Bob Hamm

BABYSITTING THE SENATOR

I never did work for The Governor. That is, I never was on his payroll, or the state's. While I was in journalism school at LSU, I did an interview with him for the school newspaper, and when I finished, he asked me if I had a car. Then he sent me to deliver a ham to a black family about 30 miles down river from Baton Rouge.

"I don't expect you to do it for nothing," he told me.

For the next two years, until I graduated, I got a call at the dormitory at least once a month to run an errand for The Governor. The dollar he gave me for gas that first day was the sum total of my pay while in the service of the Governor of Louisiana.

I suspect that he knew he was giving me a priceless look inside Louisiana politics that would be of lasting value in the news business. But I still don't know why he picked me to babysit State Senator E. Andrew Bohannon the night before the bill to give local policemen and firemen supplemental pay from the state was coming up for final passage in the senate. Senator Bohannon, at age 82, was the senior member of the legislature, both in age and time of service. He was also that body's most notorious bon vivant as they say in South Louisiana. The Governor just called him "a' old tom cat."

He pursued the ladies with the vigor of a 20-year-old. If there was an end result to the happy pursuit, he was too much of a gentleman to talk about it--but he was hell when he was in pursuit.

In his latter years (75 to 90), his ardor for a particular lady was usually short-lived and easily transferable, but while it was focused on her, the attention she received was courtly, enthusiastic and unrelenting. Miss Wilda, the governor's 64-year-old spinster-and-happy-that-way secretary, managed to abide his vigorous and inventive wooing for almost a month, but when he followed her to the golf course and gallantly retrieved every ball she hit, she took time off from the job until his fancy found a new direction.

The Senator lived with a widowed middle-aged daughter, who was sternly, vocally critical of any kind of tarryhooting and philandering. Other legislators claimed he kept an elegant wardrobe at a small hotel in his hometown in North Louisiana's Bible Belt, and, when he went tom- catting, would leave home in drably proper "old man's clothes," then change to his fancy duds at the hotel before descending on some place where pretty ladies served good whiskey and guitars and fiddles made happy music.

(State Representative Dick Bartran used to say the Senator had a few toddies too many one night, went home in his fancy clothes, and his dog bit him.)

I tell you all this so you'll know the nature of the man that I, at 20 years of age, was assigned by the governor of Louisiana to look after and keep safe from the wiles of the loyal opposition.

"I want you to stick to the Senator like glue until he is in his chair in the senate tomorrow," The Governor told me.

"But Governor, I've never even met Senator Bohannon."

"Don't matter. You get next to him and see that he don't have any contact with Senator Bourque's bunch. He's staying at the Capitol House Hotel, and if he goes downstairs to that Hunt Room Bar, they'll get him to drinkin' and convince him to vote against my supplemental pay bill for firemen and policemen. If we lose his vote, the bill's dead. And if they can get to him while he's tom-catting, they can sway him."

"Governor, I can't control this man. He's a state senator and I'm a college kid."

"Don't matter. You stay with him until tomorrow morning and keep him out of that Hunt Room Bar."

"Governor, he's 82 years old and I'm 20. He's not going to listen to me."

"Don't matter. Son, you'll be doing something good for every fireman and policeman and all their wives and children if you keep him out of Bourque's hands until tomorrow morning."

"I can't just go into his hotel room and tell him I'm spending the night there. He doesn't know who the hell I am."

"That's taken care of. I told him you're my cousin's nephew, and your granddaddy just died and you're feeling lonesome and depressed. That his wisdom and understanding would help you forget your misfortune. I told him I didn't want you to be alone in that dormitory room tonight."

"I have three roommates."

"Don't matter."

"And my grandfather is very much alive."

"Not tonight. Tomorrow morning, there'll be a glorious resurrection, but tonight he's resting in the bosom of Abraham. Now you get on over to the hotel. The Senator's waiting to take you out to supper and distract you from your grieving."

