Category: Uncategorized

30

Friday, January 29, 2021, 12:00 PM Eastern Standard Time

It was noon, and the President was finally walking toward the Oval Office. He was looking at his phone, admiring his latest Toot:

–<() Federal Judges have no Jurysdiction in State Elections! They must resign or be Impeached! If I could be Impeached for a Hoax, then they should be impeached for True Crimes!

He did not like to have anything on his schedule before noon. Mornings were for “Executive Time.” “Executive Time” was devoted to drinking coffee and watching the Morning Wolf show on Wolf News until the knot in his gut had been dissolved; Tooting about his enemies and all the depredations they had practiced upon him over the past 24 hours, and also hyping his upcoming “Thank You Rallies” (for legal reasons they could not be called third-term campaign rallies yet, but he had been assured by the Senate Majority Leader that he could soon dispense with this subterfuge); eating a long breakfast, prominently featuring sausage patties; watching more Morning Wolf, and Tooting about the things they had said that he liked; re-visiting the President’s newly gold-plated private bathroom; and finally, after the signoff of Morning Wolf, rolling out of bed and heading for the similarly gold-plated shower he had had installed in the Presidential Suite.

This morning had been about as usual, with the exception of the now regular pain in his gut, which seemed to be somewhere around his stomach, and a pain in his lower back that might or might not have been associated with the gut pain. He wondered whether this new pain was a hangover from the virus. He attributed all such gut pain to his system being “backed up,” and his preferred treatment was to double down on sausage patties and add another cup of coffee to his breakfast, which had the effect, as he saw it, of “blowing out the tubes.” The pain did not go away, but he did feel a sense of relief afterward. His problems using his right hand, to drink out of glasses, for example, he had come to see as something he would simply have to live with. Maybe the gut and back pain would soon fall into that category as well.

But now it was 12:00, and he was in an ebullient mood. Normally afternoons were somewhat annoying, as his aides pestered him to sign documents, call donors, go to briefings to which he could not be bothered to pay attention, and worst of all, make decisions about things he couldn’t care less about.

But today was different. Today was another special day, the day, which normally occurred every other Friday, to run through the nuclear launch procedures with the Acting Defense Secretary. He was especially looking forward to it today, because it had been interrupted for more than a month recently by his bout with the virus.

The ritual had begun under the President’s first Defense Secretary, as a way for that Secretary to educate and manage the President. When that Defense Secretary had been escorted off the premises for publicly differing with the President on Middle East war policy, the DOD had thought that perhaps these briefings would go the way of the SecDef who had initiated them. But the President had seized upon them as his favorite thing to do.

“I have to be on top of this,” he told one of the succeeding Acting Secretaries of Defense. “This is the most powerful, presidential thing a President can do. Not many people know that FDR never even did this. I need to know how to do it.”

As several years had gone by, the President had altered the drill to make it “more real.” For the past year or so, during which he had gone through three Acting Secretaries, he had insisted on taking the launch sequence all the way up to the final step, the verification to all missile siloes by the Defense Secretary that it was the actual Commander in Chief issuing the orders, before calling off the launch.

“I want those guys in the siloes to be on their toes,” the President explained to his latest Acting Secretary, who had been in the office for several months, but who looked several years older than when he had accepted the job. “We need to be able to do this drill in four minutes or less.” The Acting Secretary had popped another antacid tablet and nodded.

Today, as the President walked into the Oval Office, the Acting Secretary was waiting for him, with a slightly younger, taller man alongside him. Both of them were masked, as per protocol.

“Hey, Jim,” the President said.

“Uh, it’s John, Mr. President.”

“Okay, John. Who’s this?”

“This is Larry. We had discussed the possibility that he could replace me.”

“Replace you? I just got you trained up.”

“Yes, sir. But I have a physical condition that has caused my doctors to recommend that I take it easier and spend more time with my family.”

“Squirt, boys.”

Both guests went for their temporary belt-holsters, each marked with the President’s corporate logo, squirted disinfectant gel on their already latex-gloved hands, and rubbed thoroughly.

“You should get your office fumigated,” the President said. “Something seems to be catching in that place. Last three guys I had in that office all got sick with that gotta-spend-time-with-family thing.”

“That is quite a coincidence, sir. I’ll get right on that.”

“Okay, so Larry here has passed all the tests and background checks?”

“Yes sir,” Larry said.

“What’s your background?”

“I was in a Carrier Task Force for a while, sir, and then after that I worked for a defense contractor for ten more.”

“Did you vote for me?”

John coughed loudly.

“You really are sick,” the President said. “Okay, I believe you.” He turned toward the door.

“Mrs. Johnson?”

“Yes, sir?” his secretary’s voice said, from the speaker on his desk.

“Cleanup on Aisle 6. We’re gonna need someone to spray here.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

“In the meantime, put some more gel on your hands, please, Jim. So, Larry, did you vote for me?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Both times?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Johnson escorted a white-clad janitor into the room; he sprayed the entire room, with the exception of the President’s immediate vicinity, with a fine mist of some ionizing disinfectant.

“Now swap those masks for new ones,” the President said.

“Me too?” asked Larry.

“Better safe than sorry,” the President said. “Put ’em on, boys.”

Both men did as they were told. Mrs. Johnson, clad in a surgical gown, gloves, and face shield, dropped the old masks in a sterile bag, sealed it, and walked out of the office behind the janitor, holding the bag in front of her as she might have held nuclear waste, or perhaps someone else’s baby who had unexpectedly dirtied his diaper.

“So, are you familiar with this whole rigamarole here, Jerry?”

“Larry, sir. I’ve been briefed on it, sir.” Larry’s voice was muffled by the mask.

“Huh? What’d you say?” the President said.

“I SAID I’VE BEEN BRIEFED ON IT, SIR,” Larry shouted.

“Jesus, no need to scream,” the President said. “So you can explain the procedure to me,” he continued. “Take me through it, then. This is the most presidential thing I do.”

“Yes sir, Mr. President,” Larry said, surreptitiously pulling his phone out and looking down. “If you, Mr. President, decide to order the use of nuclear weapons, you will be taken aside by the ‘carrier’ of the ‘nuclear football,’ and the briefcase would be opened.”

“It’s not a football.”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

“It doesn’t even look like a football. It’s just a heavy briefcase. Nobody knows that. It’s very interesting.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, so the briefcase is opened.”

“Then a command signal, or ‘watch’ alert, would be issued to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“That’s the heads of the Army, Navy, Coast Guard, etc.”

“Army, Navy, Marine Corps, and Air Force.”

“No Coast Guard?”

Larry’s eyes narrowed. He quickly looked down at his phone. He made an executive decision.

“No, sir.” Larry looked quickly at the Acting Secretary for a fraction of a second, then plunged on.

“You as President would then review the attack options with me, if I am honored to be made the Acting Secretary of Defense, as well as with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and decide on a plan, which could range from a single cruise missile to multiple ICBM launches.”

“I don’t like that I have to consult the head of the Joint thing.”

“Sir?”

“That takes time. We need to be able to do this fast in an emergency.”

“We will, sir. But we really should talk to the head of the military, because he has the missiles. He will have to help execute the launch.”

“All right. As long as he doesn’t hold things up.”

The Acting Secretary coughed again, inside his mask. The President shot him a look. Larry cleared his throat and forged ahead.

“There are preset war plans developed under OPLAN 8010, which used to be called the Single Integrated Operational Plan. Then, using Milstar…”

“Milstar?”

“Milstar, sir. It’s a satellite system for military communications.”

“Oh. I thought it was a drug for people who are a little nuts.”

“Sir?”

“You know, Milstar. That drug they used to use in the ’50s.”

The Acting Secretary cut in. “I believe that was Miltown, Mr. President.”

“Miltown. That might be it. But I think it might be Milstar. I have a very good memory. Some people say I am a genius.”

“Yes, sir,” Larry said.

“Do you think I’m a genius, Larry?”

“I think it takes genius to be elected President of the United States,” Larry said.

“They said it couldn’t be done,” the President said. “And I did it twice.”

“Yes, sir,” Larry said. “You did.”

“I think he might work out, Jim,” the President said to the Acting Secretary. The Acting Secretary looked as though he was about to say something, then simply nodded.

“So, what’s next?” the President asked.

“So, the aide, a military officer who has completed a Yankee White background check, the most rigorous type, would contact the National Military Command Center and NORAD to determine the scope of the strike.”

“I think I am the one who says the scope of the strike.”

“Yes, sir. I think what I meant to say is, they take your order and try to figure out what weapons they have to send where so as to do what you want.”

“That’s more like it. But it sounds like that could take even more time.”

“I am told… that they are pretty good at doing that very quickly. I think it only takes a minute or less. So, after they do that, the Milstar…”

“Miltown, I think we decided.”

“Whatever you say, sir. After they do that, the comms systems would air the currently valid nuclear launch code to all nuclear delivery systems that are operational.”

“And then kaboom?”

“Almost, sir. There are two more steps.”

“I tell you, in the private sector we would eliminate all these steps. I’d have a button on this desk. Someone crosses us, kapow.”

“A two-person verification procedure would be executed following this, and then the codes would be entered in a Permissive Action Link.”

“Two more people? Jeez.”

“This is to make sure someone doesn’t try to launch our nuclear weapons when you don’t want to do that.”

“No wonder we haven’t launched them in all of history. It’s too hard. I hope our enemies don’t know how hard it is for me to whack them.”

“Two people in each missile silo have to agree that the launch codes they have received match the ones they have that they know are the currently valid codes. It’s standard procedure, sir.”

“There has to be a way to simplify this.”

“Finally…”

“Finally. I get to push the button?”

“There’s no button, sir.”

“So what do I do?”

“Actually, it’s what the Secretary of Defense does. If it were me, I would then verify that it is you that has issued the order, by giving them the special code that is on a plastic card known as ‘the biscuit.’”

“But once I order the attack, you can’t stop it.”

“No, sir, no one can stop it.”

“And how long does this whole procedure take?”

“Well, I’ve never been through it, sir,” said Larry, looking over at John, “but my understanding is, it would take little more than four minutes from start to finish.”

“Okay,” said the President. “Let’s do it.”

“Sir?” Larry said, a startled look on his face.

“Let’s run through the procedure thing.”

John turned to Larry. “It’s something he likes to do on a biweekly basis,” he said, his voice still muffled by the mask. “We run through the entire procedure up to the reading of the code off the biscuit, then don’t give them the code, and it’s called off.”

Larry’s eyes grew wide. Stars appeared at the edges of his visual field. His brain, seemingly under the impression he had jumped off a cliff or stepped in front of a freight train, rapidly began to review the steps that had brought him to this point.

***

“Come on, Larry. It’s a snap. You can do this. You were IN the Navy. I wasn’t even in the military at all. You’d be surprised at what a difference that makes with these people.”

Larry hit the accelerator of the golf cart and headed toward the rough to find John’s ball.

