Finding Tim
A Fourth Alternate Reality
by Charlie
With editorial assistance from Dix and John
Papers
In April I got a truly remarkable telephone call from the President of the University of Michigan. The University would like for me and Tim to be their guests for a few days, at our convenience, to discuss whether we might become students at the University beginning in the fall. Well, I had heard of universities recruiting undergraduates that might play on one of their athletic teams, but neither Tim nor I had any player eligibility left. Recruiting graduate students wasn't the norm, and certainly such recruiting being done by the President of the University was unheard of. Nevertheless, I found myself holding a telephone which was connected to the telephone of the President of the University of Michigan, and I presumed that he expected me to be able to carry on a reasonable conversation. Say, something like this:
"You've got to be kidding!"
"Mr. Charlie, I am not kidding."
"Is this really the President of the University?"
"I assure you that it is."
It was time to say something sensible. "Why aren't you calling Tim?"
"Frankly, I thought it was appropriate to talk to the senior member of the pair. Was I right, or should I be talking to Mr. Tim?
"Please forget the Mister. As for who to talk to, either of us will do. We'll have to talk to each other regardless."
"On behalf of several parts of the University of Michigan, I'd like to invite you both to come for a visit."
"I'm quite certain that we would both like to come. Let me talk to Tim and we'll see if we can arrange a date."
"I'll look forward to hearing from you. By the way, we are thinking of having you fly out one day, spend a day here, and fly back the third day. The day here should be a weekday, if possible, so that you can meet the right people." He gave me the number of a direct line to call him back on.
Me, that night at dinner: "Where are you thinking of going to school next year? We need to make some decisions and make applications. We're already late."
"You can't seriously think we might have a problem getting in somewhere, can you?"
"Not really. But where do you think you'd like to go?"
"It has to be someplace we'd both be happy with. We've talked about a major Midwestern State University: Wisconsin, Illinois, Minnesota, Michigan, a few others."
"Do you think you'd like Michigan?"
"Sure. Is that your choice?"
"Maybe. But I think you are their choice."
"What does that mean?"
"The President of the University of Michigan called today with a personal invitation to the two of us to visit the campus to talk about next year."
"He called here?"
"Not here. To my office at the court."
"You're kidding."
"Me? Kid about a thing like that?"
"Yes, you. But it doesn't seem that you are kidding this time."
"You're right. I'm not."
"How did he know we would be looking for a new university in the fall?"
"How does Alice Longworth find out everything she knows? How does the CIA or the FBI? How the Hell would I know? But he's right on. We are looking for a school, and Michigan is near the top of the list. And it is quite clear that they want us. University presidents don't make calls like that unless they are quite serious."
"Call him back and fix a date. How much time? When?"
"Fly out one day, spend a day, fly back the third. They want us there on a weekday. I would think we might fly out after school and work on a Thursday, spend Friday, come back Saturday or Sunday."
Two Thursday's later we were flying Eastern Airlines, First Class, National to Detroit. We were met by the Director of Athletics and taken to a late dinner in a private dining room in the Michigan Union–right in the middle of the Ann Arbor campus. Our dinner hosts were the President and Mrs. Jackson Rogers, the Deans of Education and Law, the diving and gymnastics coaches, the President of the Archery Club, about two dozen students from the two graduate schools and the three athletic teams, and five alumni–Jim, Andy, Amy, Kara, and Big Paul. Big Paul's wife Amanda was there as well. We couldn't get over the Gang members being there, nor Paul. And we were meeting his wife for the first time; in fact, we were just finding out that he was married.
President Rogers noted our surprise and said, "Charlie and Tim, the first rule of recruitment is find our what alumni know your target and get them involved. Prexy put us on to Jim and Andy and they led us to the others. They'll be our houseguests as well as you two.
