Wilbur Fonts for President

a congressman at large in gamy gay paree

Three . . . Two . . . One . . . Zero! I arose from my swivel chair like an Atlas missile and exploded with a glad cry of joy. It was five o'clock at last, the magic hour that marked the beginning of my vacation from Era, a news magazine noted principally for its emaciated pay checks.

I was already on my way to the door when it flew open, and there was Eddie, showing a mouthful of festive teeth.

"Let's go, dad," he cried, and forked his fingers in a Churchillian V. "I have nothing to offer you but vodka, whiskey, Scotch and gin."

"The only thing we have to fear is beer itself," I replied, after only twenty seconds' thought, and we were on our merry way.

Eddie was my French-Canadian roommate and, when sober, Era's top camera. We had decided to take our vacations together that spring, exploring the asphalt jungle of New York, visiting the head waiters of upper Fifth Avenue and, in particular, examining the tribal customs of two comely natives of the Copacabana whom we hoped would prove as friendly as their gymnastic dancing promised.

We were cruising down the hall toward the elevator when it happened. The door to the Managing Editor's office sucked open and the M.E. himself, Fighting Bob Maxfield, appeared. He impaled us with his stiletto eyes and murmured, "I wonder if I might see you fellows for a minute."

It was like Eisenhower asking the caddie if he might please have the putter. We straggled into the office known affectionately as Stalag 17 and stood uneasily while he ignited a cigar.

Fighting Bob was a little man with a flip-top temper and a tongue as soothing as a guillotine. He massaged his stomach thoughtfully for a moment and then smiled.

"Guys," he began, "you've been doing absolutely top-hole work lately. I don't want you to think it's gone unappreciated. Jack –" he punched me sincerely on the shoulder – "Jack boy, I liked the way you handled Miss Solid Fuel Propellant in your last interview."

"So did she," I said, but my heart wasn't in it.

"And Eddie, your pix encourage a refreshment of faith in the art of news photography. In these days of ––"

"Bob," Eddie interrupted, "our vacation started three minutes ago. We'd like to help you out with whatever you want, but at this very moment two postgraduate nymphets are crying piteously for food and drink. Sorry, but that's the way the mop flops."

"Yes," I added, enlarging upon this theme, "that's the way the snowball splatters."

Fighting Bob pressed his hand to the place where his heart would be if he had one. "Please, fellows," he said. "I was only thinking of your best interests. I was under the illusion that you might like an all-expense-paid trip to Paris. Obviously I was wrong. Go, play footsie with your female girls. I guess I'll just have to find someone else." He faced the window, a tragic silhouette against the Bloody Mary wash of sunset.

Eddie and I studied each other. "All expenses paid," Eddie murmured, as in a benediction.

"Perhaps, Bob, we spoke hastily," I said, speaking hastily. "What's the pitch?"

"This," said Fighting Bob, twirling from the window and putting all his marked cards upon the table. "The Old Man –" he pointed upward with his cigar toward the cloud-washed suite where the Editor in Chief resided in Olympian splendor –" is a close friend of one Congressman Wilbut T. Fonts. The Congressman has decided to take a fast trip to Europe. He wants to take with him one bright young man to handle public relations – setting up press conferences, that sort of thing – and one bright young photographer to record the visit for posterity.

"I realize this isn't your usual line of work. But since you two are – you will pardon the expression – hors de combat for the next fortnight, you have been recommended for the job."

"Sounds great to me," said Eddie. "Isn't this Fonts the one who plays the fiddle during election campaings? The guy they call Weepin' Wilbur?"

"The very same. How about you, Jack?"

"You bet, coach," I said. "When do we suit up?"

"Congressman Fonts is waiting for you in his suite at the Waldorf. He'll set it up in type for you. Of course," he added, hooding his eyes like a cobra, "it goes without saying that if the Congressman isn't completely satisfied with your work the Old Man will be very, very annoyed. . ."

"That's all right," I said with a hollow laugh. "There's always a market for pencils on Madison Avenue at this time of year."

"That's very clever," said Fighting Bob, chuckling with the lovable warmth of the Marquis de Sade. "Have a fun trip, hear?"

