When the President talks to God, does he ever think that maybe he’s not? That the voice is just inside his head when he leans next to the presidential bed? Does he ever smell his own bullshit, when the President talks to God? (“When the President Talks to God” by Bright Eyes)
* * * * *
The president’s knees met the familiar, blue carpeting of his bedroom. He felt a quickly evaporating soreness in his left thigh, a reoccurring pain left by the quadriceps tear during his senior year as middle linebacker for St. Mary’s high school football team. As his muscular hands closed together, the quiet blue eyes, now framed with three distinct wrinkles, shut slowly. This was a quotidian activity, one of the few elements in his daily schedule that he could always count on as a relaxant.
“Glory to you, Lord. That this evenin’ may be holy, good and peaceful, let me pray with a unified heart and mind. As my evening prayer rises before you, O God, so might your mercy come down ‘pon me to cleanse my heart and set me free to sing your praise now and forever. Amen.”
The deep, gravelly voice that had kept him off of the school choir but in the girls’ hearts rose quietly above the music emanating from elsewhere within the White House. “A waltz,” he thought to himself. He paused and took the gentle breeze that whistled past his window as a sign that he ought to continue talking.
“Lord, I have before me a problem. A problem — well, Lord, this is a big one.” The wind stopped and the music was no longer audible. Rarely did these conversations venture into territory as important as this, and he was uncertain how to proceed on such a delicate query.
“Today I received a briefing statin’ the People’s Republic of Waki— Wari — Waziristan— may have completed the construction of a nuclear warhead. Now, as I’m sure you’ve been hearin’ on the news recently, well, Lord, relations between our nations aren’t so hot. I’m worried we are facin’ a grave threat — I’m worried they’ll attack us.” He waited at least ten seconds before continuing, hoping the magnitude of the situation might settle in for both of them.
“As you know, Lord, I’m a believer in the powers of diplomacy, but this time, I think… well, I think war looks to be our only option.”
At this point, he opened his eyes, looking directly past the red, pleated curtains, out the window towards the dark, equinoctial sky. Silence.
“Lord, I’ll give you some time to think this matter over, and I’ll be back tomorrow night to hear your answer. Until then, I’m a bit tired, so I bid you farewell.”
Maybe he was just tired, but swore he heard a voice inside his head reply, “Thank you, Goodnight, Mr. President.”
* * * * *
The Secretary of State meandered back and forth in front of the strategy table. Her back was to the figures seated at the table, but she could have named and placed each participant with her eyes closed. The President, of course, was seated at the head of the table, manning the leather-backed chair built two decades back, staring straight at her with those piercing blue eyes, gathering in the information displayed on her PowerPoint. The Secretary of Defense was seated on the left of the President, a slight, sneering grin the only decoration on his otherwise toneless face. The Vice President occupied the seat at his right hand, right knee crossed over the left with his Brooks Brothers suit shimmering from a recent cleaning.
“Gentlemen, as you are aware, the situation in Waziristan is worrying, but given that very little information has been confirmed, we need to act cautiously. I’m certain that, even if the intelligence is confirmed, this situation can be resolved peace—”
“Madam secretary, I’d first like to commend you, you’re doing a heck of a job. To the point though, I think we in this room have got to decide to what lengths we’re willing to go to solve this problem,” said the Vice President, his voice full of that strength, so admired on the campaign trail. It was the reason he had been chosen for the position, even though, as Mayor of a small Mississippi town, he was relatively unqualified for the position.
“Well, Mr. Vice President, I feel that, with all due respect, we can rule out the use of invasion, air strikes, or a nuclear strike—”
The Secretary of Defense interjected, “Madam, I happen to agree with the Vice President in this situation. We know from previous dealings that these Muslims cannot be trusted to act as clearheadedly and predictably as we might expect from someone like, Russia, or another Western nation. I think that we’ve got to decide whether we’re willing to use force, even the bomb, to protect the interests of America. And, because we are like the ‘city on the hill’ that President Reagan used to talk about — well, I believe we represent the interests of the Western world. That means our response will be accepted and applauded by our friends around the globe. I happen to be of the persuasion — and perhaps this is a radical view — but I happen to be under the belief that we’ve got to be willing to solve this problem with the purest utilitarian means.”
