DINNER WITH
NIX was through-and-through an unpleasant affair, but dessert was
the worst. Nix called for his "Bojangles butter." In came the
midnight-blackest of the entire White House staff, apparently reserved
for just this purpose as he took part in neither the serving of the meal
nor in any other of the cordialities and proprieties that preceded and
followed. So black he could have been Jolson, but without the telltale
rings around the eyes or the abrupt cut that occurred near the collar and
at the hairline. Bojangles showed a wide swath of gleaming teeth,
brighter than the bleached gloves he now tugged taut over his invisible
black wrists with a haughty, elegant snap! . . . . He kneeled beside the
chief's seat in synch with Nix's undaunted gesture of standing and
dropping his pants, earlier undone for increased capacity during the
meal. In once expert motion--like Sally Rand with her famous
feathers--the president molted dingey boxer shorts (grey, imprinted with
the seal either of Whittier or the John Birch Society . . . couldn't
tell, so distracted was I by the resemblance between Nix's bare, bushy
legs and the scrawny misshapenness of my own assistant's hairy hooves)
and planted his ass with blemishless trust--the trust that comes up only
in the most intimate ritual moments between master and servant--smack
over Bojangles'ss gloved, glowing index finger, bony and braced for
insertion.
"Gung!" was the noise Nix let escape as he sat.
The president, hands on Lincoln's leather arms, would shift slightly
before Bo, out of sight now behind the edge of the great oak table, set
to work at his digital enema. Then Nix could start in about "that damn war" again and in all the nonchalance I
almost forgot anything funny was going on beneath the chocolate mousse
but for the moment Nix finally stood, pulling up boxers and pants in one
swift clip. Bojangles carried away his loot in a bejewelled box,
discretely sparkling and resembling a container for tobacco or myrrh.
Whether it went the way of Checkers's pieces or if it was preserved in
back room of the National Archives dedicated to presidential enemas--well
even the devil is damned if he knows!