Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [283]
Jackson’s nostrils flared, and his eyes became very hard indeed—hard enough that Dick became aware he had overstepped the line somehow. Jackson leaned close to him, a broad smile on his face, and speaking very slowly, as if to a child, he said, “Dick, here’s the way it is. Your people, they go to the good schools, colleges, they study hard, they come out they get the good jobs, lawyers, doctors, big business, all that stuff.” Jackson’s voice dropped even lower. “All my people got is—”Before he had finished the sentence, Dick had turned to me and said, “Buy the goddamn book.”
• • •
ONCE WE had reached an accord, the atmosphere lightened considerably. Jackson was jovial, though he still did not touch his sandwich, and Lazar was in good spirits, having made a deal. Occasionally, Jackson glanced at his watch—he had to catch the shuttle back to Washington, and a car was coming to pick him up. He stood up, towering high over Lazar, and we all shook hands. The Rev put a lot into his handshakes—they were warm, firm, and prolonged, and for emphasis he used both hands. “We are going to be partners,” he said, and it was possible to believe it. There was only one small thing on his mind, however, as we walked with him to the front door. “Where’s the—ah—toilet, my friend?” he asked Lazar, and a look of alarm spread across Lazar’s face.
“What time is your plane?” he asked sharply.
Jackson glanced at his watch. “I have about forty-five minutes to make the shuttle.”
Lazar opened the door and endeavored to push Jackson out into the hall. “Traffic is terrible,” he said. “You don’t have time. Wait until you get to the airport, that’s my advice.”
Jackson thought about this for a moment. “I only a need a minute,” he said.
Lazar shook his head. “You don’t know what the goddamn traffic is like, this time of day. You go when you get there.”
Jackson stood his ground, glaring down at his agent. “Irving,” he said slowly, “I want to go to the damn bathroom, now! Where is it?”
Lazar gave way reluctantly and pointed toward the bathroom. Jackson went off, did what he had to do, returned in a moment, shook hands again, and was gone.
We were about to take our own leave of Lazar, but he asked us to wait—he had something urgent to do. He, too, went to the bathroom, but as the minutes ticked by I realized that he wasn’t there for a call of nature. I could hear the sibilant hiss of an aerosol container, so I walked down the corridor until I could just see through the half-opened door.
Lazar’s bathroom was mirrored, floor to ceiling, and had a marble floor. Lazar, grimly determined, was on his knees by the toilet with a towel and an aerosol container of lemon-scented Lysol, vigorously spritzing every surface in sight.
• • •
OF COURSE, Lazar’s germ phobia was well known—likely he would have been just as alarmed if Dick or I had used his bathroom. In any event, I think Jackson would probably have been more amused than annoyed had he caught Lazar at it. Over the years that followed, in which The Rev tried out ghost after ghost (including, improbably, Ben Stein, a Jewish conservative), I had ample opportunity to observe that Jackson was tolerant to a fault. He was willing to give anybody a chance if he thought it might be in his interest to do so, and moral judgments on others did not come easily to him, despite the fact that he was an ordained minister.
His book never got written—I finally came to the conclusion that it was not so much the choice of writers that gave him pause as some deep inner doubt about the whole idea of putting his life down on paper. Jackson was a gifted teller of anecdotes, most of them having to do with his own life, and no doubt had embellished them over the years. He had used stories about his life to make points in sermons, in political speeches, and in conversations, but the idea of sitting