“I don’t know, John. I’ve got a pretty good gig here at the country club. And it’s been a while since I was in the military.”

“But you worked for a contractor for a few years. Right?”

“Yeah, after I got out I worked for one. I was in maintenance. I took care of the motor pool. Kept the cars gassed up and cleaned.”

“How’d that go?”

“Great, until the incident.”

“Incident…?” John shook his head as if to get back on track. “I don’t even care. I have to get out of this job. You can do it. I’ve seen you work. They have people who can tell you all the details, do everything for you. And like I said, from what I can see, they like military guys.”

“I don’t know, John. I can barely remember who to salute or the difference between an F-18 and an F150. And there was that time I, uh, lost that one plane.”

“You lost a plane?”

“Well, it fell.”

“It fell?”

“Off the carrier. One of my shipmates and I were a little drunk and made a bet… anyway before you know it the plane slid off the end and kabloop.”

“Kabloop?”

“It fell off the stern.”

“How’d that end up?”

“We pinned it on a third guy who was even drunker.”

“Oh, I think you will fit in just fine at this place.”

***

“Let’s get going,” the President said. “Bring the football guy in.” John rose from the couch in front of the Resolute Desk and went to the exterior door. “Mrs. Johnson, can you send the Military Aide in?”

The military aide, a Coast Guard Commander, with a nameplate displaying the name SMITH, walked in with the suitcase. Her posture was ramrod straight, and she looked composed, but close examination might have revealed a bit of twitching around her left eye.

“I thought you said the Coast Guard wasn’t part of this,” the President said, accusingly.

The Acting Secretary looked back and forth, then stammered, “Your military aide can be a Coast Guard officer, but the Joint Chiefs do not include anyone from the Coast Guard.”

The President appraised him with a raised eyebrow.

“Sometimes I think you people are making all this shit up just to make me feel dumb.”

“I assure you, we are not, sir,” the Acting Secretary said.

The President stared at him for several seconds.

“Okay, let’s do it,” the President finally said. “Open the briefcase.”

Larry, the would-be new Acting Secretary, looked over at the Acting Secretary with wide eyes over his mask. The Acting Secretary’s expression revealed nothing.

The military aide bent over, opened the leather-clad metal suitcase on the table across from the Resolute desk, and then stood at attention.

John, watching the President, thought he looked absolutely delighted, like a small child who has come downstairs before dawn to open presents on Christmas morning. He backed away behind the President to surreptitiously raise his mask and swallow an antacid, and wondered to himself how soon he might be able to get out of this job.

Then a thought occurred to him:

If I do get out of this job, and someone else is doing this every two weeks, will I ever sleep soundly again?

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

31

Monday, February 1, 2021, 8:50 AM Eastern Standard Time

Mary drove to work and listened to National Public Radio, as she had surreptitiously done for some 14 years, ever since her family’s lives had started to fall apart. It was a habit she had not quite broken, despite the change in her political opinions; NPR seemed to have more plain news than the other stations, and fewer loud-mouthed editorialists and commercials. Though the frequent breaks for sponsor shout-outs had begun to erode that advantage in the past decade.

“For one final time, this is NPR News in Washington,” the smooth-voiced announcer intoned.

So it’s over, Mary thought. And this guy is the one telling us. I wish it was the old guy who did the morning show, or the nice Jewish lady. They seemed more human, less like a radio voice, like this guy has.

“This will apparently be the last broadcast of Morning Edition for at least some time to come, maybe forever,” the anchor continued. “Our facilities and our web sites have been sold to a private equity fund, and our affiliates will be taken over after today, and their formats changed; to what type of programming, we have not been informed. Our ability to operate as a radio network is controlled by a federally-supported private corporation, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. The board of that corporation has voted to shut down our network. They have not given us any reason why this decision was taken.

“I have worked for various parts of National Public Radio for some twenty-five years, and it has been my privilege to bring you the news as I have seen it, to give both sides of any issue, and to question advocates for every political side as vigorously as I knew how. Any suggestion that political bias has determined any of the editorial decisions I or any of the colleagues I know have made is, I can assure you, absolutely false.

“Like many of my colleagues here,” he continued, “I have seen NPR grow and expand and become more professional. Maybe in some ways too professional. We have at the same time seen our government support shrink. On this, our final day, less than ten percent of our funding comes from the federal government. The remainder, as you have often heard from us in recent years, comes from corporate sponsorships and from listeners like you. I have in the past strongly supported this shift in sources of support; I believed that it gave us more independence from political influence by whatever party happened to be in power in the White House or Congress.

“I have to say today that I was almost certainly wrong. It appears that political influence from the highest level, as well as influence brought to bear by some of our more recent corporate sponsors, has been behind this decision to shut the network down. The people who caused this change to be made have refused our repeated requests to explain why we, and PBS News, no longer will be on the air. I can only conclude that they have determined that strong, independent, objective media reporting facts as they see them is a danger to their political aims.

“Many of us, like so many of you, now unemployed, will be searching for other ways to continue our mission of bringing the American people the truth. I would simply urge all of you to remember that the great danger to this country, to your freedom, to your way of life, may not come from lies spouted endlessly from partisan propaganda mills, nor even from the sort of superficial corporate-sponsored scandal- and celebrity-obsessed pablum you see on network television, nor even from the crude falsehoods of social media. No. The real danger, ladies and gentlemen, comes from the silence, the lack of outlets even attempting to bring you objective truth. After today, we will be part of that silence. And silence is always harder to recognize than the loud braying of partisan or commercial cacophony that surely will replace us.

“For fifty years, NPR News has tried to bring you the plain unvarnished truth. We have not been perfect, to be sure. Bias is human. But perhaps our greatest error came in not standing up strongly enough against a regime that from the beginning stated its open intention to shut down all points of view other than its own. If I had it to do over again, I would be far harder on the people who were doing their best to fool you, and perhaps a bit easier on those who were desperately trying to warn you about the danger.

“I don’t know if it would have changed anything if I had done so. I do know I would feel better today. It is a sad moment for us here at NPR. But more significantly, it is a dangerous moment for America. We are on a slippery slope now – in fact, we have been sliding for some time, and we are picking up momentum. I ask you to do whatever you can, from wherever you are, to halt this slide, and to help reverse it. We have lost our particular fight. But we live to fight another day. Thank you, and from Morning Edition, for the last time, so long.”

Mary listened to the theme song and credits.

It’s sad to hear them go, she thought.

Then she thought, But they have only themselves to blame. They haven’t been the same recently. They used to have that nice old guy with the smooth voice doing that variety show on Saturday nights. It was like the olden times, like church. It had a homily, and songs, and humor, and it was midwestern, like us. Even Jeff liked it, even if he complained about that guy’s politics. But they kicked him out, and Saturday night hasn’t been the same since. They replaced him with a strange loud show with strange loud bands and strange comedians saying stuff I don’t like. And that quiz show they have with those smartass people all trying to one-up each other and laughing too loud at their own jokes, usually making fun of the President, who was sick, and who was paying for all this, right? And all the shows about minorities, always complaining how everything’s so terrible. I know things are bad for them, but there’s nothing to make us feel good anymore. Why should taxes pay for stuff that makes fun of the President and people like me?

And if they’re so smart, she concluded, how come they keep losing elections? Let them try to get real jobs with those smart mouths.

Mary switched the radio to Jeff’s favorite station. The theme song for their big show was just starting.

She heard Guns N’ Roses, and felt the anticipation of a real radio personality about to rev his audience up with red meat.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian 

32

Monday, February 1, 2021, 12:00 PM Pacific Standard Time

The applause came in waves toward the end of the Women’s Empowerment Event at the downtown San Francisco hotel, in response to a question from one of the audience members.

The recipient of the applause, however, was shaking her head.

“No, not gonna happen, sorry,” she said, shaking her head firmly, if a little sadly, in her seat on the stage next to the ultra-famous television star.

The audience responded with disappointment, a smattering of mock masked boos. “Nope, nope, nope,” she said.

“We have discussed this before,” said her interlocutor, seated next to her on the stage. “It’s not fair to expect her to save the world.”

***

The question session had come after a morning devoted to the theme of the gathering, Turning Inward, and an afternoon of meditation exercises and panel discussions with a series of special guests. Women, mostly of middle age, mostly but by no means all liberal, had come to get encouragement from two of their idols as they faced the inevitable disappointments and tribulations of their lives.

“You can’t get fulfillment from outside,” the global television star had assured them, as she held the stage alone earlier in the morning. “You can’t get it from wealth, from other people, from being admired. You can’t even get it from achievement.”

The women, all wearing pink and black masks embossed with the arty Women’s Empowerment logo, all nodded at the richest, most admired, most successful woman in the world; it was so obvious that you couldn’t get fulfillment from wealth or public esteem or success.

“You can only get fulfillment from within.”

Murmurs of agreement.

One woman broke the silence. “Then can I have your house?”

Laughter all around.

“I don’t think you’d want it!” the television star said, laughing herself. “I need it for fund-raisers and the like. It’s a giant pain in the… well, you know. I don’t spend too much time there.”

“I’ll take care of it for you!” the same woman said. More laughter. Even from the television star.

It was time to change the subject. “Now, ladies, I’d like to introduce someone whom I know you all know. Her new book Creating Yourself has been at the top of the New York Record bestseller list for almost a year. She used to live in a certain house in downtown Washington, DC; now she lives with her husband, who she says mostly hangs around the house when he’s not doing charity work, in the D.C. suburbs. She is a lawyer and an executive in a number of charities, and she previously worked in the health care field. She had to do a book tour anyway, so I told her, ‘Hey girlfriend, let’s go on a road trip together, maybe help some people while you’re flogging these books. ‘Thelma and Louise’-style, but with a happier ending, I hope.’”

The audience laughed.

“And she graciously agreed. So, without further ado, ladies, and the few gentlemen here, most of whom work for me,” [laughs and light applause], “Marilyn Okomo!”

Thunderous applause greeted the former First Lady as she walked slowly across the stage to the waiting armchair that was angled to face both her friend and interlocutor, and the rapturous audience. She approached the television star, and, once within about eight feet, they both mimed a hug from a distance, and half-collapsed in laughter. Then they came to each other and hugged in earnest. They released each other as the applause began to attenuate. The former First Lady went over to her seat and sat down.

“We can do that, we can hug,” she said to the audience. “You all should be careful, even the President and his wife got this, but we two” – here she gestured to the other woman – “we’re kind of a unit after 50 cities of this. Anything she’s got, I’ve got, and vice-versa.”

“Well, you’ve probably got whatever he’s got, by now.” She seemed to realize what that sounded like, and widened her eyes and covered her mouth while looking at the audience.

“Well… maybe not EVERYTHING.”

“Well, he’s a very healthy man.”

“Yes, he is. It’s kind of disgusting. Blood pressure’s nothing over nothing. Surprised he’s still alive.”

