Breaking Good by Mike B. Good

Author:Mike B. Good
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Magic Muffins

Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen album came on next. A brand new back-up singer named Mom joined the band on With A Little Help From My Friends. Mom and Joe harmonized on the soulful acapella first line, a musical question involving singing out of tune, and it brought a tear to my eye. That’s as far as I ever got before people stood up and walked out on me. But Mom carried the tune like Mary Clayton and the girls.

Her new friends thought Mom was cool. Knowing better, I was in shock; also, green with envy. How come she sang like Joan Baez while I sounded like Bob Dylan? Then again, it would’ve been weird the other way around. I ate another muffin to console myself.

Mom had a thought. “Wouldn’t it be groovy if we could munch these tasty muffins at the upcoming summit meetings with the Russians and Chinese?”

Yes! Nixon and the other world leaders grinding Jackie’s stony treats? I couldn’t carry a tune like John Lennon, or even Mom, and I didn’t have the smooth stage presence of the suave Joe Cocker, but I saw my chance to change the world.

“That would be outtasight, Mom. Let’s make it happen. Promise me you’ll give some to Nixon?”

“That’s a nice thought.”

“Isn’t it? Tell him it’s a peace offering.”

“Why the sudden change of heart? I thought you despised Uncle Dick.”

My roomies stared open-mouthed. I shrugged. My shameful family secret was out.

“How come, Mom?”

“All that incessant ranting while you were in college. All those practical jokes you played on the poor man.”

Just a kid, in 1960, I had driven presidential candidate Nixon crazy with my lame ventriloquism, convincing him he was hearing voices coming from his dog Checkers, the household furnishings, and, well, everything else—all offering wildly conflicting advice. Throwing in some amusing post-hypnotic suggestions, I’d driven him into the deluded care of Dr. D’Mento. Which only made things worse. One of the prouder moments of my childhood.

“He often blames you for his loss to Kennedy, son. In fact, incessantly.”

Approving looks from the roomies.

After giving it some thought, she said, “I suppose Jackie’s muffins would be a nice peace offering.”

“Wouldn’t they?”

Like Martin Luther King, I had a dream. In mine, my parents and Tricky Dick are at an Oval Office strategy meeting with the insane team of hawks that ran the White House. They are lounging in beanbag chairs and eating Jackie’s special muffins. John Lennon is on the stereo, suggesting they imagine there were no countries, no religion, too. Nothing to live or die for, either. Telling them it’s easy if they tried. Inspired by the brilliant lyrics, a turned-on Nixon washes down his second muffin with some special herb tea, throws a map of Vietnam on the floor, and paraphrases a classic rock song: “The Vietnam War. What is it good for?”

Kissinger, Ehrlichman, and Haldeman slide right into some cool dance moves and sing out like soul brothers, “Absolutely not a thing.”

Though the unrthymic crew have no

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