It’s 1961 and the Godless Communists are on the move. Russian Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin becomes the first man in space. “Now the Antichrist can rain death down on us from the heavens,” evangelist Nelson Bell warns. “America is in the gravest danger in its history.”

I’ve gotten a second notice for my Army physical. This one is mildly threatening. “You are ordered to report on…Failure to do so may result in fine and imprisonment…”

The Castro regime beats back a US proxy invasion at the Bay of Pigs. The East Germans build a wall. New president JFK advises all “prudent” families to get a bomb shelter. “Won’t be long now,” my philosophy prof says. “Your generation will have its war…”

I put the notice in a drawer under my socks.

I was always a reader, but now I’m am an addict. A book is the first thing I reach for in the morning. I can’t get out of bed without finishing a chapter and often doze with the clock radio blasting rock and roll in my ear, only to awake in a panic and stumble late into class, disheveled and blurting lame excuses.

I can’t eat without a book or a newspaper propped against a glass. Friday night dinner at my parents’ house is a torment because reading at the table is strictly forbidden. I hide a magazine on my lap and drape the tablecloth over it. My mother whisks it away with a worried look. “This isn’t healthy,” she says.

I can’t go to the toilet without something–anything– to look at. I scramble for reading matter, coming perilously close to crapping my pants.

Can’t go to bed without a book, but can’t sleep until I finish a chapter. I blink like an owl when I begin to nod, bite down on my lip and pull the hairs out of my chest. Then, the lamp is glaring in my face and the book is on the floor and I realize I’ve been asleep. So I find my place and begin reading again. When I finally decide to call it a night I have confused my brain with so many false starts that I lie in ragged exhaustion until the night turns gray and I drop off. An hour or a minute later I awake, haggard and unrested and begin to read again.

Ernest Hemingway, my instructor in male honor and courage, blows his brains out with a shotgun. Captured Nazi Adolph Eichmann claims he was only “the transmitter” of the Fuhrer’s orders, but he admits he did say: “I will jump gleefully into my grave knowing I have killed five million of my nation’s enemies…”

I’m living in a sub basement ($53 a month) on Barrow Street in Greenwich Village. It’s gloomy and the pipes sweat and the mice resent sharing the makeshift shower with me. I can barely see the street from my window. A sliver of sun tells me it’s daytime. I’m safe. Not even Adolph Eichmann could find me here.

I come home at dawn with a meatball hero and a Pepsi that I paid a buck seventy-five for at Whitey’s Pizzeria. I light up the joint I got for a dollar outside the subway on Sheridan Square and open the paperback I picked up for a quarter from an old guy with a book pushcart on Seventh Avenue. I read fiction, voraciously and uncritically. Irving Wallace, Franz Kafka, Jim Thompson—it’s all the same to me.

The 19th. century– Dostoevsky, Dickens, Balzac, etc.–is the best “reefer read.” Marijuana helps keep track of the characters and navigate the narrative switchbacks.

Dexedrine gets me into the rhythms of the moderns, especially Joyce and Faulkner. I finish the USA TRILOGY in a weekend.

In deference to all the alcoholic writers I am discovering I get drunk. But when I try to read I get the spins.

President Kennedy creates the Peace Corps and thousands of idealistic young people volunteer to help the natives of the Third World shed their ancient ways and become middle-class Americans. My mother urges me to join. “You could really find yourself in a program like this.”

Instead, I find a folk singer named Maxine who is willing to come home with me. It’s okay to smoke a cigarette, but reading in afterglow is a flagrant violation of post-coital protocol. When I open a book Maxine jumps up in revulsion. “God, I feel like I’m in bed with my dad.”

Vice President Johnson calls Vietnamese Premier Diem, “the Churchill of Asia,” and vows to defend his regime with American power. JFK increases “military assistance” to Vietnam, sending 16,000 “advisors.”

Maxine is throwing a party. Potato chips, gallons of Gallo California wine and somebody passing a joint in the kitchen. An older crowd. Workshirts and beards. Black tights, poorboy sweaters and Rapunzel hair. Maxine strums and sings Sloop John B, serenading a guy in a corduroy sports jacket, complete with patches, wavy graying locks and the smug look of every English professor who ever gave me a C-. I browse her paperback shelf and find a book by an author I never heard of— Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathaniel West.

After three pages I’m hooked. I barely hear the snatches of conversation around me. Maxine segues into Rock Island Line, then Cotton Fields Back Home. There’s another West book on the shelf–Day of the Locust.

