I admit it. Like the ad goes, “I love that game.” I watch as many of the Heat and Wizard games as I can when I am in town, but I don’t have an obsession with it like some of my friends. I once heard Bob Costas say the game of baseball was proof that there was a God, because no man could create a game so beautiful. I would not say the game of basketball is such proof. But Magic was.
I met Earvin and Cookie when they were in D.C. doing a promotion for Pepsi with Earl Graves. I think he and his wife are genuinely nice people. When I heard the news, I was in my office and my AA barged in and said, “You know Magic has AIDS?” I said yeah, I’m sure he does after all that kissing on Isaiah Thomas. And she said, “No. I’m serious. It was on CNN when I was home for lunch.” As soon as she said the letters “CN,” I was reaching for my remote. By this time the news conference had gone off, so I turned to ESPN, saw Magic’s face in a blue suit and designer tie, and I knew it was true.
I guess the reason it affected me so much is that for the first time, HIV had a face. I’d voted on bills regarding funding for AIDS research, but honestly, I’d done it because I’d felt it was a way to help people who were gay or drug users. But now HIV was not black or white, gay or straight, young or old. HIV was my friend, HIV was my hero. HIV was Magic. It was someone I knew, and it brought the issue home to me.
I remember Earvin at Michigan State playing against Bird, as well as his first few years in the pros. In fact, before Magic, I was a die-hard Atlanta Hawks fan. Don’t ask me why. But I became a Magic fan. Not Orlando, Johnson. He played with so much passion and love for the game. He played with the same intensity I had in my run for the presidency. A single-minded determination that nothing and no one would ever stop him. He fought the disease with the same fire in his belly. Although people laughed when he said he’d beaten it . . . no one is laughing now. I sent him a telegram as soon as I heard about his condition, and the four of us have remained friends ever since.
I look at Cookie and I see the type of love Leslie and I shared. I can honestly say if it were not for Leslie, I would not be where I am at this time. She was much more than my most intelligent and trusted adviser. She was my friend, my lover, and simply my life when my dream squeezed everything out of me and left me dry. There was one particular time around ’93 when the dream was too heavy to bear and I sunk to my lowest point, which I don’t like to talk about. But she was there, and she never left my side.
One night I flew to New York to be on Meet the Press. It was my first appearance on the show, so I was a little nervous. To make a long story short, I stunk up the place. I don’t know if I had an anxiety attack or if the angst of what was on the horizon suddenly came to light or what, but none of my thoughts came easily and I screwed up a number of important facts which normally I could have spouted off easily if someone had awakened me in the midst of my sleep. Although I know he would never admit it, Tim Russert must have thought I had more than coffee in my U.S. Senate coffee mug. Since the show was live, there was no way to edit out my snafus, so when I heard “It’s a wrap” and the lights went out, I felt like a clown, minus the big red nose and floppy shoes.
When I came off the set, Herbert looked at me as he would as a child when he knew I had screwed up and was going to get a beating. After accepting a couple of insincere congratulatory phone calls from friends around the country, I got out of the NBC studio and Manhattan as fast as I could.
As fate would have it, there was a mechanical problem with the plane we were boarding in Atlanta and we were forced to wait for another connecting flight. I have always enjoyed Atlanta, so Herbert and I, as well as my advisers Marcus and Wayne, took off for the Underground. I thought getting away for a while would do me good.
When I got out of the limo, we decided that we’d find a sporting goods store and waste time in a restaurant until Herbert got the page that the plane was ready. We’ walked through the mall and a few people noticed me. This was one time I did not care to be recognized after what had just been televised. But as we were walking, I saw her. This woman who was moving through the crowd toward us was the spitting image of Cheryl. Same complexion and height; even the smile she shared when our eyes met was similar. Marcus noticed her immediately and nudged my forearm as she appeared to be headed our way. When she got closer, everyone in the group, including Herbert, was almost panting for air. Of course, it wasn’t Cheryl, but the woman looked exquisite in her leopard scarf, matching gloves, cream vest and skirt, and sling-back four-inch leopard pumps.
“Senator Davis? Right?” she asked, standing in front of me.
“Yes. And you are?”
She reached in her purse and pulled out a card that read:
Alicia Simmons
President, Ole’ Dirty South Records
“I’m a political junkie,” she said. “I watched you on NBC this morning and I thought you did a wonderful job.” At this point I knew she was a BS artist beyond compare. She continued, “You may not have heard of my label, but we produce Chill E and So-So Dangerous, as well as a female group by the name of BWP, which stands for—”
“Bitches With Problems,” Marcus, who is Asian, interrupted, and then looked at us a little embarrassed that he’d supplied the name. “My son. He’s really into the rap thing.”
“That’s great,” she said, looking at him and then right back at me.
“Well, ahh, Alicia, right?” Herbert said, with a gentle tug on my elbow. “We need to finish up a little shopping before we head back to Miami. It was nice—”
Pulling away, I said, “It was nice meeting you, Alicia, and thanks for the card.” Herbert was good at his job for the most part, but he had a tendency to be a little overprotective with me and women. There were several incidents in Florida when women had made advances, and he would always cut them off at the pass. But there was a fine line between sheltering and being obnioxious.
