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Excerpt Jack Canon’s American Destiny

January 30, 2013

Time flies

, it hardly seems possible that just three months ago Bud and I were summoned to the Washington Offices of Henry Baines Truscott, the head of the Democratic National Committee. We were happy Bud thought we were getting the call. Before the meeting we imagined all the possibilities of being officially endorsed by the party. It was the feather in our cap that could propel us forward. It would sure make things a lot easier lining up the party faithful.

“They want you to run,” Bud whispered just before we were ushered into the corner office of the Chairman. “They’re making the right move they know you’ll bring a lot of votes in on your coattails. It was rare to see Bud this excited. There was a spring in his step, he literally beamed with anticipation.

Henry Truscott was a tall impish man of Scotch – Irish decent. He was young looking at forty-five, but the new Chairman of the DNC had a weak looking build. His most imposing feature was his shoe polish black hair worn slicked back over his high forehead. Henry had eager looking eyes exaggerated through the amplification of thick lens-end black rimmed glasses. He was driven to gain political power as a substitute for his lack of physical prowess. Everyone who knew him recognized at least that.

“Gentlemen,” Henry beckoned us to a large antique conference table.

Speaking through his trademark toothy grin, “Jack so glad you could make it.” He said, extending his hand forward.

“Bud it’s always good to see you, have a seat,” motioning to the large high back leather chairs positioned evenly around the dark oak table, “of course you know the speaker.”

The Chairman was joined by the former Speaker of the House Herb Farley, a white-haired three hundred pound bear of a man with a triple chin and double stomach. The speaker held out his meaty paw to shake our hands. I didn’t know the speaker personally, we’d met casually at a few Washington Parties, but our paths didn’t cross too often. I did know he wasn’t to be trusted, his reputation as an opportunist preceded him. But, that could be said of most the Hill, after all, who wasn’t looking out for their own ass in this town.

“Jack, I’m a fan of your work in the Senate,” he boomed. The speaker’s forehead was damp with perspiration around the edges of his hairline. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it.

“Thank you Mr. Speaker,” I was guarded, but always friendly.

“Call me Herb, please Jack.”   www.gregsandora.com

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