After our old home week with the Gang, we were glad to get a chance to know the others in the group. Tim immediately found soulmates among the gymnasts and divers, and I did among the lawyers and the two archers. The archers were fascinating; one was a freshman and the other a Ph.D. candidate in linguistics. At Michigan, archery was not an intercollegiate sport; rather there was an Archery Club that competed with other clubs, both collegiate and ones like mine in Iowa, and in individual matches as they saw fit. They were ecstatic about the idea of the reigning Olympic champion joining the club. Questions about my current practice regimen and scores made it clear that they were both eager to have me and concerned about whether I had kept up my skills. I replied that I probably was not better than I had been in Mexico City, but probably not any worse. I practiced two hours a day every day I could, and that usually ran four or five days a week.
"You work full time in an incredible job and are able to find 8 to 10 hours a week to practice? That's phenomenal. Most of use can't find that much time as students."
Tim overheard that comment and jumped in, "Wrong. You can find the time. You don't. People find the time for what's truly important. I'd be willing to bet that it is coffee with friends and not studies that keeps you from the eighth, ninth, and tenth hours a week of archery practice. Am I right?"
Both archers had to agree.
President Rogers had been listening and joined in with, "That is precisely why the University of Michigan wants you two here. There is absolutely no doubt that you will raise the bar here, in athletics and academics, and students that do that are exactly what we need. That is why I hope to be able to say, 'Welcome to Michigan,' to the two of you next fall."
We walked from the Union to the President's House a short distance away. The eight of us would be the personal guests of the Rogers' until Sunday. As soon as we got to their home we sat in the library with President Rogers. He didn't waste any time.
"OK. I am told that the only way to deal with you two is straight off the top; everything out on the table. So that's where I'm going to start."
I said, "Wait. Told by whom?"
"Prexy. He tells me that's what you call him. President Edison came up to me at the April meeting of NASULGC."
"NASULGC? What is NASULGC?"
"The National Association of State Universities and Land-Grant Colleges."
"Oh," said Tim. I said nothing.
"Prexy comes up to me and says, 'Jackson. You can get Tim and Charlie at Michigan if you play your cards right.' I'll have to admit, I answered, 'Who are Tim and Charlie?'"
Tim laughed. "I thought everybody in the world knew who Tim and Charlie were," he said.
"I do now. I've done my homework. But as soon as Prexy mentioned the Olympics my brain started working. Prexy couldn't stop singing your praises. He's convinced that your coming to Michigan will be the best thing that has happened to the University in years. And he ended with, 'And to get them you simply have to really want them and convince them of that.' Is he right?"
I said, "Prexy is one smart man. And he wouldn't have mentioned us to you if he hadn't thought that it would be good for us to come here."
President Rogers continued, "Look. I'll put our cards on the table right away. We could offer you graduate fellowships, but we think that would miss the boat. We'd like to offer one-quarter time faculty appointments in Education and Law. Teach one course each semester. Tim you would be an Instructor. Since you don't have your doctorate, we can't really make you an Assistant Professor. Charlie, you have a J.D. which is what most of our Law Faculty have, so an appointment as an Assistant Professor is appropriate. Those would be quarter time appointments and you'd have three-quarter time fellowships for your doctoral studies. Tim, we'd like you to work with the divers and gymnasts, but we know you can't be on the teams. Charlie, you can be part of the Archery Club, and they'd love to have you. We even have an idea of a place for you to live."
Tim broke in, "We're very happy here."
I didn't think that the President of the University wanted us underfoot for three years, and I wasn't sure how he'd take that. Tim certainly never lacked for nerve.
Rogers said, "We can do better. Up on North Campus there is an old farmhouse that we got when we bought the land. It will have to be torn down someday, but not yet. A faculty couple has been in it, but they have bought their own house. You can rent the farmhouse for a reasonable rent, which you will easily be able to afford with your faculty salaries and fellowships."
Tim said, "You want us to teach? What?"
"The normal pattern would be introductory courses, but I have different ideas for you two. The reason we aren't just offering you fellowships is that we think you have a lot to offer, and teaching a few courses is the best way to offer it. Charlie, we hope you'll teach a course on the Supreme Court. Tim, we hope you'll teach a course on fundraising. Perhaps athletic coaching. Perhaps advanced gymnastics. Who knows? You tell us. But we want to get all we can out of you two for the next three years."
Tim said, "We really shouldn't answer before you all get your chance to show off tomorrow, but I can't imagine either Charlie or me turning you down. You and Prexy are exactly right. We want to go where we are wanted. Clearly that describes the University of Michigan."