I went. the Senator was waiting in the lobby, and I knew if we ate in the hotel restaurant, the opposition would corner him. So I came up with a pretty good story. I told him my late grandfather was Italian, and that I wanted to go somewhere for a pizza in his honor. My grandfather, George Ira Kelly, wouldn't have touched a pizza with a hoe handle, but the Senator bought it and we left the hotel in a taxi.

I'll have to admit it was one of the most enjoyable evenings of my life. I was enthralled by the warm, joyful spirit of the remarkable old man, as was everyone else in the restaurant. He conversed with everyone around, told me wonderful story after wonderful story, and charmed the waitresses completely. He approached everything with a marvelous gusto...the wine, the food, the conversation, the pinching of the waitresses...everything.

I developed an immediate fondness for the senator. But the glow of the evening was dampened by the certain knowledge that it would not end when the meal did. I knew that chances were excellent he would want a nightcap in the Hunt Room. How could I stop him? How in hell could anybody stop him from doing anything he wanted to?

Well, that took care of itself. What I had not realized was that he had taken his charge from The Governor as seriously as I had taken mine. He was determined to keep my mind off my terrible loss.

He put his hand on my shoulder while we were waiting for a cab in front of the restaurant. "Son," he said, "I know you're hurting, but you got to fill up that hole inside you with something joyful. That's what your granddaddy would want. I'm gonna buy you some poontang."

I was stunned. "What, sir?"

"I'm gonna take you to Miss Georgie DeWitt's whorehouse over on Thirteenth Street and buy you some nookie."

"Uh, sir...I don't...I mean, I can't...".

"Don't worry about it, son. I'm a GREAT granddaddy myself, and I know your dear departed granddaddy would want you to have that joy in your life to ease your sorrowfulness." "If my grandfather finds out," I thought, "he'll ease my sorrowfulness with a razor strap, but, what the hell, it'll keep him out of the Hunt Room."

The Senator told the cabby he was taking me to a whorehouse because my grandfather had died. The cabby looked at me understandingly and told me it would do me good.

He explained to Miss Georgie DeWitt and everyone else in the cat house that he had brought be me there to alleviate my sorrow. Then he paid the tab and I picked out a woman who looked to be in her forties and had a very kind face. When we got upstairs I explained to her that I had just come to humor my eccentric grandfather, and that if it was all right with her, I'd just stand out on the stairwell and watch him instead of going in the bedroom. She patted me on the head and went on in the room for a short nap.

I could see the Senator plainly from the stairwell. He was seated in a plush easy chair, holding court as usual. The girls were gathered around him, thoroughly enjoying his comments and stories. I waited a reasonable period of time, and was about to go downstairs and express my appreciation when a guy entered who looked like trouble. He was unshaven, dressed in greasy coveralls, and obviously tipsy. I saw Miss Georgie signal the bouncer to keep an eye on him, and then move close to the telephone. He stumbled over to where the girls were gathered around the Senator's chair and pushed his way through to stand in front of the old man. He stood weaving over the Senator with a sneer on his face. "Why y'all hanging around this old bastard?" he asked the girls. "His old pecker probably ain't stood up in 40 years."

The Senator dropped him with one pop from his cane. He didn't even stand up. When he did stand up to pop him again, the girls grabbed his arm and the bouncer gently relieved him of the cane.

Miss Georgie had dialed the police as soon as the action started, and the prowl car must have been cruising nearby, because there were two police officers there in a New York Second. The got the drunk on his feet, checked him out to be sure there were no serious injuries, then handcuffed him and one of them took him out. The other turned to the Senator.

"Sir," he said, "I'll have to take you in, too."

The Senator looked at him in absolute amazement. "You'll have to do what?" he asked. "I'll have to take you to the police station, sir."

"Do you know who I am?" the Senator demanded.