“Are you seriously sugges—” the Secretary of State tried to add before she was interrupted again.
“Yes, madam, I am suggesting the use of a nuclear missile against Waziristan. At this point, I view it as the best course of action.”
“Think about Ira—” but she thought better of bringing up that bit of history. She paused and remembered the aide who had been fired last week arguing that America had lost in Iraq. She looked at the Secretary of Defense with a look of utter disbelief written visibly across her face. “We don’t even know for certain if they have the bomb!”
“And we may never know,” replied the Secretary of Defense, “but I do know one thing, and that is — and I think I speak for most of us here — I’m willing to break a few eggs to saves the lives of our civilians. If it means saving the lives of millions of Americans, if it means saving everything that we stand for, I think I’m willing to advocate pushing that button.”
The color drained from her newly tanned face. For a moment the Secretary of State stood in silence. Then she mustered some hidden reserve of courage and, in a voice of rising hostility, said, “You can’t possibly! This goes against every part of the Non-Proliferation Treaty! Nothing has even been confirmed yet, we’re running on — well we’re running on pure speculation right now! And let me remind you, that up until that oil pipeline debacle, we had been on very cordial terms with the administration in Waziristan.”
The President, having sat quietly until this point, fumbling absently with the ripped arm on his chair, decided it was time to calm down the room. “Now, I think you’ve both got some very good points. But she’s right, we couldn’t authorize an attack on what we’ve got now. At the same time, I don’t think we, as leaders of the free world, could sit by and allow atrocities like these to occur against our Western brothers.” Once again, there was a pause. He looked around the room, measuring the degree to which they were following him before he continued. “What we need is a reason, a good reason, maybe backed by some hard data, that will the unite the American people against this threat.”
“Sir?” A voice seemed to come from nowhere.
“Who is that?”
“Mr. President, I’m right here.” It was the mousy intern he had hired to take notes for him during meetings. Sitting in an ill-fitting corduroy jacket, Lenovo laptop placed on his right leg, the intern took a sip before continuing. “Mr. President, I think I might have an idea. If you’ll remember, there were some rumors a few months back that President Bajir of Waziristan had been keeping secret prisons in a southern section of the country. I’m thinking that if we play this up as a violation of human rights, we can win over a lot of liberals, including some positive CNN and New York Times coverage.”
“Who is this fellow?” the Secretary of State wondered out loud.
“Well who he is doesn’t matter, now does it? He’s got a good idea, so we need to follow up a little. Jim? —”
“It’s James, sir.”
“Right, James, don’t worry, I never forget a name. Get this story out there as fast as possible and let me know what the reaction is. Look, gentlemen and ladies , I believe — we believe, I should say — that this administration has received a silent blessing from God. I think we’ve got to make the Christian decision here. Even if this whole ‘human rights violator’ piece doesn’t go over so well, we’ve all got to be willing to make the right decision when the choice comes to us. By tomorrow, I expect we may have to make a decision that we cannot undo. Everyone is dismissed.”
* * * * *
“Well God, I’m back. I hope you had plenty of time to think the situation over, and I’m interested in hearin’ your thoughts.” Once again, silence fell upon the presidential bedroom. Directly in front of the President’s face, his sheets lay, crisply pressed by Matilda. It was another of the “perks” he was always bragging to his brother in South Carolina about.
“Well, Mr. President, this is certainly not an either/or situation.”
“You got that right, big guy.”
“The choice you make will probably reveberate for decades. People, not only Americans, will be affected by your choice.”
“And that’s why it’s so hard. Jesus! Why can’t these choices be easier? Why can’t there be a nice, little, black and white decision? The question I keep askin’ myself is, ‘Can these Muslim souls be saved?’ But I need your help findin’ the answer.”
The deep, soothing voice reverberated inside his head. “Mr. President, I can’t make the decision for you. But I can assure you that whatever choice you make, it will be the choice Heaven intended you to make, and that you will be my messenger. Mr. President, it is your job to maintain America’s status as leader of the free world. You must do whatever it takes.”
