One
Jim believed that life was set, like a coin once minted, and his luck only improved over time. Despite expecting setbacks, none came, likely thanks to his comfortable upbringing—his parents owned silverware in their spacious home, built by his tough father who even constructed a bomb shelter beneath the porch. In the late fifties, Cold War anxieties were widespread, with Russian parades fueling fears of destruction. Some benefited from this climate, like Senator Benjamin Condor of Kansas, whose gruff public persona contrasted with corporate finesse. He influenced the newly renamed Defense Department, highlighting how shifting language led to increased power for warmongers.
“Jim!” Jim heard her shouting from upstairs. He reluctantly left his beer and climbed the stairs, expecting a bothersome salesperson. Instead, Mags greeted him with a wide smile, and he squinted to identify the stranger—this was one of the biggest surprises of his life.
“Senator Condor?”
Jim was irritated by the gruff, folksy man who quickly grabbed his hand with stained fingers. “Jimbo, you’re my guy,” he said in a loud, sales-like voice.
Jim looked at Mags, puzzled.
“You see Jim…I have big plans for us. You hear me?”
Since Senator Condor was the only one presently speaking, it seemed natural that Jim could, and did.
“You…” The Senator barely started before Mags invited him into the living room. Jim stepped aside as the lawmaker surveyed the house, assessing the room like a movie producer.
“Golly gee Nelson…this will be perfect.”
Mags shot Jim a look, not knowing what the cagey character had in mind.
“For?”
Jim hid his contempt, pulled back the curtains, and saw a front yard crowded with people—enough to need crowd control.
“Senator, could you please explain what is happening?” Jim inquired.
Condor emerged from his contemplation and replied, “Jim, I am looking at the future Vice President of the United States.”
His knees weakened, so he sat on the davenport, feeling his beer might come back up. Mags, his best friend, joined him, looking completely shocked.
“Is this a joke?” Jim asked, noticing that his stomach problem had eased.
“Joke? Why…if I come to your front door with hat in hand…I don’t think that warrants as a joke…now do you Mrs. Nelson, please forgive my boldness, but I have met some of the most prominent celebrities in Hollywood. Honestly, on special occasions like this, I must say—none of them compared to your natural, God-given beauty.
Mags gripped her husband’s hand, snapping Jim back to attention. She was uncertain whether to express gratitude for his frankness or to simply overlook it. She opted for the latter, as the Senator proceeded to the kitchen to examine the refrigerator for a beverage.
“Jimbo…are you some sort of teetotaler…no beer?” he shouted coming back into the living room.
“I drink in the basement.”
“Basement? What other secrets are you hiding son…golly gee…drinking… I mean I know Prohibition came out of this fine state…but this is the nineteen fifties…we were liberated. Show me your collection…. sorry ma’am…I need Jimbo for a quick consultation…and wash the dust out of my mouth…since I am a mouth breathing pol!” he laughed heartily as he pushed the innocent down the stairs.
Jim obtained two chilled bottles from the basement refrigerator and provided the opener. The recipient promptly removed the cap and consumed the beverage in a single motion.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” he asked, his expression dry and hopeful.
Jim handed Condor his second beer, watched him repeat the gesture, and noticed Condor grasp his arm with concern.
“I’m here with a once-in-a-lifetime offer—are you interested?”
Nelson regarded him and, for reasons he could neither explain at the time nor later in life, responded affirmatively.
Condor departed, allowing him to bid farewell to his wife before exiting through the door.