• • •

The portal to the congressional chambers was opened by a cadaverous young man outfitted in Shroud Gray. "I am Congressman Fonts' personal secretary," he intoned. "Who are you?"

"Relatives of the deceased," I told him. "I hope that he died well and truly."

"Congressman," he shouted at his left shoulder, "your public relations people are here." He gave us a look that would have chilled Sergeant Preston in his prime and added, "Kindly follow me."

We walked into a living room the size of a private airfield. Congressman Fonts stood before the vast fireplace, jiggling up and down like a man mixing martinis in his stomach. "Come in!" he commanded. "Sit down! Timothy, bring these lads a drink!"

He was short and swarthy and stark naked save for his shorts, and he had a little black mustache which he licked like an ice-cream cone when excited. "Fonts is the name," he told us brusquely. "Wilbur T. Fonts. And I'll tell you straight off, I like you. You're folks. Praise be to God I've never lost my contacts with the grass roots."

He began to pace back and forth in the heather of a thick rug. "Understand this," he said. "I do not actively seek the highest office in our land. But –" he pointed at Eddie accusingly –" if destiny has singled me out to carry the frightful burdens of the Presidency, I will not play the coward and step aside. I shall not shirk a public mandate. I want that perfectly clear."

He stalked to the mantelpiece and hefted an ancient fiddle. "You see this old cat gut? I reckon I've played it every campaign I've ever been in. Weepin' Wilbur, they call me. The Bow Jester. Plain as an old shoe, if you want to know the truth. But I'm going to level with you boys. This old fiddle just isn't enough any more. A man's got to grow with the times."

"Yes sir," said Eddie. "We were wondering if you'd explain to us about this trip to Paris ––"

"Exactly!" he cried. "Now you take your Kennedy, your Nixon, your Symington. What, I ask, have they got I don't? Eh? I'll tell you. Just one lousy thing. They got international stature. You see what I mean?"

Eddie went skindiving in his Scotch. "Not exactly," he said, as he came up for air.

"Their public image is associated with world problems," explained the Congressman, bobbing up and down impatiently. "They have rubbed elbows with what's-his-name, this Khrushchev. I mean who needs fiddles? No sir, these days you've got to put on your walking shoes and go!"

"In other words," I said slowly, "you want us to help you achieve international stature ––"

He closed his eyes and beamed at the ceiling. "Congressman Fonts hailed by De Gaulle," he murmured. "Fonts in two-hour session with NATO leaders. Adenauer calls Fonts champion of peace." He executed a neat pas de deux and headed for the bar. "Do you get the big picture?" he cried excitedly.

"I think so," I said. My picture was a picture of Paris.

"Fine!" boomed the Congressman. "I like men with vision. Especially those who understand news media. You be at Idlewild at eight tomorrow morning."

Timothy, the secretary, showed us to the door.

"Eight o'clock," he said ominously, "does not mean eight-oh-five."

"I will add that to my collection of immortal sayings," I promised.

That evening Eddie and I furthered our research in the care and feeding of chorus girls. We found them grateful, and generous to a fault.

We trickled aboard the 707 just minutes before she leapt yowling toward the east. Congressman Fonts greeted us with a limp flexing of his brow. He looked gray as Eighth Avenue snow.

"Morning," I said thickly.

"Stop pestering me," said Congressman Fonts. "Go to sleep."

So I crawled into my seat and went to sleep, and when I opened my eyes again the lovely avenues of Paris were pin-wheeling beneath our port wing and all our hangovers were lost somewhere at sea.

I poked Eddie awake and he blinked for a moment at the band-aid runways of Orly. "Say," he said, "I forgot to ask you. You know anything at all about public relations?"

"Not a thing," I said. "All I know is that Weepin' Wilbur better come out of this trip smelling like a rose, or our names will be ground up and sold for fertilizerd."

