alternatehistory.com
Freaks and Geeks
May 25th, 1987
The man who walked into the Magee Rehabilitation Center in Philadelphia was dressed like a star, that was for sure.
Pushing the door open and walking into the reception area, the man was dressed in a slick black suit coat with a purple and white mixed dress shirt that fit the tall, slim man well. At first sight the man working the desk thought he may have been a basketball player, considering his tall, slender build.
That was before he saw the glasses the man who had sauntered in was sporting.
They were thick, black rimmed glasses, with classic, rectangular lenses. Glasses that had been made famous in the mid 1960s by the man who wore them, the man who had painted them on the side of a limousine, the man standing before him.
The way the man walked in anybody who wasn’t a fan would’ve thought he was down and out. All of the swagger in his strut was gone; he walked like a man broken, not the man who had sung “My Girl”.
The former star had a song stuck in his head as he walked to the counter at the rehab center, a place he had sworn he would never go, a place he had believed he would never needed. It felt like he had recorded that song one hundred years ago, but in reality it hadn’t been twenty.
Pieces, pieces of a man now / oh, that’s all that’s left / girl, that’s all I am.
It had taken on an entirely different meaning now.
The minute he stepped into the reception area he knew that the man behind the counter knew who he was and he was dreading the encounter. Nobody who knew him would ever say he didn’t love the spotlight, but not here and not now.
Ever since his old friend and musician Paul Butterfield overdosed and died three weeks ago the man had been aware how close he had come on several occasions to the same fate. He was sick of that aspect of his life, sick of people walking on eggshells about it around him, sick of that all.
He had always said of himself that he was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personified, whether it be family life, drug use, performances, excetera, excetera.
It was Dr. Jekyll who had walked into this rehab center. If he didn’t get admitted soon Mr. Hyde would come out, no doubt about it.
So he walked up to the desk, trying to act as if he was just a normal addict, ready to join the system.
“Hello,” he said, “I’d like to be admitted.” He could see in the man behind the counter’s eyes the fanfare.
“Yes, yes of course. Just fill out these forms here.” The man behind the counter handed over a clipboard and a pen.
“Sir, did a family member bring you here? It’s always better when--” The man cut him off.
“Don’t y’all bring my family into this, man. They know where I am and that I’ll be gone and that’s all they have to worry about. I’m doing this by myself this time.” This was out of the ordinary, but the man behind the counter wasn’t about to talk back to the star before him.
“Of course, of course, sir.” The two men remained silent until the man finished filling out the forms, then handed them back over the counter.
“Is that it?” The man asked.
“Almost. Now you’ll see one of our doctors for the admittance interview. But, before you do,” As he said it, the man behind the counter pulled out a blank note card, “could you sign this? I know it’s against protocol but I’ve been a fan for decades.”
“Man, are you kidding--” The star cut himself off, remembering Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “Yeah, sure, I’ll sign it.”
In big, bold letters, the last semblance of the man who used to be, the man signed in big cursive lettering. He handed the card back.
“Thank you so much! Right this way, sir.” The man behind the counter motioned to the door. Before entering, he looked one more time at the card that the former star had just signed. On the card it simply said the name,
David Ruffin
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
May 30th, 1987
It had taken a lot of planning and working around the schedules of some of the most powerful, and therefore busy, men in America, but finally George Bush had the group he needed together in the White House to keep him there.
Seated around the conference room table was the Republican Party’s equivalent to the Yankees’ Murderers’ Row lineup. Sitting at the head of the table, for the first time in eight years, was Bush himself. The group that lined the table included the likes of President Reagan, Senator Howard Baker, National Security Advisor Colin Powell, Bush’s sons Jeb and George, and Bush’s early pick for campaign manager, Lee Atwater, among others.
“I can’t understand how Quayle is even getting 20% in the polls right now,” Baker was saying to the room, “he’s a worthy senator, sure, but President? He doesn’t have leadership capability.”
“It’s that bastard Falwell,” H.W. Bush stated angrily, “he’s filling that poor kid’s head full of dangerous ideas of glory. Not to mention the money he’s pouring into his campaign.”
Being around Bush the last few weeks, Reagan knew this could turn into a rant rather quickly. He changed the subject before Bush went further.
“Howard, how’s our support among the senators?” Baker looked a little sick.
“You know how they are, Mr. President. One day they tell you one thing and the next you see them on the news saying something completely different. I’m especially worried about Hatch. Sure, I expect the southerners to back Quayle behind their pal Helms, but if guys like Hatch start falling behind Quayle we may have a problem.”
“I’ll make sure to talk to him in the coming weeks,” noted Bush as he wrote down what Baker had said.
“You better make that quick, Mr. Vice President. Falwell may be a son of a bitch, but I’ll give him credit, he moves fast. And on top of that he’s extremely convincing, if you know what I mean.”
President Reagan motioned to Colin Powell.
“I can see your wheels spinning. What are you thinking?”
