The Bobby Fulton Story

By Robert Starosciak

Bobby Fulton is the kind of man everyone can’t help but love; he’s charming, gorgeous, brilliant, and determined.

Can a young newcomer such as Bobby Fulton stand a chance of winning a congressional seat against the mighty political machine? How a once idealistic candidate quickly learns the hard lessons of reality-and how it changes him forever. What does it say about all of us?
The Bobby Fulton Story is a fictional account of a boy, who grows up in small town America in the 1960s, attends Princeton University, and dares to run for a seat in a New Jersey congressional district. Against all odds, he enlists the help of a college friend and political pro as they plot a strategy for him to become the youngest person ever to win a national election in the Garden State.

This story is a realistic mirror into a much simpler time in our country; a time when youngsters played baseball games in the summertime on makeshift fields; a time when a tiny working class town could flourish; a time when a new president made us all feel young and hopeful. But The Bobby Fulton Story is also an intimate portrayal of the inner workings of a real political campaign. It is a tale of an amazing quest against an intimidating political adversary who will do anything to succeed. It reveals what it takes to win it all, from the grueling ground game, to the extravagant fundraisers held in the homes of charlatans. And it is also about the age-old story of when loves finally deceives in the dirty game of politics.

But above all, this fictional tale reminds us how we all changed in our journey from 1963. A time when we could trust and respect our elected representatives; a time when America stood at the pinnacle of the world; a time when we challenged ourselves to shoot for the stars; a time when we thought the future was only ours. Now, intractable politicians ensure their jobs for life, the successful political campaigns are saturated only with money, our nation is but a part of an ever-growing global community, and we have compromised our values merely for illusions.

Where do we go from here? How can the country regain its swagger and once again lead? Where can we find the Bobby Fulton’s of long ago, who had the passion and thirst to make us all better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Feb 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781621832713

Robert Starosciak

Robert Starosciak holds a BA and MA from Seton Hall University and a Masters in Public Administration from Rutgers University. He is a former public school English teacher, and has been in the investment management business for thirty years, as a Vice President of both Merrill Lynch Pierce Fenner & Smith and Legg Mason Wood Walker.In 1978, He worked on Bill Bradley’s first campaign for the U.S. Senate. He is currently employed by a major New York investment firm. He and his wife Susan reside in Monmouth County New Jersey and Sarasota Florida.

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The Bobby Fulton Story

Robert Starosciak

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-271-3

Copyright © 2014

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

For Susan, and for Michael

This book is dedicated to the memory of:

My Parents and to my Aunt

Acknowledgments

I would like to recognize the following people who helped me with this book:

I want to especially thank my first reader, my wife, Susan, not only for her steadfast support and encouragement, but also for her collaboration on plot and character development. Her many brilliant suggestions helped to make this story come alive.

I thank my son Michael for his careful reading, numerous editorial annotations, and insightful suggestions as well as for his invaluable technical advice. I also want to thank Kathleen McFadden for her proofreading prowess, and particularly for her fine public relations counsel.

I want to thank my friend Bill King for his sharp eye, keen observations, his candor, and forty-three year friendship.

I also would like to thank Ken Bagot, Chris Bogart, Laury Egan, and Kathy Shaskan.

Finally, I would like to thank Brighton Publishing for moving this project forward.

Preface

On January 20, 1961, in his inaugural address, John Kennedy told us that the torch had been passed to a new generation of Americans. Instantly, the images of the old—the bearded portraits of past presidents, the horrific visions of a world war, and our early failures of the space race—were replaced by a young, vibrant chief executive, a global commitment to human rights, and the promise that we would land a man on the moon and return him safely back to Earth before the end of the decade.

In a thousand days, that dream and those hopes were erased with three shots that echoed around a stunned nation. In the ensuing years, many of those goals were attained. But more violence—the brutal murders of a presidential candidate, a civil rights leader, and the deadly demonstrations against a South East Asian war— tarnished the lofty expectations of a brand new decade. But in those short thousand days, America tumbled from euphoria to despair. The country seemed never to be quite the same.

In 1887, Woodrow Wilson maintained that public servants must discharge the sacred trust. That trust has been broken many times since 1963. Our culture has allowed it, and the voters themselves sanctioned the lower standards. The Bobby Fulton Story is a simple tale of a boy who grows up in a small town. A typical place in the early 1960s where everyone worked hard, instilled values in their children, and admired their elected officials. This yarn is about an idealistic young man who dares to upset the political pros, and shakes up the system. He runs for a seat in the House of Representatives in New Jersey’s sixteenth congressional district. It is a story about an exciting election, pitting David against Goliath, that reminds us of a simpler time when we indeed trusted those who wished to serve.