Being in the encourage of a Congressman has definite advantages when landing in a foreign airfield. We were passed through Customs like hot croissants and in a matter of moments were being whisked through velvet dusk toward our hotel. Congressman Fonts popped his head in and out the windows of our taxi like a little boy. "There's nothing like geography," he told us (continued on page 62)Fonts for President(continued from page 52) gleefully. "I don't give a damn what anybody says." Even Timothy seemed pleased by the sights and sounds of that great city mellowing in the night.

Our suite was something by DeMille out of Louis XIV. Huge pillowed bedrooms opened on a gilded living room, and a platoon of French-type waiters hovered outside the door, ready to sprint in on the slightest pretext to spirit away the Congressman's bulky tips.

The Congressman decided to put off affairs of state until the next day. "Jack," he said, "tomorrow you can start lining up interviews and the press conferences. Right now I want to get out and meet the people. The common touch, know what I mean?"

"You bet, Congressman. You want Eddie to bring his camera?"

"Hell, no. How about you, Timothy? You with us or again' us?"

Timothy's nostrils flared eloquently. "I'm afraid not, sir," he said. "However, if I might make a suggestion . . ." He tugged a notebook from a vest pocket – "knowing the Congressman's interest in music and folk dancing, might I suggest Le Cave, 41 Place Pigalle?"

The Congressman lapped at his mustache. "Absolutely," he exclaimed. "What are we doing here squatting like a bunch of fire hydrants? Let's get this li'l ol' show on the road!"

The Place Pigalle that night was something to stir the hackles of Postmaster General Summerfield. It was Times Square in pajamas. Reveling bands of servicemen and tourists caroled through the rues, and a dozen pleasure palaces advertised their raisons d'être with posters that made Marilyn Monroe look like a campfire girl. It was, in a word, Bardotsville.

The Congressman put his hands on his hips and breathed deeply, like an old fire horse at a three-alarm conflagration. "This is it, fellows," he told us happily. "This is the grass roots."

We found Timothy's cabaret without much trouble. It was a tiny little place, tucked below the sidewalk, filled with hibernating hoods and gloriously immodest gals. We were seated at a table slightly larger than a martini glass, and a watch-charm Dillinger approached to take our order. It developed that he could speak no English, but Eddie had not wasted all of his youth in Montreal. He ordered with fluent gusto and soon refreshments were being served.

"This is a pretty lively place," Eddie remarked. "How do you suppose friend Timothy ever got the word on a joint such as this?"

"Timothy is a very talented boy," chuckled the Congressman. "He knows that I am at home in smoke-filled rooms."

Eddie opened his mouth to reply, but no words came forth. I turned to see what he was staring at and that is when I saw Rita for the first time. She had materialized out of the Gauloise mists and stood swaying above us like one of my adolescent dreams. She was very beautiful and very red-headed and her emerald gown had obviously not been Sanforized.

She trained licorice eyes on the Congressman and husked, "May a friend of America join the friends of France?"

The Congressman vaulted to his feet. "Oui!" he cried, thereby exhausting his entire French vocabularly. "But how did you know we're from the States?"

She slinked into her chair so prettily that I wanted to ask her to do it again. "But you are too modest!" she smiled. "Has any intelligent Frenchman not heard of Congressman Fonts?"

"By Godfrey!" he beamed. "I guess you're right, at that!" He hailed our waiter with a finger-snap that would have done credit to Maurice Chevalier. "What's your pleasure, my dear?"

"I have champagne tastes," she said with a dehydrating glance. "Both in drink and men. You may call me Rita." The Congressman bleated softly. It was the sound of unconditional surrender.

Well, it was a fine evening, with much merry chatter and strolling Pagliacci accordionists, and jugglers of torches fresh from Ed Sullivan, and lighthearted dancing girls who sowed the stage with their tiny garments, but along about three a.m. Eddie and I were both keen for a breath of fresh air. I said as much to the Congressman.

"Not me," he said. He patted Rita's hand, and then added in a rare flight of poetic fancy, "Why, I'm as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine. I'll see you guys later on at the hotel."

Eddie and I elbowed our way through the smoke and mounted to the sidewalk, where we took great gulps of dank Pigalle air. Even at that hour gay carnival throngs still clotted the streets. "God, what a burg," Eddie grinned. "Come on, peerless leader, the night is still young. Let's let tomorrow take care of itself."

