Clandestine

Chapter 16 - Homecoming

Youth is wasted on the young. I arrived at Oxford in June of 1988 and it was beautiful; I had never realised it before. There were gorgeous gardens, spectacular buildings, and the most tranquil yet energizing environment one could ever imagine.

At the reunion there was a program of events that lasted a full week: dinners, mixers, speeches, and every excuse to hobnob together and reminisce about old times. I did not arrive with anyone and I didn’t know any of the attendees at the festivities. It made for a lonely week but I was used to lonely weeks. Couples and those with large extended families who vacation together and share their lives would never understand my solitary existence. I barely understand it myself. After a while it just becomes a way of life. Eventually as time passes the thought of a life of interdependence is enough to scare a solitary man like myself to death. Lonely singles spend a lot of time reading and making up lies of important things on the horizon when really each day is pretty much just like the last.

Nevertheless the trip was unfolding well and I was thoroughly enjoying my time at the event. I met some fantastic new people and enjoyed listening to stories from doctors, lawyers, artists, and CEOs. I rarely divulged much about my own experiences because I was rarely asked. I realize the purpose of these events is for conquering heroes to return to their origins, wax lyrical about their memories, and talk about where it all began. For me, it was like I was discovering Oxford for the first time. I remembered almost nothing about the place and regretted not having seized the opportunity that I had been given in my youth.

The week was almost over but I had one more important point of business which was to prove that I was the best golfer amongst all the Oxford grads. The steely-eyed competitiveness, which had been a staple of my youth, seemed to rear its ugly head and I made it to the course early for a thorough warm-up before the match. I was disappointed to find out that the game was to be a team event and that I would be joined with 3 other Oxford Alumni in a semi-competitive Ambrose or Scramble format. So rather than displaying my prowess I would be doing my best to help three weaker players put in a respectable score before debriefing over cocktails.

I reached the first tee box 15 minutes before my round and was furnished with a golf cart. I met two of my playing partners, John and Andrew, a couple of 50-year-old Scottish boys who had attended Oxford together a few years before my time at the school. They had married sisters and worked in the same investment firm in London. We exchanged pleasantries and a few stories about the state of our golf games. It was typical first-tee banter. Five minutes before our time to hit off, the three of us were still waiting for the fourth player in our group and it appeared that we might never meet the Yankee that had put his name down for the match. As we waggled and stretched out our limbs I could see a tall man outfitted in golf attire that he had obviously just purchased at the pro shop five minutes before. He was busy charming everyone on his way to the first tee. Everyone got a piece of this fancy American; he was what my mother would have referred to as a “chanty rastler”, a Glaswegian term denoting a man who pretends to be more important than his station.

When he finally decided to join our group, with no time remaining on the clock, he walked up to me and extended his hand.

“Bill Clinton,” the man said. “I’m looking forward to our game today.”

The four of us stepped up to the first tee, each with different intentions. John and Andrew were searching for their first alcoholic beverage and setting their watches for the time when their next drink would be forthcoming. I was all business. I had lost every big shot stand-off all week, but this was going to be my event. I sensed that John and Andrew were going to be a lost cause in this team format so I held out hope for Mr. Clinton. As I would soon find out, every moment in Bill Clinton’s life was catalogued for future use. He spent every waking hour constructing a Rolodex of relational assets for future consultation.

Bill Clinton was a “Bobby Dazzler” of epic proportions and I was about to find out how far his magnetism would extend.