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The comedian understands the average guy. To a degree, the comedian may stand on the outside, which is where Nixon has always considered Nixon to be. But he stands outside the insiders, that's all. Never outside the real, beer- and-pretzels Americans. "My mother was from Indiana. My father, from Ohio. I % always did well in the Midwest." Right now, this moment, one is absolutely certain that many thousands of his countrymen would cheer him wildly from the roadsides if only they knew that it was he, Richard Nixon, seated in the back of that sedan, moving in silence every day between the Federal Plaza office building in Lower Manhattan and the large, not-quite-hidden Saddle River house.
On the way home sometimes, he tells his driver to take the route through Harlem. "I do it mainly because I want to remind myself of what it's like. And I see those damn kids, those poor little black kids. Not to be sentimental about it, but I wonder how any of them ever make it."
Then out of Harlem, over the George Washington Bridge, the car clapping rhythmically on the breaks in the segments of pavement and, whoosh, into the average guy's New Jersey. FOR A FAMILY NIGHT OUT MAKE IT YOUR PLACE. THE GROUND ROUND. A restaurant billboard on the highway not far from Huffman Koos and Wild Bill's Paramus Chrysler and the Happy Viking furniture store. Hohokus. Paramus. Mahwah. Figments of the American road show. Past the houses with the redwood decks and the fake, unclosable shutters. Houses of no color: not-green, not-yellow, not-white. The dead plunk of the coin at the EXACT CHANGE booth and onto the parkway, where high-tech factories called InSci and Timeplex crouch like bunkers near Saddle River.
Then quiet Saddle River. Lanes are named for animals. Few kids, no litter, except where crows pick at a flattened squirrel in the road. Something on every house is out of scale. The chimney is too big, or the window, or the gate. No high protective hedges here. Residents seem to want to be assured that everyone in sight has made it.
Is this where Richard Nixon belongs? No one doubts that he has made it. Phlebitis or no, he looks terrific these days: color in the cheeks, eyes alert, on top of things. About to publish his sixth book in ten years, 1999: Victory Without War, he has made Saddle River a Delphi for the nation's politicians. They act, he broods. In the 14 years since his resignation- ouster, it is said that he has crafted a new base of power out of his expertise and cunning, a calculated rehabilitation. He laughs at the word rehabilitation as a cliche. As for the calculation, there must be a good deal of that, but Nixon could no more keep his natural ambition in check than could a beaver abstain from dam construction.
In his study (deep blue bookshelves, oriental rugs, Chinese vase, French desk), he props his feet on a large fluffy ottoman. The heels on his black loafers look new. The soles are white, clean as a whistle.