“Thank you. Knowin’ I’ve got your confidence means everything. I’ll do the right thing tomorrow. ‘Night.” A long silence fell upon the President, the searing pain in his thigh again became apparent and he winced slightly, leaning to shift the burden of his body to the other leg. But that didn’t solve the problem, so he shifted back. After a few seconds of restless movements back and forth, he stood up slowly and turned to the door. He walked out into the hallway, steps echoing on the marble floor, turned right into his office, then stood pensively in front of his solid oak desk. He took out a small, silver key, tucked behind the twelfth grade yearbook photograph of his daughter in his wallet, and unlocked the third drawer in the desk. “Took a tree to make this desk,” he would’ve said if there were an aide behind him. They, in turn, would have responded that it was a “remarkable tree indeed,” and an awkward silence would have ensued. After withdrawing a small bottle, he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. “Boy, were things different than the old days working the family farm in Virginia during the summers back from college,” he thought. After a second swill from the bottle, he felt assured of himself. He re-screwed the cap, deposited the bottle back into its resting place, slid shut and locked the drawer, walked back to his bedroom and quickly fell asleep.
* * * * *
The next day at exactly 12:37 p.m., Eastern Standard Time, the President of the United States of America received clearance to launch one, hair-trigger, inter-continental ballistic missile targeting the Democratic Republic of Waziristan. A mere three minutes later, he pushed the red button, activating the warhead and beginning the countdown to launch. The President was later told that the death toll estimated to be 274,000. At 1:20 p.m., the Vice President uncorked a bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage 1998 in a newly crowded White House Conference Room and cheers arose from the surrounding staff and cabinet members. Some aides had converted one of the Conference Room tables to a poker game and on a day like this, who could blame them? One aide could be heard shouting above the bunch that “Fukuyama was wrong, THIS was the end of history!” Hearing this, the President smiled to himself and looked towards the ceiling, giving a quick wink that only his highest advisor noticed.
When the President Talks to God
A short story.
When the President talks to God, does he ever think that maybe he’s not? That the voice is just inside his head when he leans next to the presidential bed? Does he ever smell his own bullshit, when the President talks to God? (“When the President Talks to God” by Bright Eyes)
* * * * *
The president’s knees met the familiar, blue carpeting of his bedroom. He felt a quickly evaporating soreness in his left thigh, a reoccurring pain left by the quadriceps tear during his senior year as middle linebacker for St. Mary’s high school football team. As his muscular hands closed together, the quiet blue eyes, now framed with three distinct wrinkles, shut slowly. This was a quotidian activity, one of the few elements in his daily schedule that he could always count on as a relaxant.
“Glory to you, Lord. That this evenin’ may be holy, good and peaceful, let me pray with a unified heart and mind. As my evening prayer rises before you, O God, so might your mercy come down ‘pon me to cleanse my heart and set me free to sing your praise now and forever. Amen.”
The deep, gravelly voice that had kept him off of the school choir but in the girls’ hearts rose quietly above the music emanating from elsewhere within the White House. “A waltz,” he thought to himself. He paused and took the gentle breeze that whistled past his window as a sign that he ought to continue talking.
“Lord, I have before me a problem. A problem — well, Lord, this is a big one.” The wind stopped and the music was no longer audible. Rarely did these conversations venture into territory as important as this, and he was uncertain how to proceed on such a delicate query.
“Today I received a briefing statin’ the People’s Republic of Waki— Wari — Waziristan— may have completed the construction of a nuclear warhead. Now, as I’m sure you’ve been hearin’ on the news recently, well, Lord, relations between our nations aren’t so hot. I’m worried we are facin’ a grave threat — I’m worried they’ll attack us.” He waited at least ten seconds before continuing, hoping the magnitude of the situation might settle in for both of them.
“As you know, Lord, I’m a believer in the powers of diplomacy, but this time, I think… well, I think war looks to be our only option.”
At this point, he opened his eyes, looking directly past the red, pleated curtains, out the window towards the dark, equinoctial sky. Silence.