"It is tomorrow, pal," I said, but we straggled across the street to examine the international stature of one Lola La Rue, the Girl with the Metronome Hips.

The pattern for the next ten days had been set. Congressman Fonts proved to be a man of tremendous stamina. Each night he popped his homburg on his head and set sail for Le Cave, where he frolicked in a sea of champagne that would have drowned a man half his age. Each afternoon at two or so he heaved himself from his bed and bounded into the living room, exhausted and blissful.

"The little people, Jack!" he cried one day. "Understand them and you understand the country. Why, I have a whole new outlook on the surplus wheat problem."

"Yes sir," I replied, anointing my head with ice cubes.

"Well, what have you got lined up for today? Any interviews or TV shows?"

"Nothing yet, Congressman. But I'm sure working on it."

"I'm giving you full responsibility, you know. I've got other things on my mind. As a matter of fact," he added, smiling dreamily up at the chandelier, "I think I'm failing in love."

I had enough problems without worrying about the Congressman's love life. The truth of the matter was that my public relations efforts in his behalf had drawn a big fat zilch. The French public information people told me that visiting statesmen in Paris were a centime a dozen and that Fonts, while undoubtedly a chic type, was just not good copy. Every publication from Paris Match to Le Figaro greeted my announcement of his availability for interviews with an eloquent Gallic shrug. The TV biggies yawned.

Eddie did manage to get a couple of shots of the Congressman mulling world problems over a breakfast of bacon and benedictine, but this was clearly not enough. I had the uneasy feeling that if we didn't come up with something juicy, the resemblance between the Congressman and Little Mary Sunshine would come to a quick and violent end.

Then one day he did not come home. Eddie and I didn't discover his absence until well into the afternoon of the night before, when a bed check revealed unsullied sheets and no Congressman.

"We never should have left him," Eddie moaned. "Maybe he got rolled. Maybe he got mugged. May be ––"

"Let's give it another hour," I said. "If he doesn't show we'll notify the police."

Timothy was sitting at a corner table, ruffling through papers. He looked up and said, "I wouldn't work myself into such a fuss if I were you. The Congressman can take care of himself. Besides," he added slyly, "if the police come, can reporters be far behind? You might finally accomplish something in the way of publicity, of course, but it just might prove embarrassing. . ."

"He's right," said Eddie. "Maybe the old boy's just snoozing one off somewhere."

"OK," I muttered. "You don't have to shout."

We spent our usual feckless afternoon swallowing aspirin and trying to conjure up an idea that would heap favorable publicity on our candidate. It was, to coin a poem, no go. Then shortly (continued on page 76)Fonts for President(continued from page 62) after six Timothy sheathed his pen and nearly fractured his jaw with the first smile I had ever seen him attempt. Unused cheek muscles shivered under the strain.

"By the way," he said, "if you gentlemen don't mind, I thought we could switch on the TV in a few minutes. Might catch something interesting, y'know."

A certain cat-who-has-just-lunched-on-prime-canary quality in his voice made me reach for the Tribune. There, in the television schedule, I found it, a French version of Face the Nation. At six-thirty, the paper announced, a surprise guest, Wilbur T. Fonts, would make an appearance on the show to answer questions posed by a panel of reporters. Topics to be discussed included the Algerian question and the role of France in NATO.

"I don't believe it," I said in slack-jawed wonder. "Timothy, how in the world did – Why, Eddie and I haven't even gotten a nibble . . ."

Timothy gave us an enigmatic little wink. "I have a few connections in high places," he said. "It wasn't too difficult, actually."

Eddie fondled the paper thoughtfully. "A reprieve from the governor," he murmured. "Look, let's run over to the studio and take some pictures. We'll never have a chance like this again."

"Right," I said, reaching for my hat. "Are you coming, Timothy?"

"No," said Timothy in his best casket baritone. "I don't like those nasty little cabs. I'll watch the fun from right here."