They had played this act dozens of times now, with virtually the same lines. The audience was the thing that made it possible to repeat these rehearsed lines as though they had just arisen in the moment, she decided. They were eating it up. They clearly thought they were part of her private inner circle now. Is that dangerous? she thought. I hope it doesn’t somehow come back to bite us.

“So, tell us all about this book,” the television star said.

“Well, it’s been out a while now. I felt I needed to do something to force myself to prepare for the rest of my life, after we were released from prison – I mean the White House.”

The audience laughed.

“Of course, it turns out that once you’ve been in there, you’re never really released. We have the Secret Service around all the time. It’s probably worse for the kids. They have had this all around them, inescapable, their whole lives.”

“It’s got to be hard for them. I mean, you and I more or less chose this for ourselves.”

“Well, YOU did.”

The audience laughed at this.

“So, you feel…”

“I… well, as you know, I was not happy with the prospect of a presidential run back in 2008. I did accept it, and go along with it, knowing it was going to be over after four or eight years. Certainly, I was more a part of the decision process, and more aware of what we might be getting into, than the kids were. But obviously it was not my idea.”

“Okay. So, you did not enjoy that experience at all?”

“Well, life is what you make of it. I did my best to use my position for good. Certainly, there was some fulfillment from that. And we had a wonderful group of people there, committed, caring, dedicated people. I actually miss them now. I didn’t have time to really appreciate that back then.”

“So, what do you think about what’s going on now?”

The FFLOTUS shivered.

“I am very happy not to think about it at all.”

“You have no opinions about it?”

“Well, everyone has opinions. But politics spoils everything these days. It’s so divisive. That’s why in this book I concentrate on the future and on women’s internal struggles and triumphs. That’s where we all really live, anyway. The external stuff, that, to me, seems kind of fake.”

And it wouldn’t help your book sales to get into it, her husband had told her before the tour began. She still wondered whether he was simply giving her advice, or being sarcastic. He was so smooth and amiable that sometimes when he was expressing anything darker it just went right over everyone’s head.

“You don’t think there’s a place to get political?”

“Oh, I think everyone should feel free to express their political opinions and work for whatever world they want. I’ve certainly done that. I just don’t think we should do it ALL the time.”

You know, you could win, he had said to her one night, two years ago.

Win what? she had said.

He had just looked at her.

The presidency? she said. Are you crazy?

Maybe. But he could never beat you. He could never attack you the way he attacks me, or the other candidates. I think you would befuddle him.

I’m not a politician! she had almost yelled.

I know, he said. That’s another reason he would have trouble with you.

Just shut up, she told him. To think of getting back into that insanity, just when we’ve escaped.

Have we escaped, though? he said.

Yes, we have, she said. We’re not under that microscope anymore.

But we still have the Secret Service. We still can’t go outside and walk the dog. We can’t go to the grocery.

And whose fault is that?

I’m just saying, it would be less of a change for us than for almost anyone else out there.

Oh, it would be a big change, she said. A huge change. Whose idea was this? One of the Dans?

No. No one’s said a thing to me. I just felt that I could not let this time pass without telling you that this is something that you really could do.

Well, now you’ve told me, she said. It’s not fair of you to lay that on me. There are 300 million people in this country, and it’s all on me?

You’re right, he said. It’s not fair.

Well, I’m glad we agree.

Life’s not fair.

Don’t you lay this on me.

I guess I did, and I apologize.

Good.

But I want you to know, you could do this. Certainly better than it is being done now. I would say you are the only lock I can see to beat this guy.

She had turned away from him angrily in the bed.

You would not be alone. I did not do it alone. I needed help, and I had help. You would have the same help. And you have a better connection to individual people than I ever did.

She remained silently furious.

I’ll shut up about it.

GOOD, she said.

But just think about this. Life really is not fair. It’s not fair to ask you even to consider this. You’re right, we just got out. Things are far more peaceful, less stressful. And that job is not just difficult. It’s even dangerous. Maybe more dangerous now than ever before.

She remained silent, fuming.

But sometimes life makes you choose between well-earned comfort and something higher. Sometimes you have to do something simply because you can do something, and it is needed.

Nice speech, Mr. President. But I can’t do that.

I promise, I won’t bring this up again. If you decide not to pursue it, well, okay. God knows it is too much to ask of anyone, most of all you, after what you have already sacrificed. I just did not want you to look back later and think, “I could have done something.”

So you’ll be telling me “I told you so?”

He rolled over and put his hand on her shoulder.

You know me, he said. I promise those words will never come out of my mouth. Not as long as I live. Never.

He kissed the back of her head and rolled on to his back on his side of the bed.

I know I look cool and content to everyone, he said to the ceiling. But I see it. He’s destroying it, piece by piece. It’s not your job to stop that. It was my job to make sure what we accomplished was solid enough to survive whatever anyone tried to do to it. I failed. If he’s re-elected, he’ll finish the job. It will be as though we were never there. That’s what the people who elected him, and the people around him, want. To erase us. And to go further, to do whatever they can to make this a country where what we believe in can never be achieved. I’d be lying if I said that has no effect on me.

She remained silent, but her anger dissipated.

But you’re right. It’s not your job to compensate for what I failed to do. I don’t know how I could have done better. If I had been louder, they would have said “Look at that scary black man, look at his rage.” If I had been softer, they would have rolled me even worse than they did. I did the best I knew how. I just never expected this reactive rage, this nihilism, this mindless vandalism.

She stared away at the far side of the room.

Let’s get some sleep, he said, yawning. Tomorrow’s another big day of doin’ nothin’.

She rolled partway back, and said to him, I’m not a politician. I’m not like you.

I know, he said. I know. Let’s go back to sleep.

***

“I just want to create a space where we can leave all that divisive political stuff behind, and just be ourselves, talk about what’s really important.”

The audience applauded respectfully.

“Well you don’t have to tell me about people wanting you to get political,” the television star said. “People are always trying to get me to run.” She turned to the audience. “And that’s why I am here today to announce…”

The audience, dumbstruck, stared at her.

“…That I am running as fast as I can away from that idea, and so is my sister here.”

There was a collective sucking of air in the auditorium, and then loud laughter and clapping.

“So let’s bring out our expert on meditation, Dr. Ranee Chaudhury! Come on out, Dr. Chaudhury, and teach us how to breathe!”

An Indian woman dressed in a sari came onto the stage and stood up in front of the two women, who were standing and applauding.

“All right, who wants serenity?” she said. Loud cheers.

“Okay,” Dr. Chaudhury said, sitting down on the stage in a cross-legged position. “Let’s all clear our minds. I want you to be aware of your breathing, don’t try to control it, just be aware of it, and try to let go of your thoughts.”

Let go of your thoughts, Marilyn told herself. Don’t think about it. Let it go.

This was her favorite part of the tour. Let it go.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian 

33

Tuesday, February 2, 2021, 12PM Eastern Standard Time

“That son of a bitch.”

The President’s son-in-law was seething. He got up and closed the door of his office in the West Wing of the White House. He came back and sat down behind his desk.

“I know.” Max King oozed sympathy.

“I want that guy in prison,” he said, resuming his diatribe.

“I know you do. But it’s not going to happen. Not soon, anyway. He’s got the kind of money that buys countries.”

“We’ve got the biggest country already. We should be able to do whatever we want to anyone we want.”

“Yeah. I get it. But you have to be patient. Brent is too powerful at the moment. Also…”

“Also?”

“Also, not to put too fine a point on it, but he did write a check to us for $30 million.”

“It should have been $3 billion!”

“Yes. But it never was going to be. We don’t want to bankrupt the RNC. Hell, they got us re-elected.”

The Son-in-Law considered this.

“That is true. But he didn’t have to go after my father that way. The son of a bitch. I want his head on a pike.”

“Some day, maybe,” Maxfield King said. “Now, let’s talk about something more cheerful. I’ve got the numbers in for the antiviral drug. We may actually make up that $3 billion shortfall.”

“Really?” The Son-in-Law brightened.

“We’ve had Dr. Mo flogging it for over a year. His ratings are off the charts. He’s going to want a cut, of course.”

“How much?”

“A lot. Not $3 billion. But a lot.” Max smiled.

The Son-in-Law grimaced.

“How soon can we expect that windfall?” he asked.

“Are you having liquidity problems?”

The Son-in-Law was silent.

“The building in New York?”

“We thought we had turned the corner after the sheiks gave us that cash infusion. But this freaking virus. It’s thrown all our projections out of whack. Half our tenants have stopped paying rent.”

“Have you tried telling them that the virus is a Deep State Hoax?” Max said, smiling. He instantly saw that his joke had gone over with a thud.

“I’m kidding,” he said. “You get anything out of the bailouts?”

“Of course,” the Son-in-Law said. “We set up the usual shell corporations so we could qualify for small business loans and grants. The lawyers know how to do that in their sleep by now. As you know.”

“So what’s the issue?”

“It’s not enough.”

“You bought that building at too high a price, just like they said. It happens. Win some, lose some.”

The Son-in-Law radiated a look of hatred toward him. Max realized that this topic was never going to elicit anything other than bad feeling.

“Don’t even go there,” the Son-in-Law said.

“Anyway, cash should not be a problem for you right now, even with that building. We are making a ton off the virus testing facilities and the MK medallions. The profits from those are being routed through the shell corporations too, right?”

“Yes,” the Son-in-Law said.

“You can surely figure out how to get some of that cash back into the country. And I can forward you some cash. Move some stuff around. The usual friendly rate.”

“Thanks,” the Son-in-Law said flatly, with no gratitude whatsoever.

“Don’t worry so much. I tell you, we are getting some serious coin out of this drug. Medicare and Medicaid are buying this stuff like aspirin.”

“But hopefully not for an aspirin price.”

“Not even close. We’re going to need those lawyers to concoct a lot more of those special vehicles so we can direct this money offshore. We can’t let it out that the President’s family and friends are minting money off this disaster.”

“Let me know when that money is coming in,” the Son-in-Law said. “I’m going to need the lawyers to help me figure out how to get that cash where it’s needed.”

“New York,” Max said. “Listen… I can always get our friends in Moscow to chip in.”

The Son-in-Law almost visibly shivered. “Not those guys.”

“Come on, they’re great guys.”

“Maybe to you.”

“They like you.”

“They like me for dinner. Let’s just say, there’s a reason my family left that place in a hurry in the 1890s.”

“Suit yourself,” Max said. “But seriously, what we are getting from the drug must be able to cover anything you need for the building.”

“What about the vaccine?”

“We are in competition with some foreign elements. We are praying the Europeans don’t get there first. They’re talking some bullshit about making any vaccine a ‘Global Public Good.’ It’d be a disaster, like the Salk polio vaccine – cheaply available to everyone, no excess profits at all.”

“Jesus,” the Son-in-Law said. “That would be all we need.”