“Lord, I’ll give you some time to think this matter over, and I’ll be back tomorrow night to hear your answer. Until then, I’m a bit tired, so I bid you farewell.”
Maybe he was just tired, but swore he heard a voice inside his head reply, “Thank you, Goodnight, Mr. President.”
* * * * *
The Secretary of State meandered back and forth in front of the strategy table. Her back was to the figures seated at the table, but she could have named and placed each participant with her eyes closed. The President, of course, was seated at the head of the table, manning the leather-backed chair built two decades back, staring straight at her with those piercing blue eyes, gathering in the information displayed on her PowerPoint. The Secretary of Defense was seated on the left of the President, a slight, sneering grin the only decoration on his otherwise toneless face. The Vice President occupied the seat at his right hand, right knee crossed over the left with his Brooks Brothers suit shimmering from a recent cleaning.
“Gentlemen, as you are aware, the situation in Waziristan is worrying, but given that very little information has been confirmed, we need to act cautiously. I’m certain that, even if the intelligence is confirmed, this situation can be resolved peace—”
“Madam secretary, I’d first like to commend you, you’re doing a heck of a job. To the point though, I think we in this room have got to decide to what lengths we’re willing to go to solve this problem,” said the Vice President, his voice full of that strength, so admired on the campaign trail. It was the reason he had been chosen for the position, even though, as Mayor of a small Mississippi town, he was relatively unqualified for the position.
“Well, Mr. Vice President, I feel that, with all due respect, we can rule out the use of invasion, air strikes, or a nuclear strike—”
The Secretary of Defense interjected, “Madam, I happen to agree with the Vice President in this situation. We know from previous dealings that these Muslims cannot be trusted to act as clearheadedly and predictably as we might expect from someone like, Russia, or another Western nation. I think that we’ve got to decide whether we’re willing to use force, even the bomb, to protect the interests of America. And, because we are like the ‘city on the hill’ that President Reagan used to talk about — well, I believe we represent the interests of the Western world. That means our response will be accepted and applauded by our friends around the globe. I happen to be of the persuasion — and perhaps this is a radical view — but I happen to be under the belief that we’ve got to be willing to solve this problem with the purest utilitarian means.”
“Are you seriously sugges—” the Secretary of State tried to add before she was interrupted again.
“Yes, madam, I am suggesting the use of a nuclear missile against Waziristan. At this point, I view it as the best course of action.”
“Think about Ira—” but she thought better of bringing up that bit of history. She paused and remembered the aide who had been fired last week arguing that America had lost in Iraq. She looked at the Secretary of Defense with a look of utter disbelief written visibly across her face. “We don’t even know for certain if they have the bomb!”
“And we may never know,” replied the Secretary of Defense, “but I do know one thing, and that is — and I think I speak for most of us here — I’m willing to break a few eggs to saves the lives of our civilians. If it means saving the lives of millions of Americans, if it means saving everything that we stand for, I think I’m willing to advocate pushing that button.”
The color drained from her newly tanned face. For a moment the Secretary of State stood in silence. Then she mustered some hidden reserve of courage and, in a voice of rising hostility, said, “You can’t possibly! This goes against every part of the Non-Proliferation Treaty! Nothing has even been confirmed yet, we’re running on — well we’re running on pure speculation right now! And let me remind you, that up until that oil pipeline debacle, we had been on very cordial terms with the administration in Waziristan.”
The President, having sat quietly until this point, fumbling absently with the ripped arm on his chair, decided it was time to calm down the room. “Now, I think you’ve both got some very good points. But she’s right, we couldn’t authorize an attack on what we’ve got now. At the same time, I don’t think we, as leaders of the free world, could sit by and allow atrocities like these to occur against our Western brothers.” Once again, there was a pause. He looked around the room, measuring the degree to which they were following him before he continued. “What we need is a reason, a good reason, maybe backed by some hard data, that will the unite the American people against this threat.”
“Sir?” A voice seemed to come from nowhere.
“Who is that?”