I said, "What's in store for tomorrow?"
You've got deans to meet. Coaches to impress. Gymnasts, archers, and divers to show off for. A farmhouse to visit. That should kill a day. What would you like to do Saturday?"
"Dive. Use the gym. Walk around campus. Eat in the dining hall. See the town of Ann Arbor. That should kill a second day."
Mrs. Rogers then talked about arrangements for the night. "I am afraid that the guest wing only has three bedrooms, two with twin beds and one with a queen. Jim assured us that as Michigan undergrads they had learned to pile on top of each other into rooms to save hotel bills. They insisted that they'd rather do that tonight than be farmed out to the Union. Jim said we aren't to worry about sleeping arrangements. So we're not. Tim and Charlie, if that doesn't work for you, we'll send all of these people off to the Union."
Tim said, "I'll second everything Jim says. I think he spent a spring break week at Lauderdale, and they probably had eight in one room, not three."
We were glad that it was a guest wing, so that our noise, conversation, and shuttling back and forth, did not reach the Rogers'. Jim, Andy, Amy, and Kara took one room, Paul and Amanda another, and we got the queen. However, we hadn't been in it longer than a few minutes before Amy and Kara slipped in the door. "Being around you two always gets the boys' gay hormones flowing. They are in one bed, doing who knows what. Well, being around you two gets our straight hormones going, and we didn't feel like sleeping with each other tonight. So here we are."
We were quickly four to a bed. The girls quickly let us know that they didn't expect us to let them waste the birth control pills they took faithfully. I got Kara; Tim got Amy. Eventually we all got a little sleep.
Both of the next two days were full. I was truly impressed with the University of Michigan Law School. It was large, had an outstanding faculty, a beautiful facility centered in the Law Quadrangle near campus center, and most important they seemed eager to have me. I wouldn't be the only former Supreme Court law clerk around, my publications were skinny compared to almost everyone, and I had no teaching experience nor practical experience outside law clerking. Why was I important to them, other than with me came Tim?
The Dean was ready for that question. "Charlie, we want to make it clear that we would like to have you in your own right. We know all about Tim, and we are well aware that the athletic department wants him here, as does the School of Education. We know that the Archery Club is drooling over the idea of having the Olympic gold medalist shooting for them. But you are the only candidate for one of our few slots in the S.J.D. program, the only candidate in living memory, for whom we have received unsolicited calls of reference from the Chief Justice, three other justices, three judges of the DC Court of Appeals, and a former President of the United States. We really aren't sure what you did in Washington, but you impressed the Hell out of just about everybody. Obviously, somebody organized a bunch of telephone calls–President Rogers thinks it was President Edison at North Dakota–but those callers don't make calls because they are pressured, they make calls because their believe in something. And that something seems to be you. We'd be fools not to want to follow up on that. Besides, your transcript, publications, clerking experience, the whole thing, are simply outstanding. Then add that intriguing business with the Lincoln documents. Charlie, you're something special, and not because you have a partner called Tim. That said, we also know that the entire athletic department would descend en masse on the law school and eviscerate every one of us if we didn't hire you. Welcome to the University of Michigan Law School."
"I'll never live up to that reputation, but I think it is going to be a fun three years trying."
Tim's reception in the School of Education was similar. President Edison had handled Tim's references much more simply. He had simply sent a brief note to the Dean of Education at Michigan, enclosing a copy of the Time Magazine with Tim's picture on the cover and his fundraising success chronicled inside and said, "If you don't get this kid, someone else will, and you'll be kicking yourself for three years."
