The most intriguing social event of my summer was a birthday bash for the late Jazz great Charlie “the bird” Parker. Sponsored by an organization called “A Gathering of the Tribes,” this annual Lower East Side rite – and signature New York event – took place at a cool walk-up on East Third Street between Avenues C and D.
What made the affair remarkable, though, was the rumor that Bill Clinton was planning to drop by. So said the woman who handed me a flyer about the party in Tompkins Square Park the previous Saturday.
Having never socialized with an ex-president before, and being a huge admirer of Bill Clinton, I was immediately psyched. Bubba-ling over with excitement, I called up my girlfriend to invite her, and she was good to go.
Vowing to keep hope alive, my girlfriend and I sipped red wine as we wound our way through the hip pad toward the courtyard out back where a live Jazz band was playing. Could Bill be wailing sax? Pretending to admire the various Charlie Parker-themed art works on display, my entire sentient being was laser-focused on eavesdropping for a hint that the man from Hope was on his way.
Of course, New Yorkers are famous for their schizophrenic attitude toward celebrity. Inwardly they crave the validating company of the rich and famous, while outwardly they dare not gush. After all, they mustn’t be confused with some white trash hick in a shopping mall in Des Moines blubbering: “Look, it’s Tom Cruise!”
By the time we got to the courtyard though, situating ourselves between the slightly rag-tag, fashionably makeshift East Village Jazz band that included baton twirling cheerleaders, and the driveway onto East Third, an electric pulse of expectation was sizzling through the crowd. New Yorkers or not, we were about to be touched by greatness, said the rhythmic, birdlike waves of glances and head turns genuflecting toward the street.
Still I longed for verbal proof, though I wouldn’t dare ask anyone directly, like some celebrity-worshipping cretin, “Is Bill Clinton really coming?”
As the band played on and the cheerleaders twirled, and a crescendo of anticipation rose in the fecund, late-August air for the only thing on everybody’s mind that nobody had the guts to admit. Then finally it happened: a man mustered the courage to mercifully break the tension. Turning to his partner, he stylishly posed the question: “I wonder where the Senator’s husband is?” I was back in the hope-zone! Forget about “Don’t stop thinkin’ about tomorrow.” He might be here any second! I also couldn’t help marveling at the hip phraseology and Capote-esque delivery deployed by this man – improvised like a Charlie Parker jazz riff – to articulate the burning collective question. New Yorkers can get away with a little celebrity mongering after all, but they better do it in style!
The Senator’s husband never came that night. Less than a week later though, the “waiting for Bill Clinton” thing took on a deeper layer of meaning for me in the wake of hurricane Katrina. Switching back and forth between Fox and CNN, appalled and, quite frankly, bored by Bush’s faux leadership and his failure to comfort and connect, the only hopeful moment came when it was announced that Bill Clinton was on his way to New Orleans. Amongst the wreckage and chaos and death, there was only one beacon of light: that beautiful shock of white hair in the Superdome and the soothing words that you knew came from the heart – not manufactured by a Machiavellian scriptwriter or ghost written by Karl Rove.
A week after Katrina, a Daily News article titled “We the World,” caught my eye. It was announced that Bill Clinton had just created a non-profit to fight poverty and promote world peace, and was convening a meeting of activists from around the world in New York. Ahhh, at last! Has the king of raising our hopes only to dash them, the mother of all mirages who tantalized us at the prospect of a Bill Clinton talk show and a mayoral run in New York, finally found his Jimmy Carter-esque post-presidential sea legs? Might the waiting, which, as Tom Petty has informed us musically, “is the “hardest part,” be over? – John Bredin
John Bredin is a frequent contributor and Adjunct Writing Professor at Essex County College and William Patterson University. Comments welcome at jfbredin@hotmail.com.