Finally, The Bobby Fulton Story is a book that is easy to read because, in the end, it is about all of us. At its core, it is a story about a passionate political campaign. But it is also about the elusive hero we long for. It is about a country that has changed. It is about a world that has grown dramatically in population and yet feels smaller because of technology. It is about how our standard of physical living might have improved, while our cultural standards may have diminished. It is about how politics has sadly replaced statesmanship. This book is about a naive young man, who grew up by a once crystal clear bay, and quickly learns the tough realities of politics. It is about how it changes him—and all of us.

Much has happened over the fifty-year reign of the so-called great baby boom generation—the promising young boys and girls born between 1946 and 1964. But following the afternoon of November 22, 1963, we were no longer young.

Chapter One

Those who look only to the past or the present

are certain to miss the future.

~John F. Kennedy, Frankfurt, Germany, June 25, 1963

The jumbo jet rolled down runway 13-31, first slowly, then faster and faster. The roar of the Rolls-Royce engines built to a crescendo as the g-force pulled Bobby deeper into his high-backed leather seat. The shimmering fuselage—now at breakneck speed—vibrated, rattled, and then reached the point of no return. Finally aloft, the cabin was whisper-quiet as passengers hoped and prayed that technology would win over fate that day. The sleek metal bird climbed through the sky—graceful, elegant, awe-inspiring. The critical, early minutes of flight ticked away, when gradually a deep blue canopy gently supplanted cotton-white clouds.

Without warning, the pilot’s voice cracked the eerie silence like a shot. Ladies and gentlemen, he announced, we have attained our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet, and you are free to move about the cabin. In unison, the travelers sigh their relief, as they hurtled eastward and across the pond.

At 550 miles per hour, twenty-six-year-old Bobby Fulton settled in on his flight to London, England. Women couldn’t take their eyes off him as he oozed a calm sense of confidence that belied his youthful appearance. He was tall and lean, with thick, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and prominent eyebrows. He sat quietly and comfortably in his seat, occasionally looking out the window at the blackness that surrounded the streaking jetliner. It was late night, and Bobby washed down his bland airline meal with a couple of beers.

Can I get you anything else, sir? How about a nice, hot cup of coffee, or a blanket, or a pillow? the alluring stewardess prodded.

No, thank you. I’m fine for now. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Thanks again.

It was his first flight ever, but no one would ever have guessed it. He fit into the cabin as if he had flown for a lifetime. It had been almost five years since his graduation from Princeton. He had been working for a small nonprofit in his hometown, helping people either find jobs or obtain training to keep them. As an English major, Fulton had thought of applying for teaching jobs or graduate school but, instead, chose the nonprofit path where he had worked during his college summers. His passion was to help people help themselves make a better life, and for him, there was no better place to start. Today, however, the handsome young man wearing faded blue jeans was on his way to see an old college friend who had gained much experience—and experienced much success—in running local political campaigns. Fulton was, himself, formulating his own long-shot idea about running for public office.

His thoughts on the tedious six-hour flight drifted back to his boyhood in Mapleton, New Jersey, when he was happiest being with his family—Mom, Dad, and Aunt Harriet—and not even thinking about the future. Bobby Fulton first became interested in public service at just ten years old, when a young John Kennedy occupied the White House. His parents, Andrew and Mary Fulton, were lifelong Democrats, and like most of that generation, fell in love with the Camelot Era. The election of the first Catholic president, for his hardworking Irish father and deeply religious mother, had been a dream come true, and they were so proud. As the aircraft raced high above the North Atlantic, Bobby’s thoughts transported him back to his youth, to his loved ones, to his early parochial school days. Those memories shattered on that fateful day in late November, a day that still troubled his heart all these years later, and changed the course of his country forever.

