"I guess that is pretty bad. I've got to work on things like that," says McMillen.
Telephone message from Tom McMillen: "I'm networking. If you need to interface, access me at this number."
There is a political-type frolic in San Diego, attended by sometime Carter, Johnson and Kennedy supporters. After two or three hours, bubbles of stale conversation hang like a layer of methane over a ripe swamp. An out-of-practice, naturally slothful and insufficiently public-spirited citizen splits early. So, surprisingly, does McMillen, who has been the celebration's centerpiece.
"That was great," he says on the way back to his hotel and, presumably, a telephone. "People like that make me realize how much I have to learn. It was a living history seminar, but, you know, I have a headache. I never get a headache talking to Tree Rollins."
"That's a good line."
"I don't mean to put down Tree."
"I didn't think you did."
That may be it. Tom McMillen is really very easy to understand. What he is is a splendid, living model of the attitudes, virtues and visions of truth, justice and the white American way. The urge to root for him as he charges up the Big Stairs is almost irresistible. Way to go, Slaprock. But take care of your feet!