“Mr. President, I’m right here.” It was the mousy intern he had hired to take notes for him during meetings. Sitting in an ill-fitting corduroy jacket, Lenovo laptop placed on his right leg, the intern took a sip before continuing. “Mr. President, I think I might have an idea. If you’ll remember, there were some rumors a few months back that President Bajir of Waziristan had been keeping secret prisons in a southern section of the country. I’m thinking that if we play this up as a violation of human rights, we can win over a lot of liberals, including some positive CNN and New York Times coverage.”
“Who is this fellow?” the Secretary of State wondered out loud.
“Well who he is doesn’t matter, now does it? He’s got a good idea, so we need to follow up a little. Jim? —”
“It’s James, sir.”
“Right, James, don’t worry, I never forget a name. Get this story out there as fast as possible and let me know what the reaction is. Look, gentlemen and ladies , I believe — we believe, I should say — that this administration has received a silent blessing from God. I think we’ve got to make the Christian decision here. Even if this whole ‘human rights violator’ piece doesn’t go over so well, we’ve all got to be willing to make the right decision when the choice comes to us. By tomorrow, I expect we may have to make a decision that we cannot undo. Everyone is dismissed.”
* * * * *
“Well God, I’m back. I hope you had plenty of time to think the situation over, and I’m interested in hearin’ your thoughts.” Once again, silence fell upon the presidential bedroom. Directly in front of the President’s face, his sheets lay, crisply pressed by Matilda. It was another of the “perks” he was always bragging to his brother in South Carolina about.
“Well, Mr. President, this is certainly not an either/or situation.”
“You got that right, big guy.”
“The choice you make will probably reveberate for decades. People, not only Americans, will be affected by your choice.”
“And that’s why it’s so hard. Jesus! Why can’t these choices be easier? Why can’t there be a nice, little, black and white decision? The question I keep askin’ myself is, ‘Can these Muslim souls be saved?’ But I need your help findin’ the answer.”
The deep, soothing voice reverberated inside his head. “Mr. President, I can’t make the decision for you. But I can assure you that whatever choice you make, it will be the choice Heaven intended you to make, and that you will be my messenger. Mr. President, it is your job to maintain America’s status as leader of the free world. You must do whatever it takes.”
“Thank you. Knowin’ I’ve got your confidence means everything. I’ll do the right thing tomorrow. ‘Night.” A long silence fell upon the President, the searing pain in his thigh again became apparent and he winced slightly, leaning to shift the burden of his body to the other leg. But that didn’t solve the problem, so he shifted back. After a few seconds of restless movements back and forth, he stood up slowly and turned to the door. He walked out into the hallway, steps echoing on the marble floor, turned right into his office, then stood pensively in front of his solid oak desk. He took out a small, silver key, tucked behind the twelfth grade yearbook photograph of his daughter in his wallet, and unlocked the third drawer in the desk. “Took a tree to make this desk,” he would’ve said if there were an aide behind him. They, in turn, would have responded that it was a “remarkable tree indeed,” and an awkward silence would have ensued. After withdrawing a small bottle, he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. “Boy, were things different than the old days working the family farm in Virginia during the summers back from college,” he thought. After a second swill from the bottle, he felt assured of himself. He re-screwed the cap, deposited the bottle back into its resting place, slid shut and locked the drawer, walked back to his bedroom and quickly fell asleep.
* * * * *
The next day at exactly 12:37 p.m., Eastern Standard Time, the President of the United States of America received clearance to launch one, hair-trigger, inter-continental ballistic missile targeting the Democratic Republic of Waziristan. A mere three minutes later, he pushed the red button, activating the warhead and beginning the countdown to launch. The President was later told that the death toll estimated to be 274,000. At 1:20 p.m., the Vice President uncorked a bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage 1998 in a newly crowded White House Conference Room and cheers arose from the surrounding staff and cabinet members. Some aides had converted one of the Conference Room tables to a poker game and on a day like this, who could blame them? One aide could be heard shouting above the bunch that “Fukuyama was wrong, THIS was the end of history!” Hearing this, the President smiled to himself and looked towards the ceiling, giving a quick wink that only his highest advisor noticed.
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