By
nightfall I would be heading home to my real self, family, friends, life and work.
To celebrate I treated myself to a barber-shop shave, savoring that prospect of
release after a luncheon speech to 300 ad people in the ballroom of the
Ambassador East.
Shortly
after noon, food was being served when a waiter whispered into my ear, “Kennedy’s
been shot.”
I
followed him into the kitchen where cooks, waiters and chambermaids, many with
tears in their eyes, were staring at a small black-and-white TV set, frozen in
attitudes of holding cleavers, platters and mops as if the world had suddenly
stopped.
President
Kennedy was on his way to Parkland Hospital, badly wounded.
In
the ballroom, I went up to the stage, took the microphone and said, “I’m very
sorry to have to tell you that the President’s been shot in Dallas. It looks
serious. I’m sure you’ll want to go where you can follow what’s happening.”
When
I returned to my table, the waiter said, “I kept your lunch warm.” When I shook
my head, he vanished and returned a minute later with a large goblet of brandy.
A
silver-haired man in an expensive suit came up and asked, “Does this mean you’re
not going to give your speech?” I nodded
and went upstairs where I could be alone to watch Walter Cronkite, in a
breaking voice, say “The President is dead.”
The
assassination was a shock not only to my nervous system but the nation’s. The
powerful, rich and famous, embodiments of what we dream for ourselves, are
supposed to be safe. We are not prepared to see their skulls exploding before
our eyes.
In a
railroad dining car that evening, I was still in a daze, watching people
eating, drinking and laughing as if nothing had happened, as if the world hadn’t
changed.
Back
in my Pullman bed, stretched out for a night of sleepless sleep, I felt as if I
were laid out in a tomb.
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