It may have only been a dream.  But for Jerry, the emotional release had to have been something of a gift from heaven.  It was more than mere emotional diarrhea -- more than detached historical debate.  Simply put:  Jerry rebuked his predecessor.  He really gave him an earful, a tongue-lashing, a verbal whipping.  He yelled at him.  And it turned out that he had a lot more anger and resentment in him than what anyone had imagined.

It started in a most unusual way.  Jerry and Dick were in Texas, visiting Lyndon’s ranch.  Ladybird was there, too, though she was busy in the kitchen.  The ranch rendezvous was a deliberate meeting, but also strangely casual.  They were just talking a bit, shooting the breeze, discussing the possibilities of maybe going out to eat somewhere.  And then somehow, it came out that the day just happened to be Lyndon’s birthday.  Jerry and Dick mumbled a couple of clumsy Happy-Birthdays, and then the conversation got awkward.  It turned out that a group of others were going to be joining them to go to this Spanish (not Mexican) restaurant in town.  So it wasn’t actually going to be just the three of them having an opportunity to talk and dig deep for the whole evening.  Their time, in fact, was very limited.  At some point amidst the awkwardness and embarrassment of misunderstanding, Dick got up to go the bathroom.  So it was just Jerry, Lyndon, and a ticking clock.  Eventually, Lyndon broke through the awkward stillness.  He hemmed and hawed and, well, uh, er, so… asked how the kids were doing.  So Jerry ended up taking out his old photo album -- brown leather, rounded edges, zippered sides -- and he opened up the pages of his life to his old colleague.

So Jerry was showing Lyndon his old photo album, sitting at the kitchen table in the Johnson homestead -- Ladybird doing some pickling on the kitchen counter.  And then suddenly, perhaps to circumvent the awkwardness that had been growing between the two of them -- Lyndon adopted his bulldog, hyper-critical, snide-and-cynical persona.  He sneered at the pages of Jerry’s photo album made some snide, smart-alecky remark about Washington, or about Republicans, or about leadership in general.  The comment was immaterial, actually; his tone said it all.  Something about this comment just broke an emotional dam in Jerry.  His face became red and twisted -- partly enraged and partly trying not to cry.  He pointed a long, strong finger right at Lyndon’s face, and he rebuked him.

“Shut up, Lyndon.  Shut up.  Who are you to sneer?  Who are you to scoff -- when I’m left to finish what you started?  You left me holding the bag.  And whatever kind of cynicism you’ve developed over the last few years, I’m still not going to give you the moral high ground over me.  I deserve respect.  I DEMAND RESPECT!”

The words were not delivered in a gentle, measured, respectful way.  They were driven by anger, rage, hate, accusation, and a deep desire to shame and humiliate his predecessor.

In that moment, before Lyndon had a chance to respond -- other than staring at Jerry with a shocked expression, like a West Side Story stabbing -- the rest of life rushed back at them.  Dick stood in the doorway, silent but clearly having overheard most of the conversation.  Ladybird set her giant pickle jar down on the counter with a thud and whistled, “Whoa, take it easy, Jerry.”  And then, suddenly, the back door opened, and a group of a couple dozen strange Texans (including a handful of reporters, it seemed) piled into the room, ready to go out and celebrate Lyndon’s birthday.

So they all got swept up in the crowd and went along to the Spanish (not Mexican) restaurant in downtown Johnson City.  The conversation with the group was about trivial things like motorcycles and beers (things which presumably appealed to the “Birthday Boy,” but not so much to Jerry or Dick).  At the restaurant, Lyndon could not look Jerry in the eyes.  Jerry felt kind of bad for having laid into Lyndon like that, back at the ranch -- but not really bad.  In a way, he actually felt satisfied and smug in his own way.  He kept silent while everyone chattered around him.  And he kept looking at Lyndon to see him avert his eyes.  In their interchange, Jerry had become the Alpha Wolf; Lyndon was licking his genitals and trying to crawl back under the more dominant male.  And that suited Jerry just fine.

Eventually, Lyndon started to loosen up (though he still couldn’t lock eyes with Jerry).  His cool, smug, smart-alecky persona came back.  He started to play the hot-shot life-of-the-party.  He recommended some of his favorite -- "excellent” -- local, or at least regional, beers.  And then he leaned back in his chair, tipping up the front two legs, showing off a little bit and trying to get the attention of the pretty waitress.  And then he crashed.  The chair slipped out from under him, and he crashed hard to the floor.  It was obvious that it hurt.  It hurt him badly.  He tried to stay dignified and play it off like it was funny.  But everyone could tell that it was excruciating.  He was old, washed-up, jaded -- a pretender.  And his come-uppance had been delivered.  There was some stirring of compassion in Jerry’s heart for the poor guy, lying on the floor all bruised and battered like that.  But mostly, he felt satisfied.  As if justice had been served.

As everyone else stared and wondered what to do next, Jerry signaled the waitress and asked if he could pay for his drink.  He had to get back to life. He had to get back to work.  After settling up, he smiled a firm smile, nodded politely, put on his jacket, and walked out the door without looking back even for a moment.