Subpoenaed again
By Lisa Black

I knew it was coming. Ever since a real estate investigation began looking farther into President Clinton's past sex life (as if this had something to do with selling worthless swampland in Arkansas), I knew it would come to this. I have no idea how they found me. I've been moving around so much in the last six years, my parents don't even know where I am half the time. But it came on Friday, just in time to piss off my Valentine's Day date, who I'd been trying to coax into taking me to a nice restaurant: one where numbers weren't called to signal the beginning of a meal.

But the man in a black suit thought he'd put the kibosh on all my V-Day fun by scaring the living hell out of my not-so-understanding boyfriend. Serves me right, I guess. Can't get really good lovin' from a guy who thinks macaroni sculptures are romantic--or maybe I just can't. Either way, the boyfriend has slipped into the shadows once again and I've got to take a trip to D.C. next week.

Valentine's Day always sucks.

When I was handed the big reef of papers that constituted some kind of legal notice to appear in court, I asked the man in the black suit if it had free airline tickets attached. He told me if I didn't appear, they would arrest me and then take me to D.C. free of charge. After consulting with my lawyer (I mean, my dad), I decided to pay my way. I guess it's about the least I can do for my country. I don't have a room at the Watergate waiting for me or anything, but at least I won't be led to court in chains. They certainly wouldn't go with the earrings I was thinking about wearing. About three little hoops and a diamond stud in one ear, two loops and a turquoise rock in the other. All that clinking could wreck my concentration.

And I've got to go over that fateful day in October 1992.

Everyone at UNM was in a tizzy about the soon-to-be President's arrival. Classes were scheduled, but the teachers said they wouldn't be around to teach. It was about ten a.m. when everyone mysteriously stopped learning. Okay, not so mysteriously. When a front-runner Presidential candidate comes through town right before he wins the biggest election of his life--well, it's almost like when a President appears on MTV and talks about his underwear.

So I guess I could say I saw it coming. I knew there was something about this southern-friend wannabe Baptist preacher who talked the good game about student loans and abortion. The issues that really get a tingle in my pants. And that whole plan about making students get construction jobs so they can go to college--well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And even though they played that really bad Van Halen song (I'm sorry, Van Hagar) "Right Now" before he came on, I knew this was a man who could really talk to me. My 20-year-old ass was just itchin' to know what was on this bad boy's mind. I didn't find out until after the speech.

He was walking through the crowd (well, there were these walking lanes, but from far away it looked like he was walking through the crowd) and since I'd gotten a really good position near the stage, I stuck my hand out for a shake (or maybe, oohh!, a grasp). But, one was not forthcoming. The Secret Service agents looked in my eye and pushed my hand away. I was hurt, close to tears actually, and then he looked my way.

Our eyes connected. I could feel his power, his presence, his need, his pain. And then he spoke:

"I'll shake your hand, little lady, if you shake something for me."

I didn't know what to say, and I wasn't quite sure what to shake. He kept his eyes on me for just a few more seconds before turning away. I was handshakeless, but shaking nonetheless. It was like a dream, one of those gooey dreams that upsets hot summer afternoons with thoughts of margaritas and salty peanuts. And then it was gone.

I've kept that memory with me for the last six years, thinking every time he started talking about the drug war or cigarettes or social security, he was really thinking about me. About that little lady who couldn't think fast enough to reciprocate his advances.

Of course, I know he doesn't think about that day all the time, and neither do I. But C-SPAN brings glimpses into the life I could have had, and in light of recent events, I wonder if maybe I could've gotten a cush job at Revlon or the Pentagon. If I'd only done my part for the country and started shakin' my little money maker in 1992.

Lisa Black intends to tell the grand jury nothing but the truth, the whole truth, even if it brings down the President. Because sometimes things are just that important.

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