“This disease would be gone overnight. The whole market opportunity would collapse.”

“That would be a catastrophe, like the oil price plunge last year,” the Son-in-Law said.

“But let’s be optimistic. Our guys might get there first. And they realize we’re the only conduit to Medicare and Medicaid. We’ll get a nice haircut then. You can dump that building, or buy five more if you want.”

“And if the Chinese get there first?”

“We’ll still get a cut,” Max said. “As you know, I’m tight with the Chinese. Even if your father-in-law isn’t.”

“He’s just holding their feet to the fire. Like they do with us.”

Max didn’t respond to this. There was no foot-holding, or fires, before the President got in, he thought to himself. He’d had to walk a tightrope with the Chinese ever since the President had gotten in, and even more so since the President had started claiming that the Chinese government had released the virus on purpose to damage him. Max’s entire contract for building dozens of camps in Xinjiang had at times hung in the balance. But his clients there knew how close he was to the President, and they also knew that he knew exactly how many Uighur civilians were being held in those “military bases,” and they correctly figured that he had made arrangements to leak that information to the right people in case he met an untimely accident. He did retain some mutually beneficial partnerships with Chinese pharmaceutical firms, and he was reasonably optimistic that they would offer him and his associates, the Son-in-Law and the President among them, a respectable cut in order to get FDA approval and Medicare-Medicaid distribution for any vaccine they came up with.

But the Europeans were a different matter. They were far less amenable to such “businesslike” practices.

“Well, I have to go,” Max said. “Let’s hope those Euro-trash idealists don’t fuck things up for us.”

“Right,” said the Son-in-Law. “And let’s try to keep Dr. Mo’s demands reasonable. He’s not worth that much.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Max said, getting up. “Cheer up, man. Things are looking up.”

The Son-in-Law watched him leave with a grim look on his face.

I don’t trust that guy, he said to himself.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

34

Tuesday, February 2, 2021, 1PM, Eastern Standard Time

“Sir, what is your name?”

The bearded patient, sitting up in a chair now, simply smiled.

The Secret Service man tried again.

“Sir, your name?”

“Zed,” the man suddenly said.

“Zed?”

“Zed.”

“That could be some kind of alias,” the other Secret Service agent said. “I’ll run it through our systems just to be sure.”

The first agent looked at the second one as if perhaps he belonged in St. Elizabeth’s. Then he turned to the staff physician.

“You don’t know anything more about him?”

“Not a thing. I think he got hit pretty hard in the head. How’d you track him here?”

“Photo database. We still don’t have an identification, though.”

“What is your interest in him? He’s not dangerous, is he?”

The first Secret Service man stared at the patient. The patient beamed at him.

“He doesn’t look dangerous to me,” the first Secret Service man said. “We do have pictures of him outside the White House, though.”

“You think he might be a threat to the President?”

The Secret Service man did not answer. He pulled the other agent over to the corner.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said.

“What?” the other agent said.

“This guy isn’t exactly what the boss said he was looking for,” the first agent said.

“No,” the other agent said. “Well, he’s got the beard. And he was outside the White House.”

“Exactly,” the first agent said.

“Exactly what?”

“This thing is top priority, right?”

“Right.”

“And we’re going to be stuck looking for this guy until we find him.”

“Right…”

“And the Director wants us to find him ASAP.”

“Right.”

“So, what if we made this guy look a little more like the bogey we are looking for?”

“What?”

The first agent turned back toward the chair in which the patient was sitting.

“Well… he’s too young. Maybe we can whiten the beard a little bit.”

“How?”

The first agent wasn’t listening.

“Maybe in the limo on the way to the White House…. Do you still have that contact at the DC cops, the makeup woman who fixes up the undercover cops?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay. We can take Zed here on a little ride and have your gal whiten his beard.”

“I don’t know.”

“We have to do something. The Director sounds pretty desperate.”

“Okay…”

The first agent turned to the doctor.

“What’s involved in getting him sprung, for a visit somewhere?”

“What do you mean, like to the Oval Office?” the doctor said jokingly.

The Secret Service man stared at him.

“Uh, there’s some paperwork,” the doctor said. “You have to sign him out, and you have responsibility for him while he is out and about. And you have to bring him back the same day.”

“Okay,” the Secret Service man said.

“You want to take him now?”

“No, no,” the first Secret Service man said. “But don’t move him from here for the time being. Here’s my card. Inform me if there’s any more information about him, and give me a heads-up if he is supposed to be moved anywhere. Or if you find out who he is, where he’s from, anything like that.”

“Okay,” the doctor said.

“We might want to take him out at some point soon.”

“All right, I guess,” the doctor said. “We have no next of kin for him, so until we do, I guess you can do that.”

“Call me if there is any change at all in his status,” the Secret Service man said.

“Is Zed here a matter of national security?” the doctor said.

The Secret Service man stared at him unblinkingly.

“Okay,” the doctor said meekly.

The Secret Service agents turned, left the room, and stalked off toward the elevator. The doctor followed them out.

A moment later, an elderly African-American woman rolled a trolley into the room.

“How we doing today?” she asked.

“Zed,” the man answered, beaming.

“I know what you need,” she said. “Look at that hair and that beard. You’ll feel better if you get them cut, won’t you?”

“Zed,” the man said, still smiling.

“Yeah, what you need is a little cleanup!”

“Zed.”

The woman pulled a barber’s gown out and approached the man. He radiated joy at her.

“You’re a happy boy, aren’t you?” she said, as she fastened the gown around him. “But that beard is in the way, ain’t it? You want me to shave it off, while I’m cuttin’ your hair?”

“Zed,” the man said, happily.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian 

Part Three

You Don’t Know What You’ve Got Till It’s Gone

35

Tuesday, February 2, 2021, 3:00 PM Eastern Standard Time

Jane sat in the waiting room of the Free Clinic for the second time in about a week, in her mask, and waited for the results of her antibody test. She idly wondered why they had to be presented in person. Maybe it was a privacy thing.

“Jane?” the nurse said, beckoning from the door to the interior of the doctors’ office.

Jane got to her feet and went through the doorway as the nurse held it open for her. “Room 2 again,” the nurse said, pointing. “Doctor will be there in a minute.”

Jane started toward the room in which her blood had been drawn, then quickly asked the nurse, “Bathroom?”

The nurse pointed to a door across the narrow hallway. Jane nodded and ducked quickly into the restroom, just closing the door before she pulled her mask up and vomited, mostly into the toilet.

She was still cleaning the resulting mess two minutes later when she heard the low voice of the doctor speaking in an interrogatory tone to someone else. She used a sanitary wipe on the last bits of her breakfast, flushed the toilet, and got up, steadying herself on the sink. Maybe I really do have the virus, she said to herself.

She washed her hands, rinsed her mouth with mouthwash, toweled off, took in a deep breath, and opened the door.

The doctor was standing there with a slightly confused look, staring at a computer tablet in his hand. He looked up and saw her. She smiled shyly.

“Jane?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Come on in.”

He held the examination room door open for her. She walked in and sat down at the chair to the side.

“No, can you sit on the examination table?” he said.

“Uh, okay,” she said.

The doctor put some latex gloves on and rubbed them with sanitizing gel. He waved his hands while the gel evaporated.

“How do you feel?”

“Uh, okay, except for this stomach bug.”

The doctor felt the glands under her jaw, where, Jane had to admit, she did feel some tenderness. Then he stepped back and looked at her.

“How long have you been feeling ill?”

“Uh, the coughing, maybe a couple of weeks.”

“And the nausea?”

“That’s new. Maybe a couple of days.”

“If I could ask, when is your period due?”

She wracked her brain. She felt logy and slow.

“I’m… I can’t remember exactly,” she said, finally.

“Could you have missed it?”

Suddenly she was completely awake and aware.

“Uh…” she said, desperately trying to calculate.

“Because your blood test came back positive, but for pregnancy, not the virus.”

She froze, trying to process this information.

After a minute she said, “So I don’t have the virus.”

“That’s right.”

“But I am….” She could not make herself finish the sentence.

“Right,” the doctor said. “Pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

“That, we double-check before we tell you.”

Jane sat on the examination table and examined the doctor. Latex gloves. Mask. How old was he? Not too old. She saw several gray hairs near his temples, and some crow’s feet at the side of his eyes. So, not too young either. So, probably knows what he is talking about. She suddenly felt as though she no longer was inhabiting her own body.

“Do you feel all right?”

She did not feel all right. The doctor, intuiting this, quickly grabbed a sickness bag, shook it open, and brought it to her mouth. She grasped it with both hands. The wave of nausea gradually passed, and she lowered the still-empty sickness bag into her lap, still looking downward. The doctor sat back down on the wheeled round stool in front of her.

“I take it that this was unexpected,” the doctor said.

She merely nodded.

“Do you have a gynecologist?”

She thought for several seconds.

“No, not really,” she said.

“You were not on the pill, then? Or any other form of birth control?”

She shook her head.

“Okay,” the doctor said, exhaling and slapping the front of his thighs with his open palms. “Well, morning sickness usually occurs between the fourth and sixteenth week of pregnancy. So, when do we think this happened?”

Jane thought back to when they thought it had happened.

***

She had gone out for the first time in several months to a Christmas party her father had urged her to attend.

“Come on,” he said. “It will be fun. You need to get out of this house. The virus is on the run. The President says so. He and the First Lady beat it. All the liberals were wrong.”

“What is it again?”

“It’s a conservative event, kind of celebrating both Christmas and the President’s re-election,” he said. “There will be lots of boys.”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“You’re trying to fix me up with some politics nerd now?”

He laughed.

“No,” he said. “I just think you’ll enjoy it.”

Why had I gone to this event, she asked herself? Why this one? Why not any other one?

Her father had taken her to the reception, which was at a downtown hotel, joking about her being his “date.” She’d even gotten a little dressed up for the occasion. She didn’t care much for the opening speaker, Ben or Ban something. He stood in front of a sign that said “Victory Over Socialism/Victory Over the Virus/Victory Against the War on Christmas/Make America Great Again Again.” He went on at length about “European civilization” and our rights to have the kind of toilets and light bulbs we wanted. The crowd, which was almost all white, mostly male, and quite a bit older than her, seemed to lap it up.

“This is what I’m always talking about,” her father said, leaning toward her as he clapped from their seats in the hotel ballroom. “Freedom.”

She shrugged at that. She couldn’t get too worked up about lightbulbs and toilets, and if European civilization was so great, why did he make fun of the French and the EU? But she saw that her dad enjoyed it. She did notice some of the boys that flanked the speaker on the dais at the front of the room. At the end of his speech, Ban pointed to either side of him, to the blazer-wearing clean-cut preppy white boys who sat near him.

