We just knew Bobby would win the Presidency. He had the Kennedy charisma and charm, the heart-felt commitment to social justice—and most of all, he hated that war in Viet Nam.
Matthew and I steeled our nerves and flew back to California to campaign for him. We traveled up and down the coast. I donated two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which was serious money in those days.
“Ain’t chump change, now,” Kurt put in.
“It’ll buy you two and half years of room and board in this illustrious establishment,” Marcus replied.
“It got me a lot more than that,” Kurt shot back. “Of course, they thought I’d be dead ten years ago. Took my house hoping I’d be a quicky. Guess I showed them.”
“Only the good die young,” Wanda observed.
“You’re gettin’ up there, too, Sweetie-Babe.”
“The story, plea