Alicia noticed my defiant gesture toward Herbert and continued to talk, although we were walking away from her. She shared with me how she’d started the company and how many acts she wanted to have and how hard it was to get any publicity when you were from the South when most major rap labels were based in New York City. As she spoke, I could not get over her uncanny resemblance to Cheryl, and wondered how she and Darius were doing. I had made plans to attend our class reunion in ’91. Although I was receiving national attention, I always wanted to stay close to my friends in south Florida. Unfortunately I and several other members of the Congressional Black Caucus were asked to accompany the president on a trip to Israel, so I was forced to cancel. David, who was living in Oklahoma at the time, went to the reunion and told me that Cheryl had come alone and looked as good as ever.
“. . . and that’s how we came up with the name of the company,” was all I heard from Alicia.
“Well . . . that’s very interesting,” I said, trying to be polite. “It’s always nice to, ahh, see people take chances and live out their dream.”
We headed into the sporting goods store as Alicia continued to talk, and Herbert would not get rid of her because of the way I’d pulled away from him previously. Then I heard her say, “And I also want to thank you, Senator Davis, for your vote on SB-91-1037.” As she quoted the numbers, we all stopped in our tracks.
“You remember the number for the HIV bill?”
“Like I said,” she replied. “I’m a political junkie.” And then she lowered her voice to say, “and also, my mom died of AIDS two years ago.” As she spoke the words, her body slumped.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.
“It’s okay,” she added, and then looked at my shoes and then back into my eyes. “For the first time, I didn’t say my mom died of AIDS but she wasn’t gay.” As she stood before me, she reached in her purse for something to blow her nose on when Marcus handed me his handkerchief. After giving it to her, I asked Marcus, our bodyguard, and Herbert to go in and do their shopping while I went with Alicia to a corner of the eatery for a cup of coffee.
/> As we sat there, from time to time people would come up and ask me if I was that-senator-you-know-what’s-his-face, but for the most part we were able to talk in peace. She told me of how she’d dropped out of college to take care of her mother and was there when she took her final breath. As she spoke, I was moved, because this was not a doctor testifying before Congress with sterile charts on a tripod behind him. This was a person who had watched the shame of HIV turn into the realization of the disease transfiguring itself into the abhorrent face of AIDS and take someone from her whom she loved. As she spoke, she started to tear up a little more and brought the handkerchief to her nose. At some point I reached across the table to console her by holding her hand. When I did, I saw her open her eyes and look at me differently than before. I immediately returned my consoling hands to my side of the table and leaned back in my seat. I wanted to hug her because she was in so much pain, but sending the wrong message to her was something I could not deal with at this point in my life, personally or professionally.
“Sorry for babbling on and on like that, Senator Davis.” I noticed that she kept saying my entire name and title with a look in her eyes that said she wanted me to say, no, just call me Henry. But I’d been down this road before. “So . . . Senator Davis, how’s Leslie?”
I paused. The conversation was getting more eerie by the minute. I just could not put my finger on what was bothering me as I answered, “Fine. She’s fine. Listen,” I said, standing up. “I need to catch up with the guys. Thanks again for sharing that story with me. It really meant a lot. And I will keep an ear out for your—”
“Do you have to leave? Right now?” she asked, leaning over just enough to let me know she was braless.
With the words and her cleavage on the table, her intentions clarified and I smiled and said, “Yes,” then left her sitting in the corner as I caught up with my staff.
When I entered the Congress, a representative from the Midwest asked me to dinner one night. He’d served with distinction on the Hill for more than forty years and wished to retire. During our conversation I got the distinct impression he was sizing me up. For what, I had no idea. As soon as the appetizer was served, he started giving me advice on how to deal with lobbyists and how to raise money without breaking any campaign finance rules and regulations. By the main course we’d discussed who the real movers and shakers were in Washington politics. Then he looked at me over coffee with these clear green eyes, and said, “Let me tell you, son, the easiest way to win in this city. Remember three things. Talk about the economy. Talk about the press. And if that doesn’t work, talk about your competition. Always in that order. Always. Forget all that bullshit about foreign policy, because most people cannot find three major foreign cities on a map if you paid them. And as far as your past accomplishments, save them for the mantel at home. No one outside of your publicist and your mother cares. But there are three surefire ways to lose as well,” he added. “Women, women, and girls. Most decent people when they get to this level in politics can avoid the temptations of drugs and money. Most,” he said with a chuckle. “But with women, women, and girls . . . you’re always suspect, given the right time and circumstance. And trust me. This town is full of film and Fotomats.”
I’d never forgotten what he’d told me, and used it as my personal mantra of sorts. Press, economy, competition, women, women, and girls.
We arrived at Miami International a little past midnight, and I wanted to call Leslie, but she usually went to sleep around ten because she has always been an early riser. So as I drove through the streets of Miami, I was proud that I had done the right thing earlier, but a part of me wondered how after all these years I still had thoughts of Cheryl. Other girls I dated before Leslie were a distant memory. But I could still remember how she smelled like water and soap. I could still feel her touch when we held hands.