Bobby’s early life was spent in peaceful living with his aunt and parents in the small town of Mapleton. Aunt Harriet owned a popular beauty parlor that sat fifty feet from the bay, and she shared a modest, but comfortable, two-story home with the Fultons on the other side of town. From the outside, the Mapleton Beauty Shop looked more like a house with its white clapboard, black shutters, and fine lace window treatments covering the exquisite French door entry. A manicured lawn edged with brilliant mums and lilac perfectly lined the brightly colored walkway leading into the boutique, as the gentle summer shoreline breeze lured in her patrons. It was an inviting, but sturdy little place as it withstood the pounding of countless nor’easters over the years. The spinster aunt had cornered the hair salon market in the tiny community, and every Thursday evening would treat her few favorites to coffee and tea in the cozy, knotty pine back-room kitchen of her establishment. A woman of slight build, but with surprisingly strong hands from hard work, she was a shrewd businesswoman; and over the years had kept two sets of books, one for the IRS and one for herself. Although Harriet had enjoyed a successful business for almost a half century, she had only a handful of close friends—and an arm’s-length relationship with others.

Aunt Harriet played second mother to Bobby, and the young boy adored her. On most Mondays in the summertime, when the shop was closed, she would take her nephew on memorable big-city excursions while his parents were at work. They visited New York museums, Broadway shows, the Empire State Building, and Bobby’s favorite, the Horn & Hardart Automat. There he saw the wonder of any food he could imagine appear and reappear in the small glass windows.

Can we have lunch at the magic-window restaurant? Bobby would plead. Aunt Harriet happily obliged. Life in New York in the early ’60s had that special feel of Hepburn and Grant, and the city was alive with culture and excitement. The young boy savored those times as he took in the sights and sounds of the undisputed capital of the world. It had all the excitement and charm any young boy could ever dare to imagine. For Bobby, the city was an education that no Catholic school instruction could come close to conveying.

The lad was lucky. Not many people who grew up in working-class Mapleton ever saw sights outside the tiny hamlet. This was a town that—in earlier years—served mostly as a summer respite for many who rented the pastel, cedar-shake bungalows that dotted the pristine water. Most of the jobs in Mapleton were blue-collar: the brick works, glass factory, or the grocery store. During the summer seasons, some worked at the beach or on the small boardwalk, selling hot dogs and ice cream. Many found work at the post office, the Chevron station, the local tavern, the hobby shop, or at the bank, which looked more like a double-wide trailer. Some found jobs at the tiny library two doors down from Harriet’s shop, or at Miller’s drugstore at the end of the long, makeshift baseball field. A few worked at the small newspaper office. Yet others found work outside Mapleton, and commuted by car, bus, or train. It was a friendly little place, without a main street or a rich history. It did, however, have a pretty view of a serene bay and quiet streets of tired, working people relaxing on porches and drinking beer.

While Harriet opened Bobby’s eyes to the outside world, his mother succeeded in caring for and nurturing the young boy. Mary Fulton, with a warm smile, was the third oldest of ten children and worked in the cafeteria where Bobby attended school. Tall and attractive with soft, dark hair, Mary was a generous person, and though she never had made much money, she would part with her last nickel if you needed it. The Fultons made sure that their son attended the Catholic school and not the Mapleton public schools. Mom would drive Bobby in the family’s 1963 blue and white hardtop Plymouth on the twenty-minute trip to school early each morning. She instilled in him, if not the will to succeed, the gifts of love, openness, and generosity of heart. She knew many people in that small town and Bobby would muse that Mary could run for mayor and win.

Mom, who was that person you spoke with? he would ask. I don’t know her. We’ll never get out of this store with all the people coming up to you.

Total strangers were drawn to Mary’s personality and charm. She would talk with anyone, and when the conversation finally ended, you thought you’d known her for years. Mary was a terrific and loving mother and a role model for Bobby in so many different ways.

Andrew Fulton, while usually hard at work, also played a part in Bobby’s early development. Andy, the second youngest of five, and Harriet’s brother, was of medium height—a thin, unassuming, and quiet man. He worked at the oil refinery just outside town and made a good living comparatively for the sixties. Refinery work in those days was tough and dangerous but paid relatively well. He rotated working three shifts and his uniform was a pair of heavy, dark overalls. By the end of each year, they were burned through from the acids and refining methods of the time. For Andy, there was neither a company cafeteria nor the time to sit and shoot the bull with the guys at the diner. Every workday, Mary prepared a ham and cheese sandwich or last night’s meatloaf for him to eat and stuffed it into a lunch box along with a thermos of hot coffee.

