Phillip Brook came from Tasmania. We met in Paris during the 1980s. He was a journalist and hardcore junkie also a little queer, not that I minded, because queers were much more fun than straights in Boston, New York, or the City of Lights. We worked together for several magazines and journals. He was a better writer, but he never criticized my typos.

“What can you expect from a man with a lisp, a stutter, and dyslexic fingers?”

I didn’t have an answer for him, but we were good friends and right before Christmas of 1991 he came to New York to interview the head of the UN. He asked where we should meet for drinks.

“The Sheraton on 6th Avenue. The ground floor bar’s decor is pure 1960s.”


That evening I met Phillip in front of Rockefeller Center showed up at the aging hotel. Thousands of demonstrators surrounded the Hilton. They were protesting the visit of President George H. W. Bush. He was running a war of genocide in Guatemala. Hundreds of riot police manned the barricades.

“Maybe we should go someplace else.”

“What for?”

We were both wearing suits. I approached the cops. One asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To meet two hookers in the bar.” I pointed to the Hilton.

“I like an honest man.” He pulled on the steel barrier. Shouts harangued us. Phillip and I ddin’t care, but he asked, “Are there hustlers too?”

“Only the best for the Hilton.”

We had several drinks and I told him how my sister-in-law had worked for Bush during his time as Director of the CIA.

“You know everyone in Paris thinks you’re a spook.”

“I have a rejection letter from the agency. 1980.”

“Further proof you are what you say you’re not. They probably dosed you with LSD and then planted you as a mole to blossom in the sun decades later.”

I realized brook had been holding out of drugs and I body-searched him for three seconds.


“I was going to give you.”

Yeah, right.”

I did a little of this and more of that.

We entertained the working boys and girls at the bar. Phillip told them I worked for the CIA. They believed him too. I pimped them to the hordes of GOP supporters awaiting the President. I asked for nothing. They all bought me drinks. Way too many for comfort and I told Phillip, “I have to go to work tomorrow.”

“I do too, but how are we going to get through the mob.”


Shouts chanted profanities outside. People were angry. I could pass for GOP, even though I was 100% anarchy. We were going out the same way we came in and I said to Phillip, “We’ll leave by the garage.”

“I’ll follow you.”

We left the bar. The security was lax. The first line was fat cops working overtime. The second line of defense were State Troopers. Dumber than a bucket of mud. The garage was ahead. A few SAecret Service agents glanced at us. They deemed us harmless. AS we arrived at the exit, a limousine hauled up to the curb. Everyone snapped to attention. Someone opened the rear door and out popped the President of the USA. Taller than I thought, but I called out, “George.”

He turned his head with alarm and I approached him to say, “My sister-in-law worked for you.”

I mentioned her name and he relaxed.
“And she always says good for you, Mr. President.”

We shook hands and he entered the hotel. An agent came up and asked, “Who are you?”

“A citizen of the USA.”

Phillip and I exited from the hotel.

“Not CIA. Bullshit.”


He didn’t believe me and there’s some times when I don’t believe myself, except I have the proof.

RIP George H W Bush.

Post a Comment

Your email is never shared. Required fields are marked *