At noon the eight of us were walking through the main quadrangle on campus with President Rogers. We would soon learn that this was referred to as the "Diag". There was a huge crowd, centered on what we quickly found out was the University Marching Band. They weren't in uniform, but all had on yellow Tee shirts with "UM Band" on them. As we approached, they started playing the University of North Dakota fight song, "Fight on Sioux." A great song it isn't, but it is recognizable! It was followed by the Michigan fight song, the much more recognized "The Victors," and the Olympic Hymn. Tim and I were simply overwhelmed. There must have been a thousand people crowded into the Diag! President Rogers handed us copies of The Michigan Daily of that morning, which had a lead story inviting everyone to come to the Diag to greet Tim and me. There was no attempt at speeches. We were simply escorted to the conducting stand, cheered briefly, and then the Director signaled for quiet. The band played a wonderful rendition for band of "We Kiss in a Shadow." Tim and I did kiss, not in a shadow, and then it was over, with everyone rushing to lunch or a class. Tim and I were left with President Rogers, Jim, Andy and company, a few hearty souls who sought (and received) autographs, and tears in our eyes.
Tim said, "I don't believe this. How did you...?"
I said, "Tim, he's been talking to Prexy, and listening."
Rogers said, "I'm not quite sure why, but your Prexy seems determined that the University of Michigan is where you belong. Without much explanation, he said that all we really had to do to get you here was feature "We Kiss in a Shadow." I couldn't imagine why until I listened to the lyrics on my record of The King and I. Prexy says that you two bring tears to everyone's eyes when you sing it."
Tim said, "Our eyes, too."
I said, "I think we should head for that lunch you promised us."
Lunch was with various coaches, a few student athletes, and athletic department faculty. It was served at tables set up a small gymnasium. In the middle of all of the tables was a balance beam. As soon as I saw it I wondered whether hunger or ego would capture Tim's attention first! Hunger won out, and we enjoyed a good lunch, with informal conversation about how much of a practice schedule Tim would be following in the coming year. They were flabbergasted at the 8 to 10 hours a week he expected to expend on diving–a sport in which he no longer competed. A slightly heavier gymnastics schedule was only slightly less surprising. Everyone understood that this was to be on top of a full academic load and a commitment to teach one course each semester. He got the usual question, "When do you play?"
Tim was ready with an answer this time. He had guessed that this moment would come sometime that day, so under his clothes were shorts and a Tee shirt, which he quickly stripped down to. While changing shoes, he simply said, "I'd like to play right now."
He was up on the beam with a quick somersault, bouncing around like old home week. Tim could keep a routine going on the beam for tens of minutes–it was a favorite form of relaxation. Today he pushed himself a little, let out most of the stops, and stuck a landing which for him was routine but for the average gymnast was simply impossible. Nobody present had to be reminded that this kid had walked away from the last Olympics virtually gold plated.
Tim spent a couple of hours with the divers and a similar amount of time with the gymnasts. In the meantime I was taken out to the archery range on north campus. I had, of course, brought Timmy along, and was invited to show off. We shot at ninety meters–the longest competitive distance and about the length of a football field. However, we used standard American targets, whose bull's eye was about twice the size of the F.I.T.A. bull's eye of the Olympics. With the larger bull's eye, I could hardly miss–thanks to God for no wind. I also gave thanks to Tim for constantly insisting that I keep up my practice schedule–even with a full time commitment to the Court. At times like that the constant effort to keep in shape seemed worth it.
Dinner that night was at the Rogers' home, with just the four of us. Jim and Andy had guessed that we needed some time alone with the Rogers' and they had taken the Michigan Alums to dinner. I broached what I was afraid might be an awkward subject: The fact that I would be needed in Washington until the end of the first week of October. Tim really wanted to be with me, but could come somewhat sooner if necessary. We were assured that that wouldn't be a problem: They would work around our dates.
After dinner we took a long walk around downtown Ann Arbor, and decided that we thought we'd enjoy being Ann Arborites for the next three years. It appeared that our Washington years were drawing to a fairly uneventful close, and that Michigan would begin to be the focus of our lives.
Wrong!
On June 13, 1971, the New York Times began publishing what would soon be called the Pentagon Papers. Leaked to the Times by Daniel Ellsberg, the Papers were a lengthy, Top Secret, report on the growth of United States military involvement in Viet Nam. The President immediately instructed the Justice Department to go to court and get an injunction to stop their publication. A temporary injunction was granted to stop publication in the Times. Soon after that the Washington Post–having gotten the same material from the same source, Daniel Ellsberg–started to publish it, and a new court case ensued, this one in the District of Columbia. The D.C. District Court granted an injunction to stop the presses.