“Quayle’s young and inexperienced. He’s backed by Falwell, so they’re going to hit the Moral Majority schtick early and often. One thing they don’t have, however, is experience, especially with foreign policy. This campaign will have to be focused on experience and steadfast leadership. That’s the way to win.”
“I think you need to debate him early and often, Dad.” This was the first time Jeb had spoken during the meeting, “We’ve all heard Quayle speak. It’s so incredibly obvious he is being fed his lines directly from Falwell. If you can get him on a stage and off-balance, he’s going to say something stupid.”
“You know my speciality is advertisements, Mr. Vice President. If you can get him to make a gaffe on national television, it will be circulated through every television in every battleground in this country. I’m not holding back on this guy.” Everybody in the room knew what Lee Atwater was capable of and in the same line knew how valuable he was to the team.
President Reagan, ever the calm head in the room, spoke up.
“Look, the primary schedule isn’t doing us any favors. Iowa is exactly the kind of state that Quayle will thrive in. The media could be brutal at the start, but if anybody knows how to overcome defeat it’s us. We will win this thing, and that’s a promise.”
Surrounded by all of these incredibly gifted men, George H.W. Bush couldn’t feel but the White House was already won for him. He couldn’t wait to crush Quayle, and when he did he would offer no quarter.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
June 3rd, 1987
An excerpt from an article appearing in the New York Times
Simon Enters Democratic Race
Senator Paul Simon (D-IL) is not the first Democrat to to enter the race for the White House in 1988, but it can be said that he is the most unique man in said race.
Appearing in his classic bow tie and glasses, Simon stated that he would bring "leadership that has vision, leadership rooted in the traditional values of our party” to the Democratic primaries.
Simon promises to be a moderate in what is possibly the most liberal group of candidates the Democratic party has seen. When asked about his liberalism, Simon said “I’m not a neo-anything. I’m a Democrat.”
The announcement comes only weeks after Simon stated that he would not be running in 1988, but would endorse Senator Dale Bumpers (D-AR) if he were to enter the race. Shortly after, Bumpers made it clear he was not interested in running.
The change of heart seems to be a feeling that Bumpers lack of interest in running left an entire demographic in the Democratic Party unrepresented and unheard. It is unclear if this group can make Simon a serious contender in the race for the nomination.
The first response to Simon’s candidacy came from the Reverend Jesse Jackson, who said at a campaign stop in New Hampshire that he welcomes Simon to the race and “at this point, it’s the more the merrier”.
The man who walked into the Magee Rehabilitation Center in Philadelphia was dressed like a star, that was for sure.
Pushing the door open and walking into the reception area, the man was dressed in a slick black suit coat with a purple and white mixed dress shirt that fit the tall, slim man well. At first sight the man working the desk thought he may have been a basketball player, considering his tall, slender build.
That was before he saw the glasses the man who had sauntered in was sporting.
They were thick, black rimmed glasses, with classic, rectangular lenses. Glasses that had been made famous in the mid 1960s by the man who wore them, the man who had painted them on the side of a limousine, the man standing before him.
The way the man walked in anybody who wasn’t a fan would’ve thought he was down and out. All of the swagger in his strut was gone; he walked like a man broken, not the man who had sung “My Girl”.
The former star had a song stuck in his head as he walked to the counter at the rehab center, a place he had sworn he would never go, a place he had believed he would never needed. It felt like he had recorded that song one hundred years ago, but in reality it hadn’t been twenty.
Pieces, pieces of a man now / oh, that’s all that’s left / girl, that’s all I am.
It had taken on an entirely different meaning now.
The minute he stepped into the reception area he knew that the man behind the counter knew who he was and he was dreading the encounter. Nobody who knew him would ever say he didn’t love the spotlight, but not here and not now.
Ever since his old friend and musician Paul Butterfield overdosed and died three weeks ago the man had been aware how close he had come on several occasions to the same fate. He was sick of that aspect of his life, sick of people walking on eggshells about it around him, sick of that all.
He had always said of himself that he was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personified, whether it be family life, drug use, performances, excetera, excetera.
It was Dr. Jekyll who had walked into this rehab center. If he didn’t get admitted soon Mr. Hyde would come out, no doubt about it.
So he walked up to the desk, trying to act as if he was just a normal addict, ready to join the system.
“Hello,” he said, “I’d like to be admitted.” He could see in the man behind the counter’s eyes the fanfare.
“Yes, yes of course. Just fill out these forms here.” The man behind the counter handed over a clipboard and a pen.
“Sir, did a family member bring you here? It’s always better when--” The man cut him off.
“Don’t y’all bring my family into this, man. They know where I am and that I’ll be gone and that’s all they have to worry about. I’m doing this by myself this time.” This was out of the ordinary, but the man behind the counter wasn’t about to talk back to the star before him.
“Of course, of course, sir.” The two men remained silent until the man finished filling out the forms, then handed them back over the counter.
