By John Burtis
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
My great-great grandmother saw Lincoln and now I've seen Jesse Jackson.
There I was, sitting up against the wall near gate C-16 in Houston, after visiting my sick father in Nacogdoches, hoping the flight to Newark would be on time, reading a book.
In the background I noted a call for one of those ubiquitous electric carts which scurry through the halls of Continental's terminals, carrying the infirm and the party bigwigs alike to their next destination.
as the crowd began trooping off the plane which we'd later load, a clatter arose and a great huzzah went up.
and as dawn broke over my Marblehead, I looked up in time to spy Jesse Jackson and his traveling retinue of beefy security, obsequious coat holders, and numerous hangers on sashaying along, approaching the cart, you know the stretched electric cart with the paid driver for use on electric avenue, and began to climb aboard.
I guess it must be the old La cop in me, inured to the approach of raw celebrity, or some such, but I found I was one of the few still sitting as the surrounding throng stood and rumbled, while the folks walking through the terminal gathered around this media superman, this adonis, this man of the people, this friend of Bill's.
Soon Mr. Jackson waded into the crowd and threw his arms around two women as the flashbulbs popped, the outstretched arms of the enraptured shook with joy, and the proffered comments built into a brief whirlwind of praise.
"Who ya goin' to knock dead this time, Jesse?"
"Who ya gonna see, Jesse?"
"Lord be with you, Jesse!"
and so on.
For a few brief moments, after a flight to Houston from somewhere, Jesse Jackson, before he climbed back on to the electric conveyance and was whisked away, was the object of jubilation.
and I checked my watch.
It read 1:39 p.m., July 23, 2006.
and as the Jackson team hummed away into the mob of pedestrians going about their way in C corridor on a hot summer day at George Bush International, a section of the newspaper Mr. Jackson was carrying - he rode on the right rear seat - fell onto the floor, where it lay for a few moments - an offering from the gods for anyone brave enough to make a dive for it.
Suddenly a nameless man walked over, looked from side to side, then picked it up, and stood there treasuring this artifact once held by the great man.
and as he did so, another man walked up to him from my side of the walk way and said, "I'll give you five bucks for the paper."
The first man shook his head.
"I'll give you ten bucks."
The first man haltingly said, "Well, okay, but remember where you got it."
The money changed hands and they both went their separate ways.
Sitting there with my book still on my lap, I wondered if the paper will appear on e-bay, a site once graced by John Gibson's cookie or was it his cracker and cheese, well anyway, or will the paper now join a man's collection of memorabilia, will it provide cage filler for a beloved bird, or will it be sold to a right wing paramilitary group — you just never know anymore.
But Jesse and now the paper were gone, the crowd settled down and dispersed, and I called my friend Gary in Bow, NH, to let him know of this serendipitous event, noting the date and time on his answering machine should I be called to task later for failing to properly denote this whole affair.
You'll notice that I didn't dare call my wife with any of this foolishness, knowing full well the earful I'd receive in return.
Then I got to thinking about the reverence with which that bit of newspaper was held, the quick profit it turned for its owner, and compared it to the problems the New York Times is experiencing, and the sagging reputation of poor old Pinch Sulzberger, that eager Manhattan Quisling and willing stooge for the Taliban, Hezbollah and al-Qaeda.
Maybe Pinch should directly engage Mr. Jackson to serve on his staff.
Jesse is always looking, it seems, for lucrative part-time employment. His name on the masthead will be great for circulation, judging from the excitement generated by the caper I'd just witnessed, and lend further credence to his mystical powers. and any additional paid subscriptions from anywhere for any reason at all would be welcome news for the Times, Pinch, their investors, Wall Street, Moody's, and the far left, who hang on every word generated by the random peckings of their resident chimpanzees.
and Pinch and Jesse together can always claim that they are working in some sort of harmony to right so and so many blatant wrongs with the world, the country, and with Mr. Bush in particular.
and knowing Mr. Jackson's reputation for upright honesty and decency in the marketplace, and his distaste for obvious humbugs, he can only serve to assist Pinch in his business dealings and to re-solidify the power of Pinch's press.
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