Andy’s work was difficult. From kerosene to jet fuel, the one-hundred-seventy pound Irishman worked the mixtures of the crude, but over the years, it took its toll on his health and demeanor. A Navy veteran of World War II, Andy had manned the machine gun nest on a destroyer in the Pacific. Except for his ship sinking one Japanese submarine, the war for him was uneventful.

At home, Bobby would put on his father’s oversized navy clothes and hat. Mary would take pictures with their square, black Kodak camera with the conspicuous, awkwardly attached, oversized flashbulb, and she’d laugh and laugh.

Come on, Dad. Get in the picture with me. Let’s see if people can figure out who’s who, Bobby would say.

Andy’s nights, when not at work, were spent watching baseball games or sitting alone on the back porch smoking a White Owl cigar and drinking a Rheingold. On weekends he cut the lawn, pushing the manual mower with the red rubber handles. Everyone liked Andy. He was easygoing and polite. By the standards set in ’63, he was a good father, worked hard, took care of his family, and was generally an all-around nice guy.

Andrew and Mary Fulton never placed any pressure on young Bobby. Neither had gone to college and both had worked very physical jobs from an early age. As the business owner in the family, Aunt Harriet became the professional role model, and it was she who taught her nephew how to open a bank account and manage a checkbook. Andy’s polite manner instilled the gentleman in his son. Mary’s outgoing personality contributed to Bobby’s ability to feel natural around people. As an only child, he had the luxury of having his own room with a nice desk, plenty of books, and a close-knit family that put him first in every sense. Compared with some of the other boys in town, Bobby unknowingly had a head start on life, and his loved ones unwittingly positioned him for a brighter future than their own.

Mapleton in the early ’60s was a laid-back lunch box town. People knew each other but kept a polite distance. When people needed a hand, they didn’t dare ask for it, but neighbors would pitch in. When the economy was good, the town flourished; and when it turned down, people survived until things got better. In those days, a bump in the economy was always followed by a turnaround, and jobs returned. It was expected, because it had always worked that way. Mapleton was a lot like the rest of America. Many were immigrants from the ancient European countries. The Germans, Irish, Polish, and Italians all came here, learned the language, and assimilated into one nation. They all toiled hard to achieve in this vast and foreign land.

Small towns were predisposed to many acquaintances within familiar boundaries, and Mapleton served as the perfect backdrop for a young boy growing up. Baseball games dominated the summer season, as they did in many such towns, and Bobby learned to play the game well on a lingering, dust-covered field across from Harriet’s shop near the bay. On summer mornings, more than a dozen boys gathered to choose sides and dreamed that they were the Say Hey Kid or The Mick. There was fat Herman, who looked like a young version of Babe Ruth. He stood only a bit over five feet tall but was as wide as a truck and just as strong. His face and demeanor were of a boy much older than his twelve years or so. The baseballs cracked off his bat and flew the farthest, with some of them landing all the way near the pharmacy in dead center field. Very few of the boys could do what Herman did. Then there was the tall kid Spike, and Charlie and Jeff, who smoked cigarettes too much. Then there was the ever-present Lee, the oldest of all the boys, with slicked-back, jet-black hair. Ricky and Pooch were the tiny kids with the gold gloves at shortstop and second. Bobby marveled at how fast and good they actually were for their age.

Hey, you guys should try out for the Yankees, Bobby would say. Mantle would be happy to have you on his team.

Ricky and Pooch would just laugh and scoff at him. Shut up, Fulton, and pay attention out in right field!

During the summer, the boys learned the finer English words on that field, and mostly inaccurate lessons on the birds and the bees from the older boys. But, over the years, Bobby learned how to handle a glove and became a good hitter as well. He went from the bottom of the lineup to hitting third, just ahead of slugger Herman. The tiny town of Mapleton could have made the cover of Life magazine in those days. All was well for the baby boomer generation in 1963. The future was promising. We were all young.

***

Time went by slowly on November 22nd, 1963. It normally did. The school day seemed to drag on forever. Bobby glanced at the standard, round, black IBM clock that hung above the door of the stark Catholic schoolroom. The seconds ticked loudly but at a snail’s pace as the pain of class time wore on. His thoughts would wander to the baseball games on that dusty ball field, to the summertime sojourns with Aunt Harriet, and to dinner with Mom and Dad as he patiently waited for freedom. The school bell rang precisely at 2:45 p.m. His mother, as usual, waited in the lot next to the tall, Gothic-style rectory on the vast church property. Bobby ran to the car, exhilarated that school was over for the