Luckily the studio was fairly close at hand and our taxi driver, crazed by the prospect of a thousand-franc tip, sped us there through scenes of carnage that made Ben Hur look like an amateur. We disembarked shortly before air time, paid our ransom to the cabby and sprinted into the building. A succulent receptionist gave us directions, and with a flourish of credentials we gained admittance to the right studio.

We entered upon a scene of monumental chaos. Television studios in general are not noted as sanctuaries of calm; if the studio is French the inherent confusion is multiplied by ten. Lights flashed off and on, the stage crew as sailed one another with operatic insults, and the director screamed at the electricians. A violinist and a horn man disputed sharps and flats. Behind a desk in a pool of light the four members of the panel breathed dragon-clouds of smoke and spat insults at the moderator, who had made a temple of his hands and was gazing prayerfully toward the ceiling.

By the clock the show was to go on in two minutes, and Congressman Fonts was nowhere to be seen.

"We better ask John Daly there for permission to shoot during the show," said Eddie. "Frankly, I got sort of a sinking sensation. Where do you suppose Weepin' Wilbur is?"

We threaded our way to the moderator's table. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up at me as though I were Marshal Dillon and he the man who had maimed Chester. "Do you speak English?" I asked.

"Yes," he said nervously. "I am going to interpret for the Congressman during the show." He rolled his eyes wildly toward the clock and added, "We have only the one minute. You must forgive me. I am always very agitated before a show. All the great ones are. Take Caruso, for example –– "

"Where's the Congressman?" I demanded.

He shrugged. "He might perhaps be in that dressing room. If you see him tell him we are on the air in a matter of seconds. Do you have a cigarette?"

We dashed through a crescendo of confusion to the dressing room. Eddie knocked and drew open the door, and we were looking into the leopard eyes of Rita, the svelte pelt from Le Cave. Beside her stood two squat Bolsheviks, as darkly bewhiskered as the Smith Brothers. On a chair in the center of the room was Congressman Fonts.

He blinked up at us and mumbled, "Welcome aboard, troops! Grab yourself li'I snort an' join the party!" A glass slipped from his hand and splintered on the floor. He was patently potted.

"What have you done to the poor guy?" I shouted in rhetorical panic. "You know he can't go on like this!"

Rita showed her pink gums. "Let us just say that his diet has been largely liquid," she replied sweetly. "It should be an interesting half hour, don't you think?"

It didn't require an IBM brain to put two and together. "You and Timothy," I summarized quickly. "You planned the whole thing to give the U.S. a black eye. It's a Commie curve ball – – "

"I'm sorry to interrupt your feeble metaphors," Rita said, "but we do have a prior engagement. By the arm, Boris."

Boris dropped his Neanderthal jaw long enough to remark, "Try to stop an' I keel you both dead," and then tugged the Congressman to his feet. The four of them proceeded out the door while Eddie and I gaped in horror. Unless we did something in a very large hurry a crocked Congressman Fonts was going to go staggering into ten million French living rooms.

"Good-bye, job with pay check," I mumbled feverishly. "Two brilliant careers shot down in flames. At least Weepin' Wilbur has got his fiddle. We don't even ––"

"That's it!" Eddie yelped. He leapt into the air like a flushed quail, and then plunged out of the dressing room.

A pall of silence had descended in the studio. All chaos and homicidal disputes were stilled by that old equalizer, on the air, or its French equivalent. While an announcer simpered sonnets of praise above a tube of toothpaste, the Congressman sloshed into his appointed seat and waved cheerily to the panel. They glared at him with smoking nostrils and twitching pencils, vivisectionists all with tools freshly honed. Rita and her pink pals withdrew to the shadows, smacking their lips in anticipation.

I watched numbly while Eddie ran toward the cameras, slipping through cables and crew with the nimbleness of Crazy Legs Hirsch. Without breaking stride he plucked violin and bow from a startled musician and leapt into the arena of light. Boris took a step forward, but Rita leashed him with her hand. Eddie was standing poised behind the Congressman when the announcer swept his commercial to a rhapsodic conclusion.

Eddie whispered something to the moderator, who paled and interred his head in his hands. An alert camera dollied in with predatory instinct. Eddie spread his lips and began to speak.

