lyndon

LYNDON JOHNSON, resurrected, back from the dead. Or maybe it was his ghost. He was wearing a freshly pressed gray suit, and standing on the edge of a corn field. It was warm, if not summer. From time to time, he removed a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. Only later did I notice that he was barefoot and hovering about an inch off the grass. He was speaking of Luigi Mangione and the killing of Brian Thompson.

“I tried to warn them, I tried to tell them this would happen,” said Lyndon. “I warned them.”

Lyndon liked to stare off into the distance when he spoke. He was wearing his glasses and his hair was slicked back. This was solidly 1964-era Mr. Johnson, though he had slimmed down some in heaven. Maybe dying had been good for him. He seemed to be in good spirits. Relaxed. He took a peanut out of his pocket, cracked it in half and munched on both tasty nuts inside.

“You can’t take credit for everything,” I told Lyndon. “You must give your vice president credit.”

Lyndon smiled. He said, “You must mean my dear Humphrey. Yes, Hubert’s a top-notch man. As I was saying, if America had carried out my War on Poverty and become the Great Society.” After that, he seemed to be distracted by his own thoughts and kept muttering the name, “Kefauver, Kefauver.”

“What do you think of Mr. Mangione?” I asked Lyndon. “Troubled,” came the response. “But we all know why. I tried to warn them.” “Do you think Mr. Biden should free Mr. Mangione,” I asked Lyndon. “Now, now. I never said that.” He dabbed at his forehead again. I had to admit that, Vietnam War aside, he seemed like a decent man. Maybe those folk stories about how he secretly engineered the Kennedy Assassination were just Kremlin dezinformatsiya passed along via willing stooge Oliver Stone. Maybe Lyndon Johnson was a good man deep down.