Hello, Monica!

It's so nice to have her back where she belongs

National Interests by Gary Griffith

What a wonderful day it was last Saturday, when that woman, Monica Lewinsky, came back to Washington. The trial of the president was droning on in the Senate chamber, with the gasbags putting the statues to sleep. But at the Mayflower Hotel, a mile or so away, it was like old times, with photographers pushing, flashing, cursing, shoving, elbowing to get a shot of our girl Monica.

The photographers love her. They have staked out her lawyers' offices, the restaurants she visits, and her old Watergate apartment, day and night. She has been the queen of overtime. The sons and daughters of Washington news crews will have good orthodontic care for years to come because of Monica.

News comes and goes in this town. Usually it's not an adventure -- it's a job. But covering Monica is more fun than reporting on, say, dairy price supports. And this was definitely a more interesting town when Monica lived here.

She seems to have put on a few pounds since she moved to Los Angeles, but we don't care. We love her. We miss her. And it was great to see her again. The waiters at Morton's, the steak house across the street from her lawyers' office, were, I imagine, singing and dancing as if they were in the road show of Hello, Dolly! Reporters were humming along. Television producers were whistling. It's so nice to have her back in town!

Monica is happening. She makes the story a lead story. No one changes the channel when Monica is on TV. She is the diva, the prima donna. From the moment we first heard Monica's name, she has been a tease, a mystery, a curious unknown quantity. But she has never disappointed. The stories about Monica, bizarre as they originally seemed, have always panned out. What dramatist could have dreamed her up, this needy, chunky, grinning groupie with the thong panties?

We have seen her getting in and out of taxicabs. We have seen her black beret, her pink sweater, her fashion layout in Vanity Fair. We have read her story in the Starr Report: "She unbuttoned her jacket; either she unhooked her bra or he lifted her bra up; and he touched her breasts with his hands and mouth." Wow! When else have we ever had a government report like that?

The cigar. The blue dress. What librettist could have come up with an opera like this? We have heard her girlish voice on the Linda Tripp tapes: "The first time I ever looked into his eyes, close up, and was with him alone, I saw somebody totally different than I expected to see. And that's the person I fell in love with." Wow!

And where does the story go? He falls for her, too! He calls her on the phone at night. He gives her gifts. Their affair is betrayed by the wicked witch with the tape recorder. But he can't tell the world about her! He stonewalls! He lies! He gets impeached! The president of the United States gets impeached!

And then, then, just as the story was getting good . . . our Monica moved away. No interviews. No press conferences. She just slipped away. We all felt like Bob Dole. First he tested Viagra and was given a lifetime supply. Then he found out his next-door neighbor was Monica. And then she moved!

After she went away, our story got stale, populated by dull, shrill characters. Asa Hutchinson. Henry Hyde. Maxine Waters. Nerds. Toads. Scolds. The House debate was nasty. The Senate trial has been dry, dusty, and deadly boring. What fun is that? But then, arriving just off-stage, and just as our story began to lag, was Monica!

And then Tuesday, outside the Mayflower, Monica ran the gantlet of photographers again, leaving us for LA just as the House prosecutors announced that she was the top witness on their list. Monica! Come back! Don't do this to us!

She is the witness the prosecutors want, and the witness the White House fears. The vote on calling witnesses, which was expected to pass, won't settle when or how Monica will testify. The first step involves only depositions. So the issue of Monica's appearance may tease us for some time yet.

Will she get her hour on center stage? Will she walk into the well of the sacred Senate and tell her tale ? If Monica takes the stand, it is the trial of the century. If she doesn't, it will be the anticlimax of the month, and we will have had a great poetic injustice. After all, it ain't over . . . it can't be over . . . until the fat lady sings.

Gary Griffith is a long-time Boston journalist now based in Washington.