“I’m an old guy,” the speaker said. “These guys, right here, they are the future of the movement.” The younger men beamed. Some of them whooped. Jane noticed the two on the extreme right end of the stage. One was darker-complected, but with blondish long hair that looked as though it had been in the sun. The other was tall and cheerfully goofy, with watery blue eyes that seemed sort of unfocused. Jane instantly liked the darker boy.

When the speech ended, and the attendees were all invited to stay for a reception and cash bar, her father told her, “I’m just going to try to talk to Ban.”

She nodded, and as he moved toward the large clump of men who were gathered around the guest of honor, she gravitated toward the group on the right. Eventually she neared the odd couple, as she had come to think of them.

“Hey,” she said to the darker man, who had loosened his tie.

“How are ya,” he responded.

“I’m Jane,” she said.

“I’m Billy,” the tanned man said.

“I’m Jake,” the gawky taller boy said, sticking his hand out to her.

“Jane,” she said, taking the proffered hand. It was damp.

“How’d you like Ban?” Jake said. “Isn’t he amazing?”

“I guess,” Jane said. “So, Billy, are you from around here, or what?”

Billy laughed. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m from Cali.”

“Colombia?”

Billy laughed again, and Jane wondered if she had stumbled. “Uh, no,” Billy said. “California.”

“Oh, cool,” Jane said, wishing Jake would take a hint and leave.

But Jake did not take a hint. He stuck around and refilled Jane’s glass several times. Jane looked over at her father; he had fought his way to the front of the group surrounding the guest of honor, and he looked as though he was lit from within, actually talking to Ban Wilson. Ban did not seem similarly lit, but neither was he attempting to escape. Jane could tell this night was going to be one that her father would never forget.

She also felt lit, but in a different way. And she was probably not going to remember as much of this night as her father. Other people joined their little group and then melted away. The drinks kept coming. Jane felt pleasantly discombobulated. Suddenly some of Jake’s jokes seemed actually funny. When Billy excused himself to go to the men’s room, she did not feel nearly as distraught as she might have forty minutes earlier. Her father was still in the inner group around the speaker, across the ballroom, in his glory.

“Listen,” Jake said. “A bunch of us are going to go out and get something to eat after this. Do you want to join us?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I came here with my dad. It’s kind of a long drive.”

“I can get you back to wherever you live,” Jake said.

So she had tottered on her heels over toward her dad and tried to get his attention. When that failed, she texted him:

Going out to dinner with some boys here

They say they’ll give me a ride home

He had responded simply:

Okay have fun

So she had gone off with Jake and a couple of other boys, Billy not among them. That was okay. She now thought she liked Jake well enough. Over dinner, he told some funny story about infiltrating liberal organizations with hidden cameras and getting them to say outrageous things. He was also a campus political organizer.

“Where do you go to college?”

“Uh, I never went to college,” Jake said. “American colleges are indoctrination centers for the liberal elite. My dad taught me that. What I do is go to different campuses and give talks about what kind of courses they should be offering, on European civilization, capitalism, entrepreneurialism, that stuff.”

“But you never wanted to go to college?”

“I don’t want to be infected.”

“Sure, because the virus is there.”

“No… that’s a liberal hoax. I don’t want to be infected with liberalism through their biased teaching.”

“But how can you tell them what they should be teaching if you’ve never, like, taken any courses?”

“I don’t have to swallow poison to know it’s bad for me,” Jake said, stiffening.

“Okay,” she said, deciding not to press the point.

Later, Jake was going on about the white working class.

“What does your dad do?” she asked him.

“Oh, he’s a lawyer,” Jake said.

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Outside Chicago,” he said.

“Like, near the steel mills or something?”

Jake laughed. “No, that’s the other side of the city. I grew up on the North Shore.”

“I guess.”

“So how did you learn about the working class?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, “my dad was a machinist. He used to make electric motors. So, I guess I know something about the working class that way. So how do you know about them?”

Jake turned a little red and began stammering.

“Well,” he said, “Ban’s… Ban’s taught me a lot, and I have traveled…”

“Where’s he from?”

“Uh, I think San Diego or Florida or something? His dad was a Navy guy, and so was he.”

“So how does he know about the working class?”

“He’s… he knows lots of those people. …Can we talk more about you?”

“Okay,” she said.

If it had been Billy, and she had had less to drink, she would have regretted more making him uncomfortable. But since it was Jake, she wasn’t really concerned.

They had ended up driving back to the hotel where Jake and the others were staying. For “a nightcap,” as Jake said.

“You’re going to get me home, though, right?” Jane had said.

“Sure,” Jake said.

So, they had drunk more, and before she knew it, the others were gone from Jake’s room, and she was left alone with Jake, and she had lapsed mostly into drowsy silence as Jake talked more about Jake and what Jake was going to do and what Jake had done already and how well-regarded Jake was, and just to shut him up, she had kissed him.

When the bus dropped her off, she pulled her phone out and saw the series of messages from her parents.

Where are you?

Are you okay

You should be home right now – call us

Please call

She looked at the time. It was almost one in the morning. She decided she had to call.

“Hello?”

“Hey Dad. Sorry to wake you.”

“Nobody’s asleep here. Are you okay?”

She decided to lie.

“I’m fine. I just went out with some of the boys from that organization.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Uh, yeah. But I had to take the bus back. Can someone pick me up?”

Groaning. Then, “Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

When she had gotten into the car, her father asked her if she had had a good time.

“It was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I had a great time,” her dad said. “I got to talk to Ban Wilson for like twenty minutes myself. That guy is a genius.”

“Did he give you light bulbs?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Jane felt suddenly hot and took her coat off.

“Is that a bruise?”

“What?”

“On your arm.”

Jane looked at her left arm. There were several bruises that made a distinct pattern of finger and thumb tips on the outside and inside of her upper arm. She quickly pulled her coat back over them.

“I fell and someone caught me.”

For a second, she thought that her father looked suspicious and would demand more of an explanation. But then he looked away and snorted, and the rest of the drive took place in silence.

As they approached their house, Jeff said, “Goddammit, it’s back up. Thugs.”

She looked where his gaze was, and saw that a new “Black Lives Matter” sign was up on the neighbors’ lawn. They parked in the driveway and headed into the house.

***

“Any guess as to when?” the doctor asked again.

Jane snapped awake from her reverie. “Uh, early December,” she said.

“Okay, the doctor said. “We should start you on some prenatal vitamins and make an appointment for an OB/GYN.”

“Doctor,” Jane said.

“Yes?”

“Uh…” Jane did not know how to begin.

“What do you want to know?”

“Uh…”

“Would you be more comfortable talking to a nurse, or a female doctor?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t mean…”

“It’s perfectly okay,” the doctor said. “This is a surprise. It’s natural for you to want to talk to a woman about it. I can make an appointment with Dr. Lambros. She’s a great doctor. If you want to talk to the nurse right now, I’m sure she can answer most questions you have.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jane said, miserably.

“Okay, I’ll get the nurse and make you some appointments. You can use them or not. And I’ll send in the nurse.”

“Thanks.”

The door closed behind the doctor, leaving Jane alone. She sat as if fastened to the examination table. She leaned forward, staring at her shoes with unfocused eyes. Then her hand went almost unconsciously to her stomach. The door opened suddenly, startling her.

“Sorry,” the nurse said. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“No,” Jane said.

“The doc said you might have some questions.”

“Yeah,” Jane said.

“Okay,” the nurse said.

“Um, I heard about this Morning After pill.”

“Oh,” the nurse said. “Honey, it’s too late for that. That’s why they call it the Morning After pill.”

“Oh,” Jane said.

“It’s too bad you didn’t come in right away,” she said. “Now things are a little more complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“Do you know about the legislation that was passed last month?”

Jane thought she had a vague recollection of something on the news to which she now wished she had paid more attention.

“What was it?”

“A fairly total ban on abortion,” the nurse said.

An unexpected tear sprang to Jane’s eyes as her mind tried to comprehend this news.

“Total?”

“Pretty much.”

Jane sat stunned for a moment. Then something occurred to her.

“What if… what if it wasn’t voluntary?”

“What if what…?” the nurse began, then straightened up. “Are you saying you were raped?”

The word shocked Jane. I was raped, she thought, for the first time. I was raped.

“What if I was?”

“Did you report it to the police?”

Jane stared at her. “No,” she said finally.

“Then I don’t think they’ll allow an exception,” the nurse said. “Actually, this probably won’t make you feel better, but even if you had reported it, I don’t think under this law there would be an exception anyway.”

Jane sat there, slumped forward, looking at the floor between them.

“If you are serious about this… this option,” the nurse said quietly, “I would try to get to a state where this procedure is legal. You’ll probably need some money and some transportation.”

“Yes,” Jane said, hopelessly. Money and transportation… two things that we have so much of in our family.

“But until you make up your mind, I think you need to be taking your vitamins. For your own health. I can give you the prescription. I want you to come back in a week to meet Dr. Lambros. She can give you more information. You can make the appointment at the front desk.”

Jane nodded mutely. The nurse opened the door and exited; the door shut behind her.

Jane gathered her things and stood up. She had a long walk ahead of her.

She was not looking forward to it as much as she had the last time.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

36

Tuesday, February 2, 2021, 8PM Eastern Standard Time

“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

“You want any wine?” Vaneida asked her guests. “Ice?”

“Nah,” Janice said. “Trying to cut down.”

“Really? …You?” Vaneida asked Jenna.

“Sure,” Jenna answered.

“And you?” Vaneida said, holding the bottle toward Joe.

“No, I’m still working on mine,” Joe answered.

Vaneida poured herself a little red wine and replaced the bottle on a side table.

“So here we go,” Janice said. The four of them watched the television in silence.

The President was moving through the House chamber, mobbed by grinning lawmakers, only the nearest to him wearing masks either sporting the flag, pro-President slogans, or simply worn ironically.

“I thought the virus was gone,” Joe said.

“I heard from a friend of mine at the Department of Commerce that he makes everyone he meets wear masks and gloves and use disinfectant,” Janice said.

The chamber contained only Republicans; the Democrats had boycotted the State of the Union, both out of rage at what they regarded as a stolen election, and out of an expressed continuing concern over contagion, which they had announced was once again killing Americans who dared venture into public places.

“Look at his latest Toot,” Jenna said, holding her phone out.

–<() Watch the State of the Union tonight! Democrat Governors who refused to support National Virus Recovery whose Capitols are now surrounded by very good people should cut a deal, or face the Anger of Real Americans!

“How’s your eye?” Joe asked Jenna.

“It’s okay. It still hurts a little, but it’ll pass.”

“You mind if I take a look at it? I’ve got a little medic training. The only thing you have to worry about at this point is infection.”

“Uh, okay,” Jenna said.

Joe came over and kneeled in front of Jenna. He carefully scrutinized the area above Jenna’s eye.

“They gave you some stitches?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, it looks like they did a decent job,” Joe said. “No redness or inflammation. I would just watch out for any discoloration, especially any redness around a whitish area. Probably have a little scar, but it’ll just be something to brag about later, not like the first thing people will notice.”