The New York Circuit Court of Appeals sustained the granting of the injunction to prohibit publication. In Washington, the DC Circuit, with Sherm strongly supporting in a concurring opinion, refused to grant the injunction. The stage was set for an appeal to the Supreme Court.
In fact, the moment that the temporary injunction was granted in New York we knew that it would end up at the Supreme Court. We also guessed that it would move quickly, and that we would be under considerable pressure to issue a quick ruling. It would not be the stuff of good law.
It was a clear case of prior restraint. But there was the related question of trying to figure out whether there really was national security at risk, or simply a few careers on the line for stupid policies and actions; and those careers included that of the President.
Usually, a Supreme Court case has rattled around in the lower courts for at least a year, often more. When it arrives at the Supreme Court, briefs are received, oral arguments scheduled and completed, decisions reached, then written. Months can pass. Not this time.
The case was argued June 26th, just one day shy of two weeks since the original publication in the Times. Just four days later the Court's opinion was published. Well, it wasn't exactly an opinion, it was nine different opinions. Six justices sided with the New York Times and the Washington Post, and refused to prohibit publication. Each wrote his own opinion. Three justices supported the government, and each wrote his own opinion. Justice Clark, urged on by his clerk and others, along with Justice Black, took the absolutist stand supporting the constitutional injunction that there shall be "no law" to abridge the freedom of the press. But Clark and Black, while concurring with each other, felt the need to write separate opinions. The plethora of opinions meant that very little was written that would help either the government or newspapers predict the position of the court in future cases. Clearly a majority left open the possibility that national security could justify prior restraint, but that the burden of proof was very high, and a majority agreed that government had not met it in this case.
All these opinions were written in four days, with time to circulate them to the other justices to seek comments and concurrences if possible. The roles of the clerks changed minute by minute from errand boy, to editor, to proofreader, to commentator, to coffee supplier. The justices found themselves in most of those roles as well. We arrived early in the morning, and stayed so late that we wondered whether going home was worth it. But June 30th came, the decision was published, the presses rolled, and legal commentators almost universally groaned over the lack of unity and clarity.
I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.
With the publication of the court's opinion, well opinions, the chaos of the last days came to an end. By noon we were ready to go home, justices, clerks, secretaries, everybody. The phones were covered but all else left. Tim skipped practice that afternoon, and we relaxed at home. Even Tim had felt the tension in the air, and certainly knew by my long absences that this was taking a toll. He seemed glad, for once, to relax along with me. We actually had time to read a little for pleasure, cook and eat a leisurely dinner, and contemplate going to a movie. However, after contemplation, staying at home won out, and the relaxation of the afternoon continued into the evening. Sleep won out over sex that night.
The next morning, however, Tim was back to normal, moving fast and early. I guessed that I was ready to return to the real world–well,Tim's version of the real world–along with Tim.
Summer was upon us; the kind of hot, muggy weather that Washington was famous for. With some relief, Tim and I realized that this would be our last Washington summer. The next two or three summers we would be in Michigan, and then North Dakota. With some horror we realized that it can get hot on the North Dakota plains–but not like Washington.
The court soon recessed, closing my last term as a clerk. There was still work to do, especially for clerks, but I did have most of a month's vacation due me. Tim's classwork ended in very early June, and he finished his Master's thesis by early July. We headed to the UP in late July, ready for a little more than two weeks of vacation. Then it was gymnastics Worlds, this time in Japan.
We hadn't been at the cabin more than a few minutes before Tim announced that there were two things he wanted to do, right away. I could guess the first: visit camp. The second? Hunt up Dick.
We weren't sure where we were going to find Dick. We knew that he had, in fact, worked for the Highway Department beginning late the previous summer. We weren't sure about this summer, as we knew things were going well with Dick and Jeff, and the long hours of the Highway Department were likely to be getting in the way. We also didn't think that Jeff was going to be happy about Dick making the Highway Department a career.
Tim guessed right when he predicted that Dick was back working mornings in the bakery this summer, giving him time to visit Jeff after lunch. We took a chance and drove up to the bakery one morning, and, sure enough, we found Dick at work. He was delighted to see us, fed us donuts, and joined us for coffee.
