Maybe later, I’ll be back soon.” Pat offered no objections and Nixon quickly dressed and stepped outside into the crisp October air. It felt good to be outside and as he walked across his lawn an often thought of dilemma entered his mind. When was he going to tell Pat, and practically everyone else, that he was planning on running for president again? She wouldn’t like it, he knew that much, and seeing her unhappy did little but make him unhappy as well, but deep within himself he knew that this time around he had what it would take to wrest the presidency from any opponent that he would have to face.
Nixon was so deep in thought that as he rounded the corner of a street and stepped into the road he did not pause to check the street ahead of him. In later years historians would wonder that perhaps if he had not been ill he would have heard the car approaching, but whatever the case, Richard Nixon stepped out into the road and was struck a glancing blow by the bumper of a 1949 Plymouth, shattering his hip and throwing him fifteen feet down the road.
The driver screeched to a halt and for a moment merely stared in open mouthed horror before rushing from his car to aid the downed man lying crumpled in the gutter. But even as he approached he could see that it was too late. Richard Nixon, just a moment ago planning for greater things, had departed from this world.
Thoughts?
It was another one of those days but Richard Nixon scarcely seemed to notice. He was tired and already he could tell that it was going to rain through the grey early morning haze. It was October 28, 1967 and Richard Nixon felt like he was coming down with a flu.
“This is ridiculous.” He muttered, behind him his wife stirred, still shrouded in blankets.
“Hmm?” She asked, muffled by the pillow over her head. Nixon shook his head and looked out the window again, there was a cardinal pecking for something in the front yard but aside from that the ground was bare.
“I think I’m coming down with something. For Christ’s sake, I haven’t even been sick in seven years...” He blinked heavily, the last time he had been sick was right before the debates in 1960, and that had cost him the election.
Everything that came after that seemed to be a blur of failure. First had come the sinking feeling as he had watched Kennedy slip past him, first in electoral votes, then in popular. A part of him had been expecting it since the debates but it still felt like a punch in the gut anyways.
He had existed in a haze for several days afterwards, meeting with donors and supporters, expressing his deepest apologies and ensuring them that he would be back in the game as soon as he was able, but behind the smile and the firm handshake he gave the public he just felt numb. He had been slapped out of the sky like Icarus and now he was on his way to earth, flaming feathers and all.
He had tried to slog his way out from the wilderness, challenging Pat Brown to be the governor of California in 1962, but as he watched the results pour in he felt a very similar sinking feeling, and the image of Icarus plunging to earth came to his mind again, the flames larger, the ground closer.
He had made a concession speech, he had railed against the media for shamelessly supporting his opponent over him, in a country that was supposed to have freedom of press too, but instead all he got was mockery and in his mind, Icarus ended his descent with a final sickening smack.
He had continued to exist after that, but it was clear that few believed him capable of the political steps he had taken with ease in better days. Instead of running for president he had helped send another man off, Barry Goldwater, that funny Arizonan senator with his natural charisma and fierce dislike for social conservatism.
But that venture had ended poorly as well, with Goldwater shattered in the election by Kennedy’s tough talking, shamelessly brash vice president Lyndon Johnson. But despite the disaster of 1964, he had walked through the entire thing without a scratch and even as many of his colleagues foundered in the aftermath, Nixon found himself still standing, and even in a position to repair his battered credentials.
1966 was better still, and as the midterm results came in and the Republican party made gains against the Democrats for the first time in years, Nixon felt a little ball of success begin to burn through the clot of stress that had seemed to gather at the bottom of his gut. Icarus had found new wings.
But now he was sick, and whenever that was the case bad things never seemed too far behind.
“I think I’m going to go for a walk.” He said, rising from bed and stretching. But even as he got his blood flowing, the odd stuffy feeling in his head just wouldn’t abate. Yup, he was definitely sick.
“Without breakfast?” Pat was sitting up now, her hair tousled. Nixon nodded, he didn’t feel hungry.
“Maybe later, I’ll be back soon.” Pat offered no objections and Nixon quickly dressed and stepped outside into the crisp October air. It felt good to be outside and as he walked across his lawn an often thought of dilemma entered his mind. When was he going to tell Pat, and practically everyone else, that he was planning on running for president again? She wouldn’t like it, he knew that much, and seeing her unhappy did little but make him unhappy as well, but deep within himself he knew that this time around he had what it would take to wrest the presidency from any opponent that he would have to face.
Nixon was so deep in thought that as he rounded the corner of a street and stepped into the road he did not pause to check the street ahead of him. In later years historians would wonder that perhaps if he had not been ill he would have heard the car approaching, but whatever the case, Richard Nixon stepped out into the road and was struck a glancing blow by the bumper of a 1949 Plymouth, shattering his hip and throwing him fifteen feet down the road.
The driver screeched to a halt and for a moment merely stared in open mouthed horror before rushing from his car to aid the downed man lying crumpled in the gutter. But even as he approached he could see that it was too late. Richard Nixon, just a moment ago planning for greater things, had departed from this world.
Thoughts?
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