When I pulled into our driveway, the enormity of the earlier nationally televised disaster rested on me like cinder blocks. Did I really forget Castro’s first name? And what the hell did I mean when I made the comment about Libya? Oh my God. So I sat in the car with my forehead slowly thumping the backs of my hands, which were grasping the steering wheel. The house was dark, so she was obviously asleep. I’d had Marcus call from the airport to tell her we would probably sleep over in Atlanta so she could get some rest.
I opened the car door and reached for my briefcase and overnight bag. I needed a meeting with my people in DC to plan a way to get me back in the public eye so the first taste of me for Middle America would not be a lasting one. There was this conservative gathering in Seattle who’d asked me to speak and I had turned them down. But as I searched for my house key I was having second thoughts. As I opened the door and turned off the alarm system, I clicked on the light switch. Nothing happened. Damn fuse box. I then picked up my briefcase and out of the darkness came the light from a flashlight. “Aha, excuse me, sir. Umm, where do you think you are going?”
“Hey, Baby,” I said, with the first real smile I had felt all day.
“Aha, boo? Excuse me, there’s no Boo here. This is the Davis residence, and Senator Davis will be staying over in Atlanta tonight. So who are you?”
We had not played games like this in years. When we were younger we would do and try anything. But we had grown comfortable with each other, like most married couples, I suppose. Even though I was tired and my body ached from the long day of traveling and extended layover in Atlanta, I played along.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I guess you’ve found me out. I’m a Secret Service agent, hired by the government to protect your husband and—”
“You’re lying. He’s just a junior senator. He doesn’t need protection.”
“Oh. Well,” I said, walking toward the source of the light after dropping my briefcase and overnight bag in the foyer, “I’m a doctor. I was told that someone at this address needed a little”—I know it was corny, but I had to say it—“sexual healing.”
“Be serious,” she whispered, as I stood inches away from her nude body lying on the couch. I loved the way she took care of herself, always eating healthy and dieting. I loved the way she smelled. Her scent was so feminine. My Leslie’s body suggested flowers, and it was a luscious, erotic, and beautiful scent that always helped me reach my peak. And as she lay there, with her legs slightly apart, my blood rushed as I reached for my collar to undo my tie.
“Aha, excuse me,” she said, with the light still shining in my face. “What are you doing? First of all, yes, I’m in need of healing, as you put it, but I already know a doctor,” she said, and stood up. “In fact, I married a doctor,” she said, cutting off the beam of light and leaving the room pitch dark. “My doctor is sleeping over in Atlanta,” Leslie continued, and brought her nude body as close as she could without making contact. “And I must say, sir, you’re no doctor.”
“Okay, ma’am,” I replied in my Billy Dee Williams, Lady Sings the Blues voice as I pulled off my tie and brought my lips a hair-width from her mouth. “I must be honest with you. I am a . . . compulsive liar. I do it,” and then my lips almost touched hers, “for a living.”
“See what I’m talking about? You’re even lying about the lies that you’re lying about. You must be a lawyer or a politician. Now, come here,” she commanded. “That’s better.” Leslie then grabbed my hand before I could unbutton my shirt. “Listen to me,” she continued as her eyes grazed the surface of my face. “I love you, Teddy. Okay? Not for who you are, or what you have done. I love you because you mean more to me than anything on this earth, and I will love you until the day I die. And if I am fortunate enough to be given the opportunity by God to love you after I am gone, I’ll love you even more then.”
We moved slowly as one in the middle of the room to the radio, I held her inside of me, and it pained me to think of ever letting her go again. She allowed her kisses to slide up and down the center of my chest, and as we danced, the radio disc jockey said, “We’re sending this song out to Teddy. Wel
come home, and remember,” he said in a voice that reminded me of Barry White, “today is just a small step backward, toward bigger things to come tomorrow. I love you madly, and that’s from Yvette.”
As the Bee Gees started to sing our song, she looked at me, and before I could say thank you, she whispered, “I was reading a story about this man who lost his hearing when he was struck by lightning in a field. He had just gotten married and was bitter about what had happened. As he lay in the hospital, he was in complete denial and was against learning sign language initially. So he and his bride made up a code that only they knew. When they wanted to express their love,” she said, rubbing the top of my eyebrow with the length of her thumb slowly, “they just did this. So whenever you miss me, or need me, or want me, just do this, and you will feel my love wherever you are.”
“I love you so much, girl.” That was all I could say. I guess that was not a day for words to come easily to me.
A month later I got a call at two in the morning from Marcus, who was working on a senatorial campaign in Utah. “Senator Davis, I hate to call you this late, sir, but I called and paged Herbert first. For some reason I can’t get in touch with him.”
Still half asleep, I rolled over, rubbed my eyes, and said quietly so as not to disturb Leslie, “Herbert’s on vacation. What’s going on?”
“Well, sir. I don’t now how to tell you this without just saying it.”
As he said those words no politician wants to hear at any hour and definitely not past midnight, I was sitting on the side of my bed, putting my feet in my slippers.
“We just got back to the hotel in Salt Lake and . . . well . . .”
Always Page 13
