Kennedy and Me
by Alun Williams
I was drinking
beer in a bar I’d never been to before, on
the South side of a small town, the name of which
escapes me.
It was early and I was the only customer. I like
to drink my beer in silence.
“They think I’m dead, you know.”
I looked up from my drink. The guy who spoke was
the barkeep. He stood behind the bar looking
furtive while drying a glass so hard he could’ve
drilled a hole in it.
“Excuse me?”
“Guess you don’t know who I am, do you?”
I looked at him and shook my head.
“No but I’d hesitate to guess you’re
the guy serving drinks.” I said.
He held out a fat hand. I hesitated to take it
but relented. It was cold but clammy to the touch.
He leaned forward.
“I’m John Fitzgerald Kennedy. JFK. Call
me Jack. You think I’m dead, don’t you?”
I looked him in the eye.
“I think I saw you shot, Jack,” I
remarked, “but your head seems remarkably
whole.”
“It’s what they all want you to think.”
He looked around the almost empty bar. “Oswald
shot out my brain but they gave me another.”
I looked him over.
“You don’t look like Kennedy,” I
remarked. “and is that accent Canadian?”
“It was a Canadian’s brain.” He
whispered.
I sympathised.
He rubbed another glass with the same intensity
as the first.
“They did some plastic surgery.”
“They did a good job.” I said. “I
can’t see the scars. Tell me, why didn’t
you get the Presidency back? People loved you.”
He shrugged.
“They couldn’t have a Canadian in the
White House, could they. It’s
unconstitutional. I should know.”
Again, I concurred.
“Assassination’s a damn crime but that
would be insane.”
I paid for my drink and thanked the President.
“That was one of my favourites. He said
pointing to the book. “French Machiavelli.
Darn good read.”
I looked at him.
“What about Jackie?” I asked. “What
did she have to say about it? I mean didn’t
she marry some Greek guy.”
“Hoover never told her. That was one of the
conditions of saving my life. He told me that I
had to disappear forever.”
“And Bobby…”
“Bobby’s alive. He’s a fisherman
in Portland. There’s a photo.” He
pointed to a monochrome photo on the wall of a
black guy posing with large fish.
“Never thought you’d get a tan that
good in Portland.”
“Hell, I never knew he like fishing that
much.”
I stood up.
“You know…Jack, I’m not sure you
are the President.” I said. “It sounds…I
don’t know, implausible. “
He picked up my empty glass.
“I’ll prove it to you, mister.” He
called out back. “Baby, come here!”
He gripped my arm and chuckled. “You ain’t
never gonna believe this, mister.”
A small, dark haired Mexican woman came from out
back.
“What you want?”
“Marilyn Monroe.” The barkeep said in
all seriousness. “Bet you thought she was
dead too?”
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