One Degree of Separation

Behind the scenes at a book signing for Gennifer Flowers

In our current politico-sleaze landscape of catch-and-kill, Stormy Daniels, and hush-money payments, the tale of Gennifer Flowers and Bill Clinton now seems like a sepia-toned image from another century. Which it was! But if you’re old enough to remember, at the time America’s media was losing its damn mind—hysterical tabloid headlines, constant monkey-chatter from Howard Stern and Larry King, even The New York Times was on overload, combing through greasy details of the 12-year affair. Gennifer was not stupid. She sold her story to a supermarket rag for $150,000, received another $250,000 to pose for Penthouse, did scads of radio and TV, and published the above memoir. I have been ransacking my archives trying to find my signed copy. For the moment, here are screengrabs of the front and back cover. The photo captions were fantastically tawdry and priceless. Underneath a snapshot of a black negligee spread out on a bed, the text read something like, “This was Bill’s favorite.” Flowers came through San Francisco on a promotional tour, and as an alt-weekly columnist it was my duty, however sordid, to report what happened at the Borders bookstore on Union Square. It’s a bit dated, but I hope the reader gains some sense of what it meant to be an American in 1995. This was first published in SF Weekly, and also reprinted in The Realist.  

Some writers toil for years in low-paying day jobs, scrambling a freelance life on the side to see their words in print. Some attend prestigious writing programs at Iowa or Columbia, convinced a proper education is the ticket to a successful career. Still others self-publish their work, hoping it will attract a readership on its own.

And other writers just fuck the future president of the United States.

Such is the case with Gennifer Flowers, in town on a worldwide tour, promoting her newest book Passion & Betrayal, a thin $20 exercise in typing published by Emery Dalton Books in Del Mar. Her Channel 2 interview went well earlier in the day, but another media appearance, not so much. During a live interview on the KPIX noon news, she removed her microphone on camera and walked off the set.

Consequently, the Borders bookstore phone rings off the hook throughout the day. More calls than Norman Mailer’s appearance the previous afternoon?

“Oh, yeah!” exclaims the manager.

Also received is a threatening call, along the lines of: “Her book is smut, and you’re smut for having her there. You better have extra security.” By 6 pm, extra rent-a-cops are in the store, wandering the periodical section.

Flowers arrives and is ushered to a booksigning area, a table set up, for some reason, in front of the gay and lesbian section. Security guards, armed with riot clubs and pistols, flank her on either side. Another stands a book’s-throw away, giving everyone the once-over. Three more patrol the building. The author is “in.”

A line forms, an unsavory mixture of genuinely curious white trash, irony-soaked white trash and a bunch of women who keep their distance and wear an expression of amazement, like they’ve just come upon a washed-out bridge. These fans of the written word wait patiently until it is their turn to meet our nation’s newest literary phenomenon.

Her hair is pulled back in a sensible style. She wears a high-necked black dress and gold jewelry. Her bright purple/orange lipstick color is shared by her two female assistants, hovering behind her. Unlike on the dust jacket—and in every other photo in her book—the author’s cleavage is not displayed tonight.

A red-faced man with a comb-over named Carl Weber is at the table. He is beaming with excitement and can barely contain himself. “I saw you in Washington, D.C.!” he bubbles, fiddling with his camera.

“Oh, did you?” smiles Flowers. “That was fun.”

Carl eagerly snaps her photo. The camera begins making a whining electronic sound. Automatic rewind! Shit! That was the last shot on the roll! Panicked, he scurries off to a corner, whips on a pair of reading glasses and fumbles with another roll.

The author looks up to the next person in line and smiles that smile.

“I saw you on one of the TV stations this morning,” I mention.

“It’s a shame I had to leave,” says Flowers, neatly sidestepping the incident while inscribing the inside cover with a grand flourish. “I wish I could stay longer. I really like San Francisco.”

She hands back the prized collectible, her eyes sparkling and alive. The same eyes that gazed into Bill Clinton’s soul, no doubt watching him huff and puff on top of her, his wobbly pale thighs barely keeping balance, his sweaty red face snuffling like a hog, his hands tied behind his back with a “Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for George” bumper sticker, while outside in the parking lot, an Arkansas state trooper picks a nostril and turns the page of the Democrat-Gazette…

“Thank you very much,” I mumble.

“It’s my pleasure,” she purrs. 

One degree of separation away from the White House! Even though she supposedly now has a boyfriend, some guy with the unfortunate name of Finis Shelnutt, she’s still an incorrigible flirt, and loves the attention of men. Even if it’s poor Carl Weber, still in the corner reloading his damn camera.

Someone brings the author a Diet Coke and a glass of ice. A store manager dunks in a straw and quickly whisks the paper wrapper away. A white-haired man in his 50s shuffles up and offers his book.

“Is it true?” he says.

“It’s all true,” says the writer. “Who do I make this to? Ross? Nice name.”

Carl suddenly spins around, his red pate contrasting nicely with his blue denim shirt and smart corduroy slacks. Reloaded at last! He takes a few shots, then asks me to take one more picture of himself and the author.

“Come on back around here,” says Flowers. 

Carl hands me his camera and scampers around behind the table. He kneels down next to America’s current queen of scandal, grinning like a fool. The author holds up her tell-all story and gives the thumbs up. Carl offers up his thumb. The camera flashes. Double prints, please.