I’m lost for hours. Then I sense movement. The party is breaking up. Maxine and the corduroy guy are in a clinch on the couch. He is whispering urgently, patting her on the shoulder like her dog just died.

I have to finish this book. And read the other one. I grab the two slim paperbacks. Can’t take them out. Someone might see me. I go into the bathroom and shove them down the back of my pants. Maxine bursts in, teary and distraught.

“What are you doing here?” she demands

“Just going to the bathroom,” I say.

“You can stay if you want.”

“What about your friend…?”

“Do you want to stay or don’t you?” she says and slams the door.

I know if I take my clothes off, Maxine will see the books. I slip them into the hamper and go out. The apartment is pitch black. Maxine is already in bed.

The first thing I think of in the morning is those books. I’m a good stealth dresser. In minutes I’m in the bathroom searching in the hamper. The books must have sunk to the bottom.

There’s a knock and a giggle.

“What are you doing in there?”

“Uh, just taking a shower…

Maxine comes in…”I’ll scrub your back…”

I jump back, but not fast enough. She sees the hamper cover on the floor and grabs my arm.

“What are you doing?”

A pair of black panties is hanging from my wrist.

Maxine is outraged. “You disgusting pervert. Are you stealing my underwear?”

“Well, I just wanted something to remind me…”

“Take anything you want,” she cries, running out. “Just get the fuck outta here…”

I find the paperbacks. Wrap them in a pair of black panties. Then, in another pair to be on the safe side. Maxine’s bedroom door is closed and probably locked. She won’t come out until I’m gone so I have time to check out her book shelf.

I find The Rosy Crucifixion, Sexus, Nexus and Plexus by Henry Miller and tiptoe out the door.

NEXT: I STEAL A BOOK FROM JAMES BALDWIN

It’s 1960. The US is beginning its longest period of economic expansion in history. But as business booms disillusion gnaws at the national psyche.

The Russians shoot down the U2, an American spy plane. President Eisenhower disavows its mission, then backs off and becomes the first American president to admit he has lied.

There are bloody uprisings in the Asian and African colonies of our wartime allies France and Britain. We had thought of them as bulwarks of democracy and freedom, but now realize they are oppressive imperial powers.

Four black students sit in at a segregated lunch counter in Greensboro, North Carolina. They are arrested. Protesters all over the South are beaten, jailed, attacked by police dogs. Six years after Brown vs. Board of Ed. one quarter of our country is still a police state.

John F. Kennedy, a dashing young war hero with a hot wife, runs for President, promising change and a New Frontier. He is tied with Vice President Nixon until late returns from Cook County, Illinois make him victorious by one tenth of a percent. “The boys in Chicago fixed it,” says Mr. Leo, who runs numbers in Tony’s candy store on Eleventh Avenue in Brooklyn. “Just like Luciano fixed New York for FDR in ’32.”

My father has given me a job at the Riverside Memorial Chapel on Park Circle across from Prospect Park. He has worked himself up from monument salesman to manager, but is mortified at being in the funeral business. When people ask him what he does he says: “I play third base for the Cubs…” Or: “I’m the wine steward in the Woman’s House of Detention.”

I need a special Chauffeur’s license to drive the hearses, panel trucks and flower cars. But I’m 17 and you have to be 18 to get a Chauffeur’s license. Plus you have to pass another written exam and road test.

“Albino will fix it,” my father says.

Albino is a limo driver with connections way above his station. He is short and dark with a sharp, chin and beak of a nose. His eyes rove restlessly and his head jerks like a hungry bird’s.

On the way to the DMV I hear the story of his life. He talks in staccato bursts… “Youngest of eight. My father only had enough gas left in the tank to make a dwarf…He was a big guy,too…Everybody in the family shot up… Even in my sisters…I’m shorter than my mother for Chrissake…”

We drive over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. “We’ll go to Worth Street,” he says. ” I don’t trust those mamelukes in Brooklyn…”

He spent five and a half years in the Army during World War II. “They didn’t let me out until every Jap was dead.” He asks me if I’ve gotten my draft card. “Tell me when they call you for your physical,” he says. “I got a doctor who’ll make you 4F.”

There are lines out the door at the DMV. Only one window for the Chauffeur’s License applicants and there are at least a hundred guys ahead of me.

Albino pulls me away. “Wiseguys don’t stand on line…”

He gives me the form. “Fill this out.”

A few minutes later he is back. “Let’s get your picture took…”

The photographer is a little guy in a plaid bow-tie, eyes bulging behind horn rimmed glasses.

