September 12, 2002

The Manservant's Tale

 

Part One:  The Last Wish

 

            It became clear three months ago in July of 2003 that Chuck was not going to make it.  I should know because for the last thirty-eight years I had been Mr. Heston’s personal assistant.  Actually, for verity’s sake, that is not strictly true.  For merely the last ten years I had held the title of “personal assistant.”  For the twenty-eight years prior to that, I held the title of Mr. Charlton Heston’s “manservant.” 

            But, of course, it is all water under the bridge to me now.  To the authorities, the newspapers, and my jailers and fellow inmates, I am known variously as Thomas Jefferson III, “Heston’s Henchman,” or just “you old bastard.”  To be honest, I hardly recognize myself when I seem my picture in the papers.  “Who is that old black fool?” I think when I see a photo of myself dressed in my orange prisoner’s uniform, back held as stiff as a ramrod, white hair flying in the wind as they rush me from the courthouse after being charged with the crime of fifty-nine counts of “accessory to homicide.”  Sitting here in my cell, I can only look at the garish headlines on the front page of “The New York Post” and wonder where it all went wrong.

            It hardly seems possible that just three months ago I had accompanied Mr. Heston on a Tuesday afternoon to the office of Dr. Fars Longsterpersson.  I must say that despite the grim prospect of the doctor’s review of the results of the recent battery of diagnostic tests, Mr. Heston was in good spirits.  Certainly, he remained somewhat demoralized from the visit a year and half ago when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease or, as they call it in the medical journals we had so frequently poured over “Pre-senile Dementia.”  After that visit, so much had changed.  Though saddened, Mr. Heston with a winning openness had made public the diagnosis and resigned as President of the National Rifle Association, an honor the he had cherished more than even his Lifetime Achievement Oscar.  Still, as a very robust and healthy eighty-nine year old, Mr. Heston, though limited by the early stages of this most unforgiving mental illness, acknowledged it and set his house in order with a strength and determination many found admirable. 

            Now a year and a half later, he met with Dr. L on this sunny Tuesday afternoon in Beverly Hills hoping for the best.  Sadly, as the highly compassionate and skilled physician went over the devastating results of the intensive testing, I could see Mr. Heston’s spirits fall, his still trim and powerful frame buckling under the weight of the litany of maladies it was the doctor’s sad duty to explicate.

            First, he noted that the recent PET brain scan showed that the changes of Alzheimer’s Disease had progressed irrevocably.  Mr. Heston was visibly shaken as he personally reviewed the cross-sectional images.  When Dr. L turned to the lab work and MRI results the findings were staggering.  A very aggressive tumor the size of a baby’s fist had been located in the right ventricle of Mr. Heston’s heart.  The doctor called it a “Pericardial Myometrial Sarcoma.”  Given its location, it could not be surgically removed.  Additionally, this tumor had spread throughout the award-winning actor’s body to involve the liver, the spleen, the uvula, and several bones including the great American’s right second distal phalange:  how cruelly ironic that even the great patriot’s trigger finger was now compromised by this unstoppable ailment.  As if this fate were not daunting enough, the doctor revealed that EEG studies demonstrated advanced changes of Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.  With this final blow, Dr. L counseled Mr. Heston that he would have to forthwith surrender his driver’s license and – most unfortunately -  forever give up the handling and discharging of firearms as a seizure could occur at any moment with horrifying consequences.  The doctor was frank.  The cancer was inoperable.  His life expectancy was a mere three months.

            How does a man deal with such mortifying news?  The following days at the mansion were daunting.  He was aloof at times when I bathed or shaved him.  At other times, the rage at such a cruel fate came to the surface.  However, it was on the seventh day after the fateful doctor’s visit that Mr. Heston awoke with that familiar fire in his eyes and a defiant set to his jaw.  He was as animated as I had seen him since that first public upbraiding of Jane Fonda in the late seventies.  Though he kept his own counsel, I knew something was afoot.

            Later that week, the boxes and bulky crates began arriving.  Some bore the postmarks of faraway places such as the Republic of Ukrapistan or Nigeria.  Other strangely shaped boxes arrived from Texas and Wyoming.  Many of the packages bore warnings that their contents were fragile, flammable, or even highly explosive.  His instructions were to gather them all in the basement.  As one might expect, my curiosity had been aroused.

            It was during a rare stormy night in Beverly Hills that Mr. Heston asked me to join him alone in the basement and to bring with me a crowbar and his beloved, well-worn gunsmithing chest.

            The grand old man still had quite a flair for the theatrical, and as the high winds and rain lashed at the shoulder level windows in the basement, Mr. Heston calmly ordered me to open one crate and box after another and place their contents on the massage table, the tanning bed, and the hydrocolonic platform.  The packages yielded an arsenal of firepower the likes of which I had never seen.  There were assault rifles modified for full automatic function, grenade launchers, submachine guns with armor-piercing “cop killer” bullets, impact triggered mines with smoke, incendiary, and high explosive charges, machine pistols, and a pair of double pump action sawed off shotguns among other deadly ordinance. 

            Once the last package had been opened, Mr. Heston addressed me, his voice filled with passion and fire:

            “Jeff, old friend, there comes a time when a man has got to take a stand for what he believes in, for what he knows in his heart is right.  As an American, for too long I have seen the enemies of this great country winnow away at its strength and freedom.  Now – as my days as a patriot and a leader are coming to an end – now is the time for me to take that stand and strike forcefully for the country I love.  Old friend, I cannot order you to accompany me, but I can respectfully request  that you join me in embracing this great republic that freed your ancestors over one hundred years ago and support me on my mission.  It is a mission from which I will not return.  The risk to you will be minimal, the rewards for our nation incalculable.”

            I must confess that at first I was afraid.  I had vivid visions of Mr. Heston and I parachuting into Baghdad, landing by submarine along the rebel-infested coasts of the Philippines, or trekking through the treacherous mountain passes along the Afghanistan border to hunt the Al Quaeda.  However, it was with a mix of shock and concern that I learned our true destination as Mr. Heston dramatically grabbed a grenade launcher, locked in a round of HE, and looked me boldly in the eye.

            “Where are we going?  Is that what you are wondering, Jeff?  Where will this old warrior go to make a stand against the infidels who mock our way of life and liberty?  Where will the weapons before us spit righteous fire into the night, dealing death and retribution to the unholy host?  The answer came to me in a dream.  We are going to …”

            A bolt of lightning struck at that very moment, lighting the room with a fiery glow as the gnarled, withered old thespian, his body riddled with cancer, slammed down the grenade launcher on the tanning bed and bellowed.

            “We are going to the Democratic National Convention!”

 

 

Coming next week:  “Part Two:  A Relentless Killing Machine.” 

 

P.S.  Please forward this to someone you think might like it.

 

P.P.S.  You do, of course, realize that this is a complete and utter work of fiction.