#43
View attachment 447998
He was glad he’d waited.It had been difficult.So many moves.Always on the move, hard even to find time to write to her.But always make the time, always.Keeping fed was difficult.Keeping healthy, difficult.But it was all about her, every moment was about trying to get her to notice him.And now she would.He’d waited.Given it a lot of thought.Watched the movie again.And again.Always again.It struck him: it wasn’t a president he should go after.It was a candidate.He saw him again in his mind.An attractive older man.Talking about being a champion, protecting people.But he knew that was phoney.And this guy?This new guy was totally phoney.This would show her.She’d really get a kick out of this.
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October 27th, 1984
New York Times
Headline: PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE JAMES BUCKLEY SHOT; NOT SERIOUSLY WOUNDED
Subhead: Candidate still in hospital as of press. Assassin dead at the scene.
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James Buckley pushes the nurse away. Bill is in the corner.
“Would you get that thing away from me.”
“It’s standard procedure, sir.”
“I’m fine, I can use my arm.”
“We just need to limit your motion a bit to keep the stitches from-”
“I am running for president, this is too much of an encumbrance. Find another way.”
“James.”
“What.”
“This kind nurse is offering you five points in the polls. Stop being a pest and put the goddamn sling on.”
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The photo on every front page that morning is a radiant James Buckley and his family leaving the hospital in fine fettle, his left arm couched in a sling.
Less remarked- making most front pages, but usually below the fold- is a story about a populist Democrat running for the West Virginia state legislature gunned down outside of Morgantown. Barely making most B sections that day were the two men arrested for arson in the attempted firebombing of the local DFL headquarters in Duluth, Minnesota. Almost no one bothered to cover the mob that forced the cancelation of an LWV event in Lubbock, Texas where local Republican candidates were set to have a forum.
In those first 24 hours after the shooting, hardly anyone was connecting the dots.
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Offices of Lee Atwater. Some new polling is out.
“Gold. Solid fucking gold. Hinckley, I could kiss you right on the mouth, you crazy sonofabitch.”