"Service will just have to be a slower for a little while. I really want to talk to you guys."
"Let's go to lunch together and we'll talk then. Get back to your customers."
"Mom can handle them."
"Dick, that's not fair to your mom, and we want to stay on her good side."
"Believe me, you guys are on her good side. But I'll get back to work. Lunch in about an hour. You going to wait here, or come back?"
"I think we'll take another look at Lake Superior. Maybe get our toes wet."
"And maybe more than your toes?"
"We'll wait for you."
"Tell you what," said Dick. "Give me an hour and a half and I'll fix us a picnic lunch. Let's go back to the spot where we first met."
"I'll bet I know what you have in mind."
"Maybe you do. Who knows?"
"You have a dirty mind."
"Indeed I do."
"See you about one."
We decided to drive further east along the coast. There are hardly any roads in this area, because of the Huron Mountains. Folks from the west, or even Appalachia, would laugh at calling these things mountains, but, hey, this is Michigan. They're about all we've got! The road went from gravel to two ruts, but finally we came out at Big Bay, and then it was time to drive back. The only way to go was back the way we had come.
We were a little late getting back to the bakery, and Dick was waiting. We headed off to our favorite spot along the coast, while Dick caught us up on his plans with Jeff.
Stanley had been urging them forward, full speed ahead, and damn the consequences. Jeff was more worried about the future of Camp White Elk. He had pointed out that even though Stanley was the owner of the camp, he, Jeff, was now the director and was counting on it for his future career. Stanley had to admit the truth of that, so the planning shifted to how Dick and Jeff might maintain a more private relationship. Jeff and Dick hated the idea of being "in the closet" but agreed that that is the way it would be for a while.
But they had a good plan. Dick needed to go to college. He would enroll in Wayne State University in Detroit, where Jeff and Stanley spent winters, and where the camp maintained its year-round office. Dick would need a place to live in Detroit, and was willing to accept Jeff's gracious invitation to stay with him in his apartment–there was an extra bedroom. It would save substantial living costs; in fact, without Jeff making the offer and thus cutting the costs on room and board to zero, Dick wouldn't have been able to go to college. Nobody in the UP needed to have any idea of the sleeping arrangements in Detroit. Dick's fellow students rarely met Jeff. Jeff didn't have a lot of friends, and none that cared about who was living in his apartment. The camp clientele never came to Jeff's home. The arrangement was perfect for four years. In the summer Dick would work at the bakery, live at home, and visit the camp often. It was nobody's business if he spent the night with Jeff, once in a while, often, or regularly–since the bakery started at 3:30 a.m. Jeff would be leaving at 2:30 a.m. He slept at home in the afternoon.
Dick said, "In four years I won't be a teenager–I'll be 23, and Jeff thinks that his having a partner that age won't have much of an impact. He really is afraid of the idea that a camp director might have a teenage lover. Also, he doesn't want me to have any relationship to the camp. I've never been a camper. I won't ever be an employee. Those are the two relationships that could most get him in trouble, and we are avoiding them completely."
When he was finished, Tim gave him a big sloppy kiss and said, "Dick, I am so happy for you!"
Dick said, "I'd certainly like more than a kiss to show it."
Tim said, "What would Jeff think?"
"He would think that you were terribly insulting if you wouldn't do better than a kiss."
Tim answered, "First to the cold waters of Lake Superior. Then we roll in that warm sand, and you find out what its like to suck a sandy dick."
Dick said, "And you find out what it's like to have a sandy finger up your ass."
I said, "I expect both of you to suck me, but I promise to provide clean equipment."
We headed for the water. Forty minutes later, when we got out, our equipment was so small I wasn't sure than anybody was going to suck anything. Dick headed for the picnic basket and asked Tim whether he wanted peanut butter or cheese spread. Assuming that Dick was talking about sandwiches, Tim asked for cheese spread. Dick got out one of those aerosol cans of cheese spread and squirted a generous serving on the top of his dick. Tim was invited to lunch!