“Anybody ever tellya ya look like Tony Curtis?” he asks.

“No…”

“They will now…Stand straight and look serious…”

Albino takes me aside. “Got ten bucks?”

I don’t carry that much cash.

“Never mind, I’ll front it…”

My license shows up in the mail five days later.

I pay Albino back the ten. Years later I find out he told my father it cost 20 and got that plus a ten spot for his time.

I’m taking morning classes at Brooklyn College. Between the boiling radiators and the boring professors I go into a coma every morning. My Western Civ instructor, Professor Hoffman asks the class to talk quietly. “We don’t want to wake Mr. Gould.”

At two o’clock I run to my ’57 Bel Air, my home away from home. I change into a black suit in the back seat and head to the chapel. My job is to stand in the lobby and direct people to the reposing rooms. After visiting hours Albino and I load up a Chevy 31 Panel truck with mourner’s benches for religious Jews.

“Here’s a little trick, kid,” Albino says as we go to the first house. The order is for five benches, but he takes three.

A haggard old man, nose running, eyes red-rimmed complains: “We ordered five. We have to have five benches for the immediate family.”

Albino pats his arm. “Let me see what I can do.” He brings the two extra benches into house and comes back with a five dollar bill and a gleeful smile.

“Works every time.”

No one can be buried without a valid death certificate, issued either by the attending physician or the Medical Examiner. The Board of Health is very strict about correct cause of death and has been known to disallow a death certificate, causing a delay in burial. Also, religious Jews and Catholics object to autopsies, causing more costly complications.

But Albino has “fixed” Katz, a clerk on the night shift. He gives me careful instructions.

“Wait ’til there’s nobody in the room. Go to the cage and tell him you’re Albino’s friend from Riverside. Slip the certificate under the bars with two bucks under it.”

I do exactly as ordered. Katz, his face shadowed by a green visor, stamps the certificate without even looking at it and slides it back.

It occurs to me that we might be helping somebody get away with murder.

Albino agrees. “We might be at that.”

And puts in an expense chit for five dollars.

My Bel Air is what they call a “big six.” It can fly. The Brooklyn B ridge at 2am is a great proving ground.

But one night I get a speeding ticket. Next day I’m telling everybody how this motorcycle cop came out of nowhere. Later Albino sidles up.

“You wanna beat a ticket?”

He gives me a copy of the NYPD house organ, Spring 3100, a magazine distributed only to cops. “Put a copy of this on your windshield, and write Albino on the front page,” he says. “Keep your license in a little plastic envelope with a tensky folded up behind it. The cop’ll see the magazine. You slip him the license…” He snaps his finger. “Bingo, you’re outta there.” Then, in all seriousness, he warns: “it probably won’t work if you run an old lady over, or somethin’.”

That Friday night I go to a loft party in Greenwich Village. Four hours later I have ten very stoned beatniks in my Bel Air. Arms and legs sticking out of the windows, people giggling and struggling for breath under the pile. We decide to see the sun rise at Coney Island. A cop car follows me across the bridge and pulls me over. It’s a sergeant with a chest full of commendations. He looks at the squirming mass in the car.

“You tryin’ to break a college record or somethin’?”

As I open the door three people fall out at his feet.

“I’m gonna get writer’s cramp with you, pal,” he says.

He makes me walk a straight line. Close my eyes and touch my nose.

“If you were drunk at least you’d have an excuse,” he says. “You’re just a moron.”

He takes the magazine off the windshield. Takes my loaded license back to his car.

I wink at my friends. “Watch this…”

Ten minutes later he comes back with a fistful of tickets and hands them to me one by one.

“Overloading a car…Changing lines without signaling…Driving over the lane markers…One red light infraction…Broken tail light…Going 45 in a 35 mile zone. Normally, I would overlook that, but I’m throwin’ the book at you, asshole.”

He follows me as I drive everybody to the Borough Hall subway station and watches as they get out to take the subway back to Manhattan.

Then, he hands me my license with the ten still in it.

“You were lucky tonight, kid,” he says. “Next time I’ll be pullin’ your body out of a burning car.”

Next day I tell Albino the story. “At least there’s one honest cop in the world,” I say.

Albino doesn’t accept that explanation. He shakes his head in puzzlement. Then, he brightens.

