The Vice President, Washington - Letter from Al: spoof on Vice-President Albert S. Gore Jr - Column

National Review, July 15, 1996

I was working late one night -- watching tapes of Christie Whitman's debates with Jim Florio (don't know why; just interested, I guess) -- and I lost track of time. I was heading out of the West Wing in the usual way when I suddenly remembered the most recent memo from the White House Office of Security, following the discovery of some Rose Law Firm billing records in the Book Room. "From now on," the memo went, "all White House personnel are hereby required to pass through the Book Room no fewer than three (3) times in any twenty-four (24) hour period. For those staff unaware of the Book Room's location, it's up the back stairs, down the main corridor, through the small butler's door on the right, along the crawlspace, and through the door at the back of the closet. When entering and exiting, please take care not to disturb Mrs. Rodham Clinton."

Of course, I didn't need directions. But when I reached the door, I heard the faint tinkling of bells. And I could smell incense. So I knocked.

A deep-voiced female called out: "What undead spirit walks the earth? What lifeless vision knocks?"

I cleared my throat. "Um, it's me. Al Gore."

"Eleanor? Is it you?" asked a familiar voice. "Eleanor? The forces are against me, just as they were against you! The conservatives and the reactionaries don't understand. Help me, Eleanor!"

I cleared my throat again. "No, not 'Elean-Or.' 'Al Gore."'

A silence. Then the deep-voiced woman: "Mr. Vice President, is it you?"

"Yep," I answered.

"But your voice . . . it sounds so masculine. I could have sworn it was Eleanor Roosevelt's."

The door was unlocked by HRC. The Book Room was lit by six flickering candles. A large woman in a kaftan sat fanning a deck of cards.

"Okay, Al, you caught me," HRC said. "I was trying to contact some voices from the other side. "Please promise me that you won't tell a soul."

"Well," I said, "if you'd prefer to keep it quiet, I'll respect that. But I think you're missing a chance. The American people are very interested in spiritual experiences. In my book, I was very open about the time halfway through an Indian sweat lodge that I floated out of my body and back to Washington to talk to the statue of Lincoln. And no one thought I was weird."

"Really?"

"Really," I said. "Besides, the Book Room has been the site of so many unexplained phenomena, I don't think one little seance will upset people."

"Good point," she said. "I mean, isn't it possible that some mischievous spirit . . . A poltergeist! What if a poltergeist put the billing records in this room?"

"Well," I said, "have you talked to a poltergeist tonight?"

"Nope," HRC answered. "Just Eleanor Roosevelt and Mahatma Gandhi."

I thought about this. I think it's safe to rule Gandhi out --unfamiliarity with U.S. trial rules, for one thing; the fact that practical joking is essentially "active" and not "passive," for another. And it didn't seem likely that the spirit of Eleanor Roosevelt committed any funny business with the Rose Law Firm billing records. On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past her to request an FBI file or two -- she's from the old school, when they were awfully lax about stuff like that. Still -- who knows how many undead shades might be lurking around. (Nixon came immediately to mind.)

"You know what, Al?" HRC said. "I will tell people about my seances. Maybe the American people will understand." She turned to the woman. "Mrs. Houston, let's try another spirit."

"Do you mind if I sit in?" I asked.

Mrs. Houston peered at me. "So often," she said, "the presence of another strong life form disrupts the ability to contact the spirit realm." She looked deep into my eyes. "Lucky for us," she went on, "that won't be a problem here."

We took our seats and held hands. Silence.

Then we heard faint footsteps. "What apparition comes to haunt us?" Mrs. Houston cried.

From the shadows of the Book Room came an undead-sounding voice: "Good evening."

The three of us started. "What horrifying vision is before us?" Mrs. Houston cried.

"Um, it's me, Warren Christopher." And, indeed, it was. "I was just on my way out."

He slipped out, but by that time, the spell was broken. I went home. But the image of HRC stuck in my mind. Rusty, so many people think of her as some kind of Lady Macbeth. But let me ask you: Did Lady Macbeth talk to ghosts?