One doesn't get one up on Tim very often, but Dick had certainly scored. I had peanut butter off of Tim, and Dick had cheese spread off of me. Then we sat and had a real lunch, played in the warm sand, did the sensible thing and cleaned off in the water, and Dick challenged us to a circle jerk.
I said, "Dick, that's for little teenagers."
Dick said, "I'm still a teenager. Are you afraid I'll beat you?"
Tim said, "OK, what are we betting? It used to be a dollar bill."
Dick said, "Your undershorts. I'd love to win a souvenir."
He did. We got fast proof that the late teen years are the height of a man's sexual prowess. And he kept the undershorts, teasing us regularly through the day about how comfortable we were without shorts, or asking how sexy it felt.
We visited camp for dinner, and Dick quickly let Jeff in on our sartorial secret. Other than to chuckle a little, there wasn't any way that he could capitalize on our predicament with a lot of campers around.
Since Dick had missed his afternoon nap, he had to get home early, in order to be up the next morning. We stayed and visited a while with Jeff at his summer home. Jeff confirmed his and Dick's plans. There would be a short while in the spring and fall when Dick would have to be alone in Detroit, as the school year was longer than the time Jeff would be able to spend in Detroit. But it would work out, and both were eager.
As for that evening, Jeff said, "Look, I'd love to explore you two, especially since I could get you naked easier than usual. But I'd like Dick to be part of anything we do. Let's get together next summer.
I said, "We don't have to wait for summer. Tim and I are going to be in Ann Arbor this year, and we'll only be an hour away from you two. We'll have some interesting visits!
Tokyo! The World Gymnastics Championship meet. Tim was the lead gymnast on Team United States. Tor was lead for Sweden. This was the summer of 1971, and the Munich Olympics were a year away. The battle of the Titans, Tor and Tim, was much ballyhooed.
Honestly, I think Tim was more interested in having a chance to see Japan; this was his first visit. This was the first time that I had noticed anything other than sport come close to the center of his interest when serious competition was at hand. Perhaps it signaled a change in his life to a time when sports competition would not be front and center. Certainly that time had to come. Was it at hand? What would that mean for the near-term future?
Nobody else sensed a change in Tim as they watched him compete. My God, as many times as I had watched him, it was still thrilling. I stood next to Tor watching his last practice before the competition. Tor said, "To think that people are actually speculating that I might beat him. You can believe that that is the most wonderful thing that's been said about me. But only Tim's retirement will let me become the world champion, and he looks like he could go on forever.
Tor was right. He was close, but Tim was, indeed, the world champion, and would be the reigning champion going into the Munich Olympics. He even gave Tor a run for his money on the pommel horse! It was a runaway. Of the seven gold medals–six events and the medley–Tim and Tor captured 5, four for Tim and one for Tor. They also got 4 silvers and 2 bronze. Tim got a fourth in the vault, and Tor got a 5th in the floor exercises–they both medaled in everything else. It would have been a great news story, but they had so dominated gymnastics for so long, that it simply wasn't news.
Had the press been able to write about what Tim and Tor, and Charlie and Vlad, did at night–that would have been news. But we kept it private. I'll let your imaginations run as you contemplate our nights, but keep one thing in mind: Tim had tried, and failed, to do a chin-up on Franklin's hard dick. He tried and failed again with Tor. But by having Tor and Vlad aim the tips of their penises at each other, he grabbed both, made sure they were really hard, and accomplished somewhat of a successful chin-up! As a prelude to other things it was spectacular.
The team was invited to the White House when they got back from Japan. Tim was very glad that no invitation was given to me, as he had little interest in an Oval Office meeting with Richard Nixon. But he wouldn't have turned it down, as he would have felt that that was inappropriately politicizing sport. On the other hand, his rule about not accepting invitations that did not include me was absolute. I followed the same rule: if spouses were invited and Tim wasn't included, neither was I. (Wives had been invited to the White House.)
Our last weeks in Washington were a whirlwind. We had lots of goodbyes to give and receive. The Wilcoxes and the Clarks had been wonderful to us for two years. It was difficult to say goodbye. But the hardest was a last meal at Halversham's. We called up Mr. Halversham and told him that we wanted to host one last dinner. "Who will be coming?"