"Yessir, I do, sir. I'm sorry, but I have to take you in. And I have to put these handcuffs on you, sir." The Senator was deadly quiet as his wrists were manacled, then he said softly, "When I get through with that bill for state supplemental pay for firemen and policemen tomorrow, you're gonna wish you'd a'locked these things to your tallywhacker and left them there." He left quietly.

"Oh my god," I thought, "there goes the governor's bill."

It was eleven o'clock and I knew The Governor had probably been asleep for a couple of hours, but I had to call him.

"Dadburn and hell," he said after I explained what happened. "Dadburn and hell and damnation. You get your butt to the police station and straighten this out. I'm sending Trooper Breaux for you right now. Y'all get down there and cool Senator Bohannon off, you hear me?"

"Governor, I don't know anything I can do. He's mad at every policeman in the world. There's no way he'll vote for the bill now."

"You get down there and change his mind, you hear me?

"Governor, I'm just an errand boy. I don't know what to do. I don't know how."

"Don't matter. Trooper Breaux will pick you up and you get down there and do it. And when you finish doing it, you're fired. You hear me?"

"I don't work for you, Governor."

"Don't matter."

Trooper Breaux picked me up in a few minutes, and I told him the whole story on the way to the police station. The Senator was at the desk signing something when we walked in. He turned and looked at us and his angry expression changed to one of genuine concern.

"What is this?" he asked Trooper Breaux. "Why are you bringing this boy in? He had nothing to do with this. This boy is in mourning right now. Whatever he did, I take the responsibility for."

The trooper was about to explain the situation when the stroke of genius hit me. I hold the idea that came to me at that moment, out of nowhere, to be the most marvelously brilliant, inventive, spur-of-the-moment idea ever to enter the brain of a frightened college kid.

I caught Trooper Breaux by the arm as he was about to speak. "This is him, Officer," I shouted. "This the man I was telling you about. Senator E. Andrew Bohannon. He's leading the fight for the bill giving police officers and firemen supplemental pay from the state. I told you he was a friend of mine."

Trooper Breaux picked it up beautifully. "Well, if that's true," he said solemnly, "if this is the man behind our pay bill, and he's a friend of yours, maybe I can overlook what you did."

I looked at the Senator pleadingly. His eyes were hard at first, then they softened with understanding. He nodded slightly.

"Officer," he said, "this young man is my friend. He is a fine young man, and, like his late grandfather, plans to make his career in law enforcement. He will one day be a fine policeman, and I would hate to see his career marred by some unfortunate record set down here tonight. It is not just for you and all the other fine officers of today that I fight in the halls of the legislature. It is also for young men like this to whom you will some day turn over the badge with confidence that your great work will continue."

Then he drew himself up and delivered one of the most beautiful speeches I've ever heard--a marvelous oration in behalf of state supplemental pay for local police and firemen. It was fantastic. The officers there in the police station were cheering when he finished. The one who had handcuffed him tore up the arrest record and shook his hand reverently.

The next day, the Senator made the same eloquent speech in the senate, and the governor's bill passed by a larger margin than he anticipated.

It was 5:30 the following morning when somebody banged on the door of my room and told me The Governor was on the phone. I stumbled sleepily down the hall and picked up the receiver.

"Hello, Governor."

"Trooper Breaux told me what you did. That was good."

"Thank you, Governor. I have to go today and tell Senator Bohannon the truth. He's going to be mad as hell, but I can't let this thing stand. He's too good a man."

"I already told him. Talked to him this morning."

"How furious is he?"

"Furious? Hell, he thought it was good strategy. He was flattered that I'd go to all that trouble."

"What about me. Is he pretty upset with me."

"No. He thinks you're a fine young man, and you ought to get into politics instead of writing for a damned newspaper."

"He wasn't mad?"

"Well, he did say he wouldn't have eat that pizza pie and drunk that Kee-anty wine if he hadn't thought it was in honor of your dear departed Grandpa. By the way, what I said about you being fired--forget about that."

I sighed. "I don't work for you, Governor."

"It don't matter."

We said it in unison.

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