(Note: The following pages were discovered in a wastebasket on the southwest corner of Madison Ave. and 51st St. in New York City on May 12, 1996. They were crumpled, but perfectly readable.)
Here’s the first chapter of my first novel and, forgive the immodesty, but I think it’s fantastic. Your suggestion of making it a roman ŕ clef is a good one, and if you think it’ll sell a few more copies, then go ahead, make the changes. How about "Clifton" for Clinton? Or "Bore" for Gore?" And how’s this: I could be "Anonymous." Think about it. Anyway, I hope you like it, and if there are any mistakes, or even comments you’d like to make, please feel free to contact me (through Margaret).
P.S.: I’m not married to the title.
The world’s most powerful woman removed her nightgown, revealing a small green "Tree Frog Beer" tattoo, a barely-noticeable feature of her left thigh for nearly twenty-nine years now, ever since that night at Wellesley when, with her hell-raising sorority sister Betty Stirnweiss and a couple of drunk Coast Guardsmen along for the ride, she drove into town and, on a dare, altered the private physiognomy of the future First Lady forever.
"What’s this?" asked her former law partner and secret lover Vince as his hand swept across the grinning face of R. Crumb’s roguish cartoon toad.
"Oh, something stupid my friend Betty Stirnweiss talked me into doing in college. I’ve never told Bill."
"You mean he’s never seen it?" Foster exclaimed suicidally.
"He thinks it’s a decal that I forgot to wash off."
At that moment in walked George, the moptopped pint-sized politico with the wire-rimmed glasses and the last name that wouldn’t fit on Orson Welles’s bowling shirt.
"Hi Hill, Hi Vince, what’s up? No pun intended. Hey, how come the two of you are naked?"
"Um, because it’s so, um, hot in here," Hillary explained coolly, deflecting a possibly awkward follow-up question.
"And I spilled tapioca pudding on my underwear," the beet-red Foster added, clearing away any last bit of doubt in the little Greek’s mind.
"Where’s Bill?" asked the nosy Stuffinenvelopes as he was called when he wasn’t around.
"He’s probably plugging some young executive secretary in the Old Executive Office Building," Hillary blurted out before realizing what she had said.
"You mean, like, plugging a book?" the naive and sexually inexperienced Son of Athens inquired.
"Aren’t you late for some meeting?" the by-now-morose Foster wondered.
"Yes," Hillary postulated, "there must be a policy meeting going on somewhere in this city someplace."
Taking the not-so-subtle hint, George left, and once again Hillary was alone with Vince, but before she could slip into something uncomfortable -- the rope and handcuffs -- the phone rang.
"I'll get it," she announced, needlessly of course, as Vince would sooner answer the phone in the First Lady's boudoir than put a bullet through his head in a public park -- and then hide the bullet.
"Duffy's Tavern, Archie speaking, Duffy ain't in," she giggled, getting a kick out of her little joke to herself that stemmed from childhood memories of sitting on her Daddy's lap, listening to radio classics like "Duffy's Tavern," "Jack Benny," and "Amos n' Andy."
"Mrs. Clinton? It's Joni Evans," came the attractive voice at the other end of the line.
"Joni, I was just thinking about you. How do you like it?" Hillary was having difficulty speaking -- Vince was either groping her gluteus maximus or looking for his diary.
"Well, I have to tell you," Joni gushed, "I absolutely adored the three-and-a-half pages you sent me. Especially the part about Vince and you and the rope and the handcuffs -- very spicy, very hot."
"I'm thrilled you like it. I'm going to write some more, maybe later. I want to finish the first chapter. What if I changed the title to, 'It Takes a Village -- Not!'? Is that too hokey?" Meanwhile, Vince was acting self-destructively.
"Could I just make one small suggestion, Mrs. Clinton, and please don't take this the wrong way, but I think we should make the book a roman ŕ clef, for the simple reason that most of these people are still alive and I'm not sure of all the legal issues involved here. Would you consider it at least?"
"Oh, absolutely, you bet I will. No one respects your opinion more than I do, Joni."
"You're very flattering, Mrs. Clinton."
"Call me Hillary."
"Send me those pages."
Hillary hung up, and then looked over at Vince, who was hanging from the chandelier -- by his neck.Ź
(End of Chapter One.)