White House Sleepovers Make for Strange Bedfellows

The story of the White House sleepovers is slowly emerging. The only thing certain so far is that, like Motel 6 pitchman Tom Bodette, Bill Clinton’s motto is, “We’ll leave the light on.”

It ain’t exactly “Fourscore and seven years ago,” but times change. Once, the most pressing task inside the White House was to run the country. Now, it’s to make sure guests have fresh towels and plenty of ice.

A report this week identified 831 people who have bunked in the Clinton White House. The list was divided into categories, including “Arkansas friends,” which accounted for 370 people. Oddly, all 370 were named either Clem or Vernon.

The media have concentrated on possible improprieties in the sleepover policy, such as whether presidential favors were given to financial contributors and whether any guests not blood-related were forced to share toothbrushes. Meanwhile, they’ve missed genuine human-interest stories and, for some reason, left off names of others who have spent the night.

Such as the night early in ’95 when Vernon Tebbets of Fried Chicken, Ark., ran into Roseanne in a White House hallway at 4 in the morning, as both headed for the Lincoln bathroom.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” Tebbets said, not breaking stride as he scurried past Roseanne in the dark. In the dim light, he looked as tall as the Washington Monument and she as round and lit-up as the Capitol dome.

“Pardon me, my foot,” she retorted. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I need to use the bathroom. I’m a friend of the president.”

“I don’t care if you are the president,” Roseanne snapped back. “I gotta use the john and nobody’s getting in there before I do. So hold your horses and take a number.”

Something in the voice struck Tebbets. Without his glasses, he was as blind as a bat and he hadn’t recognized her, but now his brain was whirring.

“Say, aren’t you Roseanne?” he said. “The TV star?”

“Yeah, what about it?” she said.

“Well, I’ll be danged,” he said. “Wait’ll my cousins hear about this--racing Roseanne for the bathroom at 4 ayem. That’s a dang attractive nightshirt, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Well, don’t get too excited,” Roseanne

said, softening her tone. “By the way, who are you, and how’d you wind up on the same floor as me?”

“Vernon Tebbets, ma’am. I’ve known Bill since we was 8 years old. Used to whup up on him on the playground in Arkansas. Beat the tar out of him on a reg’lar basis till he paid me to quit. Then we became friends. The man’s an awful forgivin’ person by nature. I’m one floor below, sleeping on an old Army cot, but there’s a dang conga line outside the bathroom, including that Chevy Chase fella, so I came up here.”

“What do you do down there in Arkansas?” Roseanne asked.

“Poultry,” Tebbets said.

“You’re a poet?” Roseanne said, surprised.

“No, poultry. Chickens. Processing plant just outside of town. It’s a 12-step process from henhouse to dinner plate, y’know.”

“Please. Don’t say 12-step,” Roseanne said, wincing. “Reminds me of Betty Ford.”

“You know Betty Ford?” Tebbets said. “Dang, she was my favorite first lady, after Mamie Eisenhower. Don’t tell me she’s sleeping over too?”

“Never mind,” Roseanne said.

“By the way,” Tebbets said, “how long you and Bill been friends?”

“Ever since I gave a thousand bucks in ‘92,” she said, sounding none too happy. “You mean to tell me, you’re here for free?”

“Heck, yeah. Bill always said if he got to be president, he’d invite us all up. I figure most of Fried Chicken’s been here. He told us we might meet some movie stars, but I never expected this. So, I guess you got the Lincoln Bedroom, huh?”

“Yeah, although I gotta tell ya, the mattress is lumpier than hell and there’s no beer in the fridge. Plus, I slopped some ketchup on the blanket and you just know that’s gonna stain. Just between you and me, I’m not sure this is worth the price of admission.”

With the call of nature beckoning ever louder, the two fell silent.

“Well, dang, ma’am,” Tebbets said. “I ain’t being much of a gentleman. Why don’t you go on in and use the bathroom, and I’ll run outside.”

“Don’t be silly, Vernon,” Roseanne said. “You go ahead. I’ll go outside.”

“Mighty nice of you, ma’am. Shoot, if you’re ever down Fried Chicken way, look us up. Can’t promise you the Lincoln Bedroom, but it won’t cost you a thing to stay.”

“You know something, Vernon, I just might take you up on that. By the way, how big is that cot of yours, anyway?”

“Dang, ma’am,” Tebbets said, blushing. “If this don’t beat all.”

“Please,” Roseanne said. “Call me Rosie.”

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Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at the Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.