“Well that’s good, I guess,” Jenna said.

Joe sat back down and they continued watching. The President was about to speak. He raised his hands up, palms out, to quiet the crowd. They simply cheered louder, though the sound was altered a bit by the few masks. He grabbed the rostrum and nodded, looking from side to side grimly.

“He looks like Mussolini,” Janice said. “Same gestures.”

Finally, he deigned to speak.

“Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, Members of Congress who actually showed up, and my fellow Americans: The state of the Union is great.”

Thunderous applause.

“Since the last time I spoke to you,” the President said, pausing to sniffle, “our nation has been under assault by enemies both visible and invisible. The visible enemies aren’t visible to you tonight because they decided not to show up. They are cowards. They deprived me of my rightful first term, they impeached me, they called me names, they rooted for the virus to kill you all, they tried to accuse me of so many awful things. But they failed, and America succeeded. So here we are, and WE are America, and America is great.”

The watchers in Vaneida’s apartment barely even bothered to roll their eyes.

“The invisible enemy – not the invisible enemies I just spoke about, who failed – failed – to destroy me, but the invisible horrible horrible disease they tried to help destroy America and me – that Invisible Enemy has been defeated. By me. Personally. It’s gone.”

Thunderous ovation.

“But we can be even greater than the great we have made America already,” the President said. [Sniff.] “So tonight, I will lay out my plan, and it’s a great plan, a greater plan, to be honest, to keep, and make, America even greater again.”

Clapclapclap.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jenna said.

“Hey, finally an accurate slogan for all of America,” Janice said.

All four of them laughed.

“My first term was stolen from me – from you, really,” the President said. “So, in this, my real first term, we will finally be able to drain the swamp the way I promised you last time. Last term the Democrat party attacked me from even before I took office. With their Deep State allies” [long sniff] “and Angry Democrat prosecutors, they enacted a Hoax upon the American people. They thought they could overthrow a legitimate election, destroy our democracy. But they failed, and they are losers. Losers!”

“He’s insane,” Janice said.

“He’s President, though,” Vaneida said.

“You coming around to our point of view on that, Joe?” Janice said.

“I never thought differently about what the outcome should have been,” Joe said. “But it’s true that those Republicans don’t play. Not by the rules, anyway. They are about never giving an inch. They don’t believe in moral victories. We probably have to be more like that.”

The President was laying out a catalogue of grievances.

“They criminalized mere politics,” he said. “They never accepted that they could possibly lose an election to an outsider. They began their secret war against the American people even before I took office. They persecuted anyone who worked with me or for me. They made it a jailable offense to associate with me. They aligned themselves with foreign enemies against me. They got the Fake News to say horrible horrible things about me.” [Sniff.] “They got in the way when I tried to make peace around the world. I saw through them. I refused to cooperate. They thought the virus would stop me. But it didn’t. They said I was lawless. But it is they who are lawless. And now they will get what they deserve. The American people are demanding that they be called to account. Many of them are surrounding state capitol buildings right now, demanding their rights from un-American Democrat governors. And the Real Americans will not rest until they are given their rights.”

Clapclapclapclapclap.

“So, to begin this, my first real term, we must bring these un-American traitors to justice. I will be having my Attorney General investigate these people, and see what ties they have with anti-American forces around the world and across this great country.” [Sniff.] “They will not get away with their attempted coup. And never again will they be allowed to threaten the legitimate will of you, the real Americans.”

Clapclapclapclap.

“Do you think he means that?” Jenna asked Vaneida.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Vaneida said. “I guess I would say, would you have thought four years ago that he was going to do all the shit he did in the first term? Fire the FBI Director who was investigating him and then admit to obstruction of justice on national TV? Say he believed the Russian president when he said he didn’t try to sway the election in 2016? Just stop having press briefings? Blackmail a foreign leader to dig up dirt on his election opponent? Vandalize the government, replacing all the people who knew anything with amateur sycophants? Endorse concentration camps in China? Defend and ally himself with real fascists and Nazis? And a thousand other things like that? No, I can’t say he won’t do all this stuff he’s saying he’ll do. I hope he doesn’t, but I can’t say he won’t. What can stop him now?”

The President sneered and sniffed haughtily and began speaking again.

“We will appoint judges, and yes, multiple more justices to the Supreme Court, multiple, at least, who will uphold the law and not legislate from the bench. No more will socialist schemes be forced on an unwilling public. No more will business be shackled by unfair rules. No more will good religious people be unable to follow their consciences in their workplaces and homes.”

“And we know how you’re all about the conscience and religion,” Janice said. “You are one solid religious guy. …Hey, look at the Vice President.”

The Vice President, sitting behind the President, had assumed a seraphic, faraway look at this mention of religion.

“Either he’s about to get Raptured, or…” Jenna left her thought unfinished.

“Or he’s finally taken that crap he’s been processing since 1977,” Janice said.

“And we will finally begin to see an end to the horror of legalized abortion,” the President said, sniffing again.

Vaneida shook her head. “How many abortions do you think he’s been personally a party to?” she said.

“More than zero, anyway,” Janice said. “Hey, what’s with all the sniffling? You think he’s got the virus?”

“I think maybe…” Jenna made a gesture to indicate someone snorting an illicit substance.

Joe got up. “Bathroom?” he asked.

“Down the hall, on the left,” Vaneida said.

Joe walked off. This is like an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000, he thought. Running comedic commentary on the idiot…who is so idiotic he is squashing everything that these folks want.

He didn’t know quite how to feel about it. It had been some time (maybe forever) since he had felt he was squarely in the President’s camp. But he was not all the way over to the liberal wing of the Democrat party, either. For one thing, he still called it “the Democrat party,” at least in his head. For another, there were so many issues on which he had failed to develop a solid stance. Abortion? He had never really thought about it. Affirmative action? Business regulation? What did he know about these things? All he knew was that Max seemed to be a lot nuttier than Vaneida. He could not find anything on which he really differed with Vaneida, as they took one issue at a time and she explained what she thought. But after a year or so, he still had this picture of America as a shining city on a hill, like Reagan said. He felt it was still out there, that America where noble white men strove for freedom and justice. Reagan. The Kennedys. FDR. Washington and Lincoln and Jefferson. But Washington and Jefferson had owned slaves. Reagan had said terrible racist things, and had never fought in war. FDR interned the Japanese. The Kennedys were sociopaths about women. Nothing was untainted. It bothered him. We’d killed literally millions in Vietnam. Even Martin Luther King was a womanizer.

He had wanted America to be good. Now he wrestled with how to reconcile his ideal America with the flawed, sinful America that actually existed, and still have enough idealism to move forward.

He washed his hands and looked in the mirror.

And then, too… you’re not being straight with any of the other people at this State of the Union watching party, he said inwardly to his reflection.

** *
In the living room, the women watched the President going on.

“These Democrats have a choice. They can choose to be part of America, or they can choose to fight against us. The battle is joined for the future of this country. We are on the side of right, on the side of the future. On the side of the Founders of this country. They are on the side of ‘We Can’t.’ We are on the side of ‘We Will.’”

Clapclapclapclapclap.

“Triumph of We Will,” Jenna said.

“Hey Vaneida, you get any answers from Joe about his ‘You guys’ tirade in the van?” Janice asked her.

Vaneida shifted in her chair.

“Not really,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since then until now, anyway.”

“Should we throw him up against the wall?” Jenna said.

“Hey,” Janice said. “He’s mine. …As regards interrogation.”

The other two laughed just as Joe came back in the room.

“What’d I miss?”

“Oh, just more of the Decline and Fall of the American Empire,” Vaneida said.

“With faith in God Almighty,” the President said, “to guide us to further greatness, we stand united – we real Americans stand united – to bring America to its destiny as the great great nation we know it is and can be.”

Standing ovation – clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

“Now the Democratic response,” Jenna said.

Joe barely restrained himself from saying, “Really?” He had a fairly low tolerance for politics, he decided.

“Who’s giving it?” he finally asked.

“A congresswoman,” Janice said. “Have some more wine.”

Joe passed his glass to her. She filled it up almost to the rim.

“Whoa,” he said.

“Just getting you drunk so we can figure you out,” Janice said.

“There’s…not a lot to figure out,” Joe said.

“Oh, I think maybe there is.”

“Let’s watch,” Joe said.

“And now the Democratic response to the State of the Union, from Representative Jamie Evans of Kansas, broadcasting by Skype from an isolated location.”

“Had to be from the heartland,” Janice said.

“And a woman, and black,” Jenna said.

“And a Democrat,” Vaneida said.

Joe looked at her in slight confusion. She looked back and raised her eyebrows slightly as if to say, “Obviously.”

“We Democrats have boycotted the man who says he is President, who has not been duly elected by the people according to the Constitution. The Constitution demands 270 Electoral Votes. He got 269 – maybe. A recount in Nebraska has yet to be undertaken, but federal judges have declared that it must go on, according to the law. The Inauguration almost two weeks ago was a sham and a charade. It never should have taken place. The election was not valid.

“We used to mock countries whose leaders mounted sham, fixed elections like the one we just saw. We used to go around the world and tell them that they should do it the way we did it – with a free, open, fair, unobstructed vote based on a free and open and honest exchange of views. Well, since 2016 we no longer do it that way. We are the object lesson of what to avoid, not the paragon of electoral virtue and hope we once were. Not only did this so-called ‘President’ reinstall himself in office without actually being elected, with the help of his formerly great, now beyond-corrupt party, a party that now serves merely as a craven group of minions providing cover to this would-be all-powerful dictator; he and his party accomplished this crime via mass suppression of the vote in every potential swing state, as well as every Republican state.

“If you were a Republican in 2020, there was no way you could run on your record. You certainly could not point to promises kept, or good times brought to pass by your doing. In his first Inaugural speech in 2017, the then-President spoke of ‘American Carnage.’ He was speaking at a time when unemployment was at 4.7 percent. GDP growth had been slow, but steady, between 1.5 and 3 percent for seven years, constrained by Republicans’ unwillingness to stimulate the economy when a Democratic president might get the credit. Job growth had been positive for 76 consecutive months. Violent crime had been declining for two decades, and was near a 50-year low. This he called ‘carnage.’

“Contrast this with the situation we see today. After the gigantically expensive tax cuts for the wealthy in 2017, the economy cruised on a sugar high for two years, then hit the iceberg of the virus. We almost instantly went from 3.5% unemployment to about 20% – we may never know the true number – as our economy completely stopped. And why did it stop? Because our government has ceased to function. Because you have ceased to demand from your government the kind of excellence that John F. Kennedy and Franklin Roosevelt and Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln and the Founders – and Okomo! – demanded. You have been taught by the Republican Party to never expect anything from your government. And under Republican rule, nothing is exactly what you got. We have armed white supremacist gangs taking over federal facilities in remote and not-so-remote areas, and menacing our polling places in our cities, and threatening federal judges and the elected legislators and governors of many states – with zero federal response. Armed gangs of desperate people are looting stores and robbing banks. And what does this ‘President’ do? Attack the desperate, while letting the armed and dangerous run wild! Nonviolent citizens protesting true injustice are being pulled into unmarked black vans by who knows what kind of federal ‘law enforcement agencies,’ apparently working on behalf of this President’s political interests.