“Is that it?” The man asked.
“Almost. Now you’ll see one of our doctors for the admittance interview. But, before you do,” As he said it, the man behind the counter pulled out a blank note card, “could you sign this? I know it’s against protocol but I’ve been a fan for decades.”
“Man, are you kidding--” The star cut himself off, remembering Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “Yeah, sure, I’ll sign it.”
In big, bold letters, the last semblance of the man who used to be, the man signed in big cursive lettering. He handed the card back.
“Thank you so much! Right this way, sir.” The man behind the counter motioned to the door. Before entering, he looked one more time at the card that the former star had just signed. On the card it simply said the name,
David Ruffin
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
May 30th, 1987
It had taken a lot of planning and working around the schedules of some of the most powerful, and therefore busy, men in America, but finally George Bush had the group he needed together in the White House to keep him there.
Seated around the conference room table was the Republican Party’s equivalent to the Yankees’ Murderers’ Row lineup. Sitting at the head of the table, for the first time in eight years, was Bush himself. The group that lined the table included the likes of President Reagan, Senator Howard Baker, National Security Advisor Colin Powell, Bush’s sons Jeb and George, and Bush’s early pick for campaign manager, Lee Atwater, among others.
“I can’t understand how Quayle is even getting 20% in the polls right now,” Baker was saying to the room, “he’s a worthy senator, sure, but President? He doesn’t have leadership capability.”
“It’s that bastard Falwell,” H.W. Bush stated angrily, “he’s filling that poor kid’s head full of dangerous ideas of glory. Not to mention the money he’s pouring into his campaign.”
Being around Bush the last few weeks, Reagan knew this could turn into a rant rather quickly. He changed the subject before Bush went further.
“Howard, how’s our support among the senators?” Baker looked a little sick.
“You know how they are, Mr. President. One day they tell you one thing and the next you see them on the news saying something completely different. I’m especially worried about Hatch. Sure, I expect the southerners to back Quayle behind their pal Helms, but if guys like Hatch start falling behind Quayle we may have a problem.”
“I’ll make sure to talk to him in the coming weeks,” noted Bush as he wrote down what Baker had said.
“You better make that quick, Mr. Vice President. Falwell may be a son of a bitch, but I’ll give him credit, he moves fast. And on top of that he’s extremely convincing, if you know what I mean.”
President Reagan motioned to Colin Powell.
“I can see your wheels spinning. What are you thinking?”
“Quayle’s young and inexperienced. He’s backed by Falwell, so they’re going to hit the Moral Majority schtick early and often. One thing they don’t have, however, is experience, especially with foreign policy. This campaign will have to be focused on experience and steadfast leadership. That’s the way to win.”
“I think you need to debate him early and often, Dad.” This was the first time Jeb had spoken during the meeting, “We’ve all heard Quayle speak. It’s so incredibly obvious he is being fed his lines directly from Falwell. If you can get him on a stage and off-balance, he’s going to say something stupid.”
“You know my speciality is advertisements, Mr. Vice President. If you can get him to make a gaffe on national television, it will be circulated through every television in every battleground in this country. I’m not holding back on this guy.” Everybody in the room knew what Lee Atwater was capable of and in the same line knew how valuable he was to the team.
President Reagan, ever the calm head in the room, spoke up.
“Look, the primary schedule isn’t doing us any favors. Iowa is exactly the kind of state that Quayle will thrive in. The media could be brutal at the start, but if anybody knows how to overcome defeat it’s us. We will win this thing, and that’s a promise.”
Surrounded by all of these incredibly gifted men, George H.W. Bush couldn’t feel but the White House was already won for him. He couldn’t wait to crush Quayle, and when he did he would offer no quarter.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
June 3rd, 1987
An excerpt from an article appearing in the New York Times
Simon Enters Democratic Race
Senator Paul Simon (D-IL) is not the first Democrat to to enter the race for the White House in 1988, but it can be said that he is the most unique man in said race.
Appearing in his classic bow tie and glasses, Simon stated that he would bring "leadership that has vision, leadership rooted in the traditional values of our party” to the Democratic primaries.
Simon promises to be a moderate in what is possibly the most liberal group of candidates the Democratic party has seen. When asked about his liberalism, Simon said “I’m not a neo-anything. I’m a Democrat.”
The announcement comes only weeks after Simon stated that he would not be running in 1988, but would endorse Senator Dale Bumpers (D-AR) if he were to enter the race. Shortly after, Bumpers made it clear he was not interested in running.
The change of heart seems to be a feeling that Bumpers lack of interest in running left an entire demographic in the Democratic Party unrepresented and unheard. It is unclear if this group can make Simon a serious contender in the race for the nomination.
The first response to Simon’s candidacy came from the Reverend Jesse Jackson, who said at a campaign stop in New Hampshire that he welcomes Simon to the race and “at this point, it’s the more the merrier”.
- Gentleman Biaggi
- Word Count: 1.6k