Alone with a reporter, the congressman seems liberated. He talks for nearly three hours about the great blessings and heavy burdens of being a Kennedy and losing the desire for politics after his father's death.
"For me, I had an audience of one," Kennedy says. "That was my dad. He's the only person whose opinion mattered to me."
Growing up, his father "didn't know what to do with me," he recalls. "I really was in essence looking for a lot of attention, which he couldn't give me, and became really kind of inconsolable, and on top of that I had this depression issue. This whole opportunity to, like, overcome this sense of inadequacy and also to be able to be a co-equal, where he didn't have to worry . . . about how I was doing because clearly I managed to get myself enough on track where I had gotten elected to Congress. Clearly I had something going on."
When he's done talking, it's past midnight, and the janitor has long since emptied the trash cans. Kennedy slumps into a couch, in his frayed Levis, and closes his eyes.
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