“Now this unelected pretender can babble all he wants about how unexpected the virus was – even though his own people warned him about it. He can say how unpredictable it was – even though his own people predicted its exact course and begged him to take action. He can try to blame Democratic governors for the terrible toll this virus took – even though it took just as terrible a toll, in the end, in states governed by Republicans. And he still minimizes it even after he himself got it – or so we are told.

“But one thing he can never say is that the United States did not have the highest number of cases, and the highest death toll, from this virus, of any country in the world. And that includes China and India, two nations each roughly four times the population of the United States.

“China and India. Now I am kind of an old lady. When I was growing up in Topeka, we did not have much. But we had food. And my mother would say to me, ‘Jamie, you have to eat everything that’s on your plate, because there are children in China and India who do not have enough to eat.’ And I would eat that food, and thank god I was not in India or China, where I might not have enough to eat. But now, in America, in Topeka, we are having food riots. We have people who have not worked in almost a year, who have not been paid, whom the government of this man has abandoned. Some of them are holding up food pantries and grocery stores. We used to be the shining beacon for the world. Now it is we who are pitied by India and China, because it is our people who are going hungry. If there is one symbol of this nation under this President, it is armed guards holding off hungry crowds outside supermarkets. This is what he has led us to! THIS is American Carnage, my fellow Americans! And it is he who has brought it to us, through his incompetence and his complete indifference to the sufferings of others – no, his joy in the sufferings of others.

“He speaks of the virus as the Invisible Enemy. I would say to you, the people in desperation are the Invisible Americans. They are his true enemy, and they are invisible to him, and he is waging war on them ceaselessly. Why? Why? Because they live in a ‘blue state’? Mr. ‘President,’ hunger has no color. Not anymore. But you don’t care. We used to have accurate counts of the number of hungry and poor in this country, and we used to take care of them. Now, and I can tell you this, as a Kansan, he has dispersed the people who used to watch out for these Americans. He took the Economic Research Service of the Department of Agriculture, and he transferred the entire workforce to my part of the country. He did this on purpose so that two-thirds of them would resign, and stop counting these Americans, and they could be invisible, the way he wants them to remain. And so, they starve out of sight, and are never counted, and he makes up whatever numbers he wants. His party makes it impossible to apply for benefits, so that he can say no one needs them. He took a huge fraction of America out of the calculations for unemployment, so he could show an ‘improvement’ leading up to the election.

“And he urged governors to reopen their states, against every bit of advice and wisdom of the medical experts, far too early. He held his super-spreader rallies. And the result was tens of thousands more deaths. We tore our society apart over Vietnam when I was a little girl, over 58,000 Americans killed. Well, last year alone, in less than three months, we had more deaths than that from the virus! In just four months, we had doubled Vietnam’s death toll. In six months, it had tripled. That is American Carnage, my fellow Americans. He didn’t care. He wanted to open the mall up, even if it killed 50,000 more people, 100,000 – it was all about him! American Carnage!

“Now he seeks to distract you further with talk of retribution against those who tried to uphold the law against him. He fired anyone who dared investigate him and his friends, and then had their replacements investigate them. He has divided this country, and profited – not just figuratively, but financially, materially – from that division he knowingly, gleefully sowed. And unless we all get together and stand up, and demand the kind of government that befits a free people, now, he will finish the job of destroying 244 years of the American experiment. He said American Carnage would end under his rule. Instead, it truly began under him.

“He is unfit to hold any office of public trust in this country. He ‘won’ re-election” [here she made quote marks with her fingers] “through vote suppression and lies, just as in 2016 he won with foreign interference and lies. We cannot accept this if we want to ever again be a free people. And my fellow Americans, getting this one man out of office is not enough. Unless all those who committed crimes on his behalf are brought to justice, unless the name of ‘Republican,’ that adjective that Abraham Lincoln was once so proud to wear, that name that thrilled millions of slaves who were freed in its name, sadly, unless that name is now made a badge of shame in this country, we will never again be a truly free people. If in twenty or fifty years someone in this country is heard to say, ‘Oh, that President, you know, he had some good ideas, he was onto something,’ then we will have lost everything that ever made us proud to be Americans. We must be prepared to fight, my brothers and sisters. Fight for your rights. Fight for bread for the poor – who now number 100 million. Fight for your home, you millions who face eviction. Fight for proper protections at work. Fight for your health. Fight for your grandma. Fight for your children’s future. Fight this evil man! Demand a full accounting! Demand 270 Electoral Votes! People speak of ‘Re-Impeach the President.’ There is no need for re-impeachment, because only a president can be impeached, and he is not the President at all!

“My fellow Americans… I am hanging out a shingle for liberty now, and it reads: HEROES WANTED. And that means you, ladies and gentlemen. Sometimes life is not fair. You have to choose between comfortable, silent cowardice, or running to danger to be a hero. This is one of those times.

“Answer the ad, ladies and gentlemen. Answer the ad. HEROES WANTED. God bless America, ladies and gentlemen. But YOU’D better bless America too, my brothers and sisters. This may be our last chance.”

Joe was on his feet now. He didn’t even recall getting up. He looked around. The others were on their feet too.

“Where the hell was she last year?” Jenna said.

“Wow,” Janice said. “Wow.”

Vaneida was silent.

“That was…” Joe began, then trailed off.

“That was fire,” Jenna said.

“A year late and a dollar short,” Janice said.

“She dissed our banner,” Vaneida said, laughing. “You notice that? But otherwise, that was some oration right there.”

She walked over toward the kitchen.

Joe followed her.

“I need to talk to you about something.” Joe said. “Something serious.”

“Really?” Vaneida said. “Okay. Not now, though. I gotta host this.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “Dinner maybe?”

“I have a lot on my plate this week,” Vaneida said. “Administrative crap. How about a week from tomorrow?”

“Okay,” Joe said, and walked back out into the living room.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

37

Wednesday, February 3, 2021, 11AM Eastern Standard Time

“Sir, I’m sorry to say we have not been able to find anyone else who precisely resembles the person you describe.”

The President seethed in his chair.

“I’m sure he’s out there, McCarthy. Let me see the videos. Especially the nighttime ones.”

“Of course, sir. But I doubt you’ll find anyone perfectly matching the description.”

The President pounded the desk. “We need to find him. YOU need to find him.”

The dream had come to him with particular force the previous night. Himself, walking toward the church. The man with the sign, walking out of the church, pointing. “You.” The crowd, red-eyed, pressing toward him.

But then he felt himself rising, up, up, high above the man, and the crowd, who continued to point at him and chant. He rose into the sky, looking down on the entire area, Lafayette Park, the Ellipse, the surrounding streets raying out away from the White House toward infinity, the streetlights coming on.

Then suddenly the man with the white beard was beside him, perhaps slightly behind him so he could not quite see him.

He whispered, “YOU” one final time. And then, “END IT.”

And at that point the President had awakened, having leaped once more to a sitting position in bed, and once again the silhouetted figure at the door had inquired whether he needed anything. Leon Carver echoed the man in the dream, and yet was the exact opposite.

The Director looked pained.

“Have you given any thought to the man we spoke about earlier?”

“Which, the guy with all the signs?”

The President had begun to wonder whether he could be the one, but he held back from rewarding the Director with this knowledge.

“I don’t know.”

“He does have a long beard. And he was outside the White House for a few weeks before the Inauguration. We could look further into him and his activities,” the Director said.

The President felt a sudden pain in his lumbar region. He leaned forward and placed his right palm on his lower back.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, look into him further. Come back next week and tell me you’ve found him, or else.”

“Yes, sir.”

Some of the color had left the President’s face.

“Okay, get out of here. I have stuff to do.”

“Of course, sir. I will report to you next Wednesday.”

The President merely responded with a flicked left hand. The Director rose and walked out the door.

“Mrs. Johnson,” the President said. “Yes, sir?”

“Mrs. Johnson, I would like one of those cushions for your lower back, the kind that massages you.”

“Well thank you, sir, but I don’t need… Oh, I’m sorry, for you, sir. Of course, sir.”

He flicked off the intercom.

Everyone’s a pain in the ass, he thought.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

38

Wednesday, February 3, 2021, 12PM Central Standard Time

Mike was sitting at the bar when Pete arrived. “You’re late,” Mike said.

“Some of us have jobs,” Pete said, smiling.

Mike looked preoccupied.

“What’s up?”

“Ah, nothing.”

“Lay it on me,” Pete said. “The President still got your panties in a wad?”

“Of course he does,” Mike said. “I’m a patriotic American. No patriotic thinking American has unwadded underwear at this moment.”

“Well mine’s hanging loose, so what does that make me.”

“It’s a question you should be asking yourself,” Mike said.

“Something else is bothering you,” Pete said.

Mike sighed.

“Lay it on this unpatriotic Republican who is… unthinking,” Pete said.

“It’s my kid,” Mike said.

“Shit,” Pete said. “He’s okay, right? Is he in Iraq?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s fine.”

“Whew,” Pete said.

“But he’s back in the states.”

“Is he out?”

“I guess he is out.”

“Nothing bad happened over there?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure just about everything that happened over there was bad. But physically he seems fine. Not that I’ve seen him.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m not sure. He seems to be in Washington. But he’s been flying around different places. I guess he has a new job. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, except to say it was stateside and not in the military.”

“So, what’s wrong?”

“I just don’t like the sound of that. It sounds weird. I got the sense that it was something having to do with security.”

“Well it’s got to be better than being over there, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. Just the way he was unwilling to talk about who he was working for kind of made me uneasy.”

“Hey – maybe he’s working for the President!” Pete said, laughing. “Now it all makes sense. You’re worried he’s working for the guy who Made America Great Again.”

Mike exhaled.

“Christ. That would be all I needed. No, I just feel like he should decompress a little. I think an experience like his… I think he needs a little time to get it into perspective.”

“What experience?”

“Just being in combat, living with the possibility of dying, maybe killing people, it’s got to have an effect. And he’s the kind of guy to avoid seeking help when he needs it. Not like his old man, who complains and talks constantly.”

“I was gonna say.”

“I admit it, totally. Anyway, something else happened that bugged me.”

“Now what?”

“The only reason I know he’s back is, I was watching a basketball game and during a break they showed him as a returning vet. You know how they do it at ballgames, the vet goes on the field and waves and everyone cheers. Well, they had him come onto the court.”

“That’s great.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on. They’re cheering your son, for Christ’s sake. How can you be against that? No wonder your side lost.”