Since my French is rusty enough to give a man lockjaw, I could not then catch the gist of his remarks. But Eddie translated for me later. In his thick Montreal argot he spoke to the French public as follows: "Patriots of France! Our distinguished guest was asked to talk to you this evening on matters of great political import. But – on a soft spring night, when lovers gather like chestnut blossoms in the Bois de Bologne, can we dwell for long on dusty affairs of state? The Congressman Fonts says no!

"Not ten minutes ago he told me that he had become intoxicated with the charm and beauty of your capital. Let us forget Algiers and disarmament and tariffs, he said. Let me communicate with these people with the language I know best – the universal language of music!

"Ladies and gentlemen of France – I present to you the Congressman Fonts with his international violin!" Dripping with perspiration, Eddie wheeled and handed the instrument to the Congressman, who sat slumped in happy oblivion. "Voters!" Eddie whispered fiercely in his ear. "Election rally!"

A dim light of recognition flickered in Congressman Fonts' eyes. He nodded and smiled benignly at the cameras and then, while I promised God never to cut chapel again, he tucked that fiddle under his several chins and sailed fullsteam into Turkey in the Straw.

The rest, of course, is political history. For a full half hour our convivial Congressman sawed away, tackling everything from Red River Valley to La Vie en Rose. The panelists were enthralled. They applauded each number, and argued savagely among themselves over what selection he should play next. I don't think the Congressman really knew where he was, but it didn't matter. He had his fiddle under his chin, and if there was one activity he liked better than talking, it was making cornpone music in front of the voting public. He never even opened his mouth.

What matter if the moment we went off the air he suddenly sprang to his feet and roared, "Hey, gotta go! Be late for that li'l ol' TV show!" The point is that the studio switchboard was soon twinkling with calls from all over France. Who was this saint, this politician who kept his mouth shut? Never had a half hour gone so quickly. Why, the man seemed almost drunk with emotion. He was an artiste, a genius with a soul clear as cognac.

For the next hour Eddie and I alternately fed the Congressman great steaming cups of coffee and pumped each other's hands, happy to be still numbered among the working classes. And when the Congressman regained his perspective we explained what had happened. He sat blinking for a while, and then asked quietly, "Where's Rita?"

Rita and her bearded bully boys, we said, had departed the scene during the third chorus of The Blue Tail Fly.

The Congressman sighed. "Boys," he said, "let me give you a word of advice. Never, never trust a redheaded Communist."

We were not too surprised to find on our return to the hotel that Timothy had also disappeared. It seemed more than likely that he, Rita and friends had all received an impromptu armed escort to the deep-freeze country. Nice tries don't count there.

If you follow the newspapers at all you will remember that for the next two days Congressman Fonts was a Parisian celebrity. It was all I could do to handle the avalanche of interview requests, and Eddie soon developed a cramp in his snapping finger. The Congressman was asked to play the Marseillaise in the Chamber of Deputies. Two movie offers were made. No one was at all surprised when he was summoned to play a command performance for General De Gaulle.

In fact, the only sour notes, aside from a few Congressional clinkers, came from the Communist press which shouted something about a red herring. Fortunately no one paid any attention to them, or to the slightly damp origins of the Congressman's sudden fame.

With the instinct of an old pro he left them shouting for more. We planed out on schedule and, rocked in the cradle of the jetstream, snoozed all the happy way back to Idlewild.

"You know, fellows," the Congressman mused as we walked into the terminal, "I never did get to talk to anyone about the Algerian problem or this – whadyacallit – this NATO thing. Do you think anyone noticed?"

Eddie paused by a newsstand and held up a copy of the Daily News. FONTS FIDDLES WHILE REDS BURN, the headlines bellowed. "I don't think so," he said thoughtfully.

"By Godfrey," murmured Congressman Fonts, lighting a fresh cigar. "International stature at last."

"Come on, Congressman, we'll buy you a drink," I said, pointing to the bar.

The Congressman hesitated. "No, you go ahead without me," he grinned. "Personally, I never touch the stuff."

So Eddie and I went in and touched the stuff.