I said, "We have three special people that we want to invite: Alice Longworth, Warren Cramer, and you."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. The three of you have been the key to two wonderful years in Washington. Saying goodbye and thank you is going to be difficult, but we are going to try. And while asking you to be a guest at your own establishment may be awkward, we can't think of any other place in Washington that would do. So, protocol be damned. All you need to do right now is say, 'I accept.'"
"I accept."
"Next Monday night, the last seating. Table for five in a private corner."
Warren was next. We wanted him to say, "Yes," before Alice, as his employer, got in on the act. We were delighted that he didn't hesitate. Neither did Alice.
We followed Chrissy's lead and rented a Cadillac for the evening, arriving at Alice's precisely at seven. We drove around downtown Washington for a while, looking at the Capitol, White House, the Monuments, and the Potomac. It's truly a beautiful city. We would miss it. As we drove by the White House Alice surprised us with, "You know, I was married there."
I guess we had known that, but having it said by one of the participants, as you actually looked at the building–well, it was special. Alice said, "More than a thousand guests, can you believe that? The House of Representatives shut down for the day in honor of Congressman Nick Longworth's wedding."
Warren spoke up and said, "Charlie, drive by the Longworth Building."
We drove up and stopped in front of the Longworth House Office Building. A Capitol Policeman came over to see why we had stopped. Warren introduced Alice Longworth, the widow of the man the building was named for. The Officer used his radio to check, and then closed the lane where we were stopped and let us leave the car and walk up the stairs. We stood at the door and looked back at the dome of the Capitol. Alice smiled, and said, "Thank you."
We headed back to the car and on to Halversham's. There was someone I didn't recognize at the podium, all set to let in the cream of Washington society and keep the riffraff out. With Alice in tow we passed muster and were shown into the bar. There was Mr. Halversham, seated at the bar, waiting for us. He got up and walked over, and Warren said, "Lloyd, it's good to see you."
We were hearing Lloyd Halversham's first name for the first time. And he was a guest in his own restaurant for the first time. The bartender arrived with everyone's drinks (nobody had ordered, they just came; including our Cokes). It was a wonderful, friendly, jovial evening. Lloyd loosened up (two Manhattans didn't hurt); Warren was terribly funny; Alice started telling stories of her childhood late in the last century; and Tim and I sat there spellbound. We moved to dinner, and again no orders were taken. Cream of crab soup was followed by several racks of lamb, along with Persian rice and sugar peas–all our favorites. Seatings at Halversham's end promptly in one hour, unless it is the last seating and you are the owner. We sat and talked until past midnight–the staff had cleared the table, and closed the kitchen.
Lloyd reminisced about a day, about two years before, when two young men had wandered into the front lobby. "They looked like little lost sheep. But they were well dressed, and somehow looked like maybe they belonged. Then I remembered a telephone call the previous day from Alice Longworth, saying that she had two young men as guests. Could I possibly remember their names? Alice hadn't given me their names! Then I got hit over the head with an Olympic Gold Medal and I knew who they were. Mr. Tim and Mr. Charlie."
Tim said, "You sure surprised us. We hadn't any idea what Halversham's was, but thought we'd come and see. We felt like little lost sheep. Then all of a sudden we were being greeted by name. Lloyd, you are something special. You have been for two years."
"You know, I had to call Alice to find out a little more about you and to be sure that it was you that she was bringing that Friday."
Tim said, "I knew it. You cheated."
With midnight past, the evening was ending. We felt that it wasn't the evening that was ending, but two wonderful years of our lives. It was a somber drive home.
For a dozen years, every visit to Washington that we made always included a trip to Halversham's. As our incomes rose we began to get bills that reflected our new status. We paid them gladly.
Lloyd Halversham died in 1984. He was standing at his podium, looking out for riffraff and simply fell over with a heart attack and died. He had no family, there was no Halversham to carry on the tradition, which now ended after four generations and 112 years. His will left instructions that the restaurant was to be closed, the building sold, and the proceeds divided among the employees, with a share given for each year's service. It was a small staff and a valuable building; they all did well. Halversham's is missed–at least by those of us who knew it was there!
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