“Well, a lot of it was, he’s been home almost a year, and he never told me. I mean, we talked, but he never told me he was out of the service. He used to come back stateside so often that I didn’t realize that this time he was back for good. But also, I feel like… I feel like he was being exploited. By the basketball teams, by the network, by the armed forces. He did not look happy. No smile. And all these fat shits standing all teary-eyed in their socially distanced seats, and almost none of those people served. But you know that by standing and cheering, they somehow feel like they have served. Like they are big patriots, just for saying ‘yaayyy’ and getting a little teary while they play ‘Proud to Be an American,’ which was written and sung by a guy who got out of serving in Vietnam by a deferment, by the way. Did ANY of these Republican heroes fucking serve? It pisses me off.”

“Some of them did, sure. That Senator Hanson did.”

“He was a JAG.”

“Hey, there’s no reason to name-call.”

“No, JAG – Judge Advocate General. He was a lawyer in the service. Over there.”

“Oh, right. It’s been a while. And I spent as little time as possible with officers. And lawyers.”

“Don’t you feel like it’s a little fake, all this ginned-up patriotism for monetary and political gain?”

“I don’t know. I like it. Makes me feel like people care. Better than being spit on like my uncle was when he came back from Nam.”

“I agree there. But I am starting to think sentimentality kills, brother. Whenever I see a teary eye over something patriotic, I think, ‘Someone is going to bleed for this.’”

“Come on. Aren’t you even a little proud of your son?”

“Oh, yeah. Are you kidding? I’m in awe of him.”

“Well there you go.”

“But I’m serious. Can we really say that any of the wars we’ve fought since World War II, or maybe Korea, really made us safer? Or maybe more important, freer?”

“Getting bin Laden made us all safer, I think. And we have not been hit by another 9/11, so I have to think that our military had something to do with that. You can’t have freedom without security.”

Mike paused and thought it over.

“There’s some truth there,” he said finally. “I do think there’s a reason we have not been whacked like we were on 9/11. But I’m not sure we are freer. We sure are under more surveillance. The war in Iraq cost us a mint and made the Middle East even more unstable. From what I read, Iran benefited more than anyone else from what we did in Iraq and Afghanistan. Those are Iran’s two closest enemies, traditionally, and we took both of them out at once. But now there are some people in the administration who want to go to war with Iran.”

“The President fired that guy,” Pete said. “And then he wrote a book slamming him.”

“Yeah, but we still have sanctions on them, and we took out one of their leading generals. And we’re fighting a proxy war against them in Yemen. I wonder if my son was over there.”

“Probably not. We don’t have troops there.”

“As far as we know,” Mike said. “Anyway, when I feel my heartstrings getting pulled, when I sense some manipulation going on, when I see a military parent who reveals him- or herself to their kid in school as a surprise on MyTube, I think, ‘They should never have been away from their kid to begin with. Whatever we needed to accomplish over there, we’ve done enough. Save your costless tears of joy – they just encourage everyone involved to keep sending more parents and kids over there to get killed, or to kill others and be scarred for life.’”

“Whew, that’s cynical,” Pete said.

“I think it’s the opposite of cynical. Cynical is exploiting patriotism and the enthusiasm and energy of young people to pursue questionable goals overseas, or make money over here by identifying a mere business with the highest ideals of the nation and the harshest sacrifices.”

“I’ll have to think about that one,” Pete said, taking a drink. “I will say this – I sense a lack of respect for the military from your side of the political aisle.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you guys undervalue the military virtues, which used to be the male virtues. I was just reading about Teddy Roosevelt. Man, that guy would never fly today. He was all like, ‘The vigorous races must subjugate the inferior races. A man is not a man until he has tasted combat.’ That shit would not fly today. But there’s some truth to it.”

“Some truth?” Mike said, aghast.

“Like your son,” Pete said. “When he went in, I know you were upset.”

“I was proud,” Mike said.

“Sure, but you were upset, too.”

“I was worried, of course. And I was wondering where this kid came from. He was so determined to go test himself. I never had that in me. I was impressed, but scared for him.”

“Well, what if it’s not him that was the exception, but you? What if the natural thing is for a young man to want to be tested, to want to develop his courage and to use it alongside other men for the good of the community? And to be recognized for it? What if the unnatural thing is to sit at home and virtue-signal how woke you are, and how you as a male are uniquely evil and incapable and bigoted and misogynist?”

“Where’d you get all those big words?” Mike asked.

“What if we as a nation have lost that thing that every generation before ours had, where young men are expected to be courageous and to display virtue, manly virtue, to put their lives at risk? What if you are the outlier?”

Mike was at a loss for a moment.

Pete continued. “I just think that maybe, maybe a lot of those teary-eyed guys in the stands were sincere in their admiration for him, and I also think maybe he got something out of their applause. Like they say at military funerals, ‘The thanks of a grateful nation.’”

Mike said, after a minute, “It’s something to think about, and I hope you are right. But I have to tell you, the guy I saw being applauded there did not seem happy about it or comfortable with it. And I do think there’s a lot of cost-free bullshit where non-serving guys acting like hardasses and thinking they are tough applaud at these corporate-sponsored set-up events, and deep down inside they think they have done their duty. It makes pointless death more likely, in my opinion.”

Mike went on. “In fact, I think there is a huge and completely illegitimate addiction to sentimental patriotic bullshit in this country. It used to be, like in World War II and Korea, everyone served, and no one romanticized the military or war. Or anyway, they romanticized it a lot less. No one worshiped generals back then, because everyone knew someone who had gotten killed or their ass or leg shot off because of some stupid-assed officer. Now, literally our wars are fought by fewer than one in a thousand Americans at any one time, even at the height of the Iraq and Afghan wars. 300,000 out of 300 million, and only a fraction of those actually in combat. To refer back to your need for young men to prove themselves, well, when only one in a thousand of them gets to prove themselves, that leaves a hunger in the rest of them that is unfed. So, we romanticize a military that very few of us are directly acquainted with, and start worshiping these generals who turn out to be complete assholes. Remember the Surge in Iraq? The guy who ran it? How he was a genius who had figured out how to win against an insurgency? Well, it turned out his big brainy idea was, ‘Let’s bribe all these rebels so they’ll stop fighting us.’ And then it turned out he was shtupping this female officer who was writing this blow-job of a biography of him. And the Surge faded, and we pulled out, and they hate us now. Not one of these generals has figured out how to make these long-term Middle Eastern conflicts into a winner. But we worship uniforms, because most of us never wore one, so we keep pretending they know how to do the impossible. Our presidents start these stupid wars, and tell the generals, ‘Win this war,’ and instead of saying, ‘Sir, this war cannot be won,’ the generals salute and say ‘YES SIR,’ because that is what they teach you in the military – NEVER SAY YOU CAN’T DO SOMETHING.”

“Charlie Mike,” Pete said.

“What about me?” Mike said.

“Charlie Mike,” Pete said. “C-M. Complete the Mission. It’s what we are taught.”

“Exactly. So all the fine young men who go to war are being fed into this unwinnable situation, and I say it’s largely because of those fat fucks sitting in the bleachers getting all misty-eyed and clapping for the brave hero kid who has somehow made it home out of whatever hellhole he was fighting in. And maybe even more, the women who tear up or get moist around a man in uniform. They are expressing the societal demand for tear-jerker moments, and it is that demand that feeds our kids – MY kid – into a fucking furnace.”

“Everything all right here?” Janet had glided over as Mikes’s volume had edged up.

“We are absolutely fine,” Mike said. “We would like some tacos, though. And a couple more beers.”

“Okay,” Janet said, eyeing him suspiciously.  Pete laughed.

Janet walked away.

“You done?” Pete asked.

“For now,” Mike said. “But I am worried.”

“Well, as long as you’re worried.”

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

39

Friday, February 5, 2021, 8:30 AM Eastern Standard Time

Kathleen was looking at the official weekly virus numbers from the White House Virus Task Force on her laptop, and she suddenly got a strange feeling.

“Hey,” she called out of her office to a masked man walking past, “Ari, can you take a look at this?” She turned the screen of her laptop toward the door.

Ari walked in and looked from a safe distance. “What am I looking at, Red?”

“It’s the virus case and death numbers for this week. You’re kind of an expert on this stuff. What do you see?”

Ari stared at the screen for a moment.

“It’s slightly less than last month,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “And it’s declining at almost exactly the same rate as the month before that, and the month before that, and the month before that.”

“Hmm,” Ari said.

“But even I know a lot more people who have been getting the virus in the DC area. Even some friends of mine.”

“Huh. Me too.”

“Who was your guy over at the CDC?”

“Hunter Laszlo.”

“You have his number?”

“I did. I think he’s got a different job now, though.”

“Send me the contact, would you?”

“Sure.” Ari got his phone out and tapped on the screen with a finger for several seconds.

“Got it?”

Kathleen glanced over from her laptop screen. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Any time,” Ari said. “I’m going for coffee. Need anything, Red?”

She thought about it, then looked at the virus report.

“No, I’m good,” she replied, still staring at her laptop. “Can you close the door?”

“Sure,” said Ari.

Kathleen reached for her phone and pulled up the contact. Hunter Laszlo. Different job…okay, call his cell.

The phone rang several times before a bleary voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Is this Hunter Laszlo?”

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

“Well, I’m calling from the New York Record. My name is Kathleen Kiersay. I work with Ari Melcher.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

“You know I don’t work at CDC anymore.”

“No, I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“What were you calling about?”

“Just wanted to ask about the process of putting out the numbers on the virus. Do you notice something a little off about them this week?”

“I don’t work there anymore.”

“Well, is there someone at CDC who can help me out with this?”

A strange noise, something between a sniff and blurted laughter, greeted this question.

“Hunter?”

“Yeah, well, you know they have a press office. And the White House took the numbers away from CDC last summer when they started going up.”

“Yes. I was hoping to get past them to someone who knew the nuts and bolts.”

“Well, the nuts and bolts I know are old, and have been replaced. Or just unscrewed. Or screwed otherwise.” Again with the blurted laughter, if that was what it was.

Kathleen grimaced at this. Still, have to forge on.

“Well I could use some background on the general issues involved with gathering virus statistics,” Kathleen said, trying to sound like a dumb blonde in need of a smart nerdy man. “I’m kind of new at this whole thing and I didn’t study this stuff in school.” She waited to see if this would have the desired effect.

“Well my calendar seems to be clear for lunch… pretty much any day, but let’s say Monday. If you want to do this, meet me at the Starbucks in DuPont Circle at noon. We can figure out somewhere else to go.”

“Starbucks Monday at noon. DuPont. Got it.”

“Bye… Kathleen.”

She hoped he would not be the creep he appeared to be.

She hoped even more that, even if he was a creep, he would be able to tell her something of value.

I think I’ve been in this business a little too long, she thought to herself.