“You said it was a sergeant, right?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s it, ” he says triumphantly, his vision of a corrupt universe confirmed. “Dopey me.” He smacks himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. “I forgot to tellya. Sergeants you gotta pay double, ’cause they kick back to the captain…”

“George Bush was an easy foil who made all our leaders look good,” said a Euro diplomat, who asked not be identified be cause he/she is not allowed to speak to the media. “But Obama is outshining us, seducing our volatile populations.”

The unit, consisting of intelligence analysts, media specialists and psychological warfare operatives, will seek to uncover scandal, create unflattering stories and exploit weaknesses in Obama’s personality. Nations that have been in political and economic conflict have agreed to forget their differences and cooperate fully.

“We are united in our understanding that Obama is a threat to the political survival of every leader in the world,” the diplomat said.

  The alarm was sounded in foreign capitals last July when 200,000 screaming Germans welcomed  Obama to Berlin. Flaunting piercings, strumming guitars and, most distressingly, waving American flags, the crowd massed impatiently across from the Brandenburg Gate where JFK had famously proclaimed “Ich Bin Eine Berliner,” and Ronald Reagan had challenged Russian Prime Minister Gorbachev to “tear down this wall.”  Rock bands and DJ’s warmed up the crowd, local politicians, scrambled for a ray of reflected glory. 

The crowd cheered as Obama called for greater cooperation in dealing with the problems of terrorism and poverty. “No nation, no matter how large and powerful can defeat these challenges alone,” he said. The collective mood was summed up by a student: “Having a black American president will be totally cool.” 

In her office German Chancellor Angela Merkel watched glumly. She had tried everything to prevent Obama’s appearance, saying that it would give the impression  that the German government supported his candidacy. But she had been overwhelmed by the world’s need for a new charismatic leader.  On her desk were German newspapers  raving about Obama. On her phone were some very worried heads of state—Sarkozy, Brown, Berlusconi, Putin,  Hu Jintao, Saudi King Abdullah and Venezuelan President Chavez.

“I haven’t seen a German waving an American flag since 1989,” Putin said.

“Let’s face it, ragazzi,” said Berlusconi. “We’ve lost our whipping boy.”

For the last eight years the world has been able to hide its misdeeds behind the catastrophic policies of the Bush administration. Under Bush the US was the only country to reject the Kyoto accords. Every other nation piously criticized the US while secretly violating the agreement by engaging in meaningless carbon exchanges that actually increased the amount of pollutants in the atmosphere. Under Bush’s refusal to lift farm subsidies the other nations were able to conceal their protectionism. European Commissioner for Trade Peter Mandelson was allowed to indulge his penchant for drama, while accomplishing nothing.  Bush’s invasion of Iraq became a pretext for European inactivity in Africa, South Asia and the Middle East. They were able to pin the blame for their multitude of sins on his scandal-ridden, dysfunctional administration. Putin, faced by the collapse of a mismanaged, single-product economy, could accuse the US of “infecting” the financial system. French Finance Minister Lagarde could obscure the $7 billion fraud at Societe Generale by criticizing the American SEC for “failure to regulate.” Iceland could blame the US for its infatuation with risky derivatives. Germany could neatly deflect attention from its tax and banking scandals. OPEC, which had gotten wealthy on $50 a barrel oil could condemn the US because oil producers now needed $90 oil just to survive.  China could appeal to its rebellious workers that the US was responsible for their sudden unemployment. It  could righteously refuse to help the US out of the economic crisis it had helped to create when it purchased trillions of dollars of debt and artificially devalued its currency to fund American consumers purchase of its defective and dangerous products.

As long as Bush bullied and blundered, the other leaders could shine in comparison. But now Obama has hit the ball into their court. He has asked for their cooperation. Implicit in his appeal is the  message: you must do more in this dangerous world. You must take political risks. 

“It is cheaper and easier to undermine,” the Euro diplomat said.

The task force, code named Operation Smear, has been at work behind closed doors in an obscure office building in downtown Ghent for a month and a half. Sub groups were formed to work on corruption, sexual misconduct, drug abuse, association with criminals, weird hobbies, odd dietary habits, embarrassing odors,  anything to promote contempt or ridicule. At their weekly meeting, group leaders admitted they were stymied.

They were admonished by their chairman. “You are the best and brightest scandal mongers, malice spinners, frame artists and disinformation specialists in the world and you cannot dig up one speck of dirt on this man?”

After a moment of abashed silence, a timid voice volunteered:

“We could say he is soft on Israel…”

The room erupted in applause.

“Yes…Yes…He’s a tool of the Jewish lobby,” someone shouted.

“That always works.”