(8)
A Midnight Snack
In that fuzzy place between awake and asleep, George W. Bush thought he heard a tink!, and then a clink! He turned over on his right side and was almost asleep again when he distinctly heard two clinks!, followed shortly after by a thunk. Considering the incredible experience of his previous dream, the President, in the week that followed, was on his mental guard for another escape from reality. He slapped his face one time and sat up in bed and quietly listened. Tink! Thunk! There it was again. Dangit, what the heck is it? He looked over at Laura, who was sleeping away peacefully, grabbed the flashlight sitting on the nightstand, and put on his robe and slippers. The President hated being woken up. Clank! It sounded like it was coming from the direction of the residence kitchen. It was not out of the question that a couple of Secret Service agents were raiding the fridge–this had been known to happen on occasion, but was generally frowned upon. "I don't mind the fellas gettin' something to eat, but geez, keep it down," fussed the President as he walked down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. The sound was definitely coming from the kitchen, and it didn't sound like whoever-it-was cared about being quiet. The President opened the swinging door to the kitchen and saw a man's rear end sticking out of the refrigerator. The man, who was not small, was wearing khaki slacks and some kind of red polo golf shirt, and had whitish hair. The sound of the kitchen door opening startled the man, who dropped whatever he was holding, the distinct sound of breaking glass announcing a mess to be cleaned up.
"Awww shit!!" said the man, and turning around said, "George! Well I'll be damned! Where are the towels?"
George W. Bush slapped his face harder and pinched the skin on his right hand. "What in the heck are you doin' here? How did... who let you in?" asked a flustered President Bush. His flashlight surveyed the room and came upon the kitchen table, which was laden with enough food to feed a basketball team. "And what are you doin' with all of that food?"
"Can ya hand me a towel, George, please? There's glass and pickle juice everywhere. You startled me and I dropped the dang pickle jar."
"I startled you??" The President absent-mindedly grabbed a towel from inside the sink cabinet and tossed it. "It's after midnight, you're standin' in my kitchen and I startled you?"
"I used ta love comin' in here this time of night, George. They stock this refrigerator with darn near everything! A little fried chicken, maybe a roast beef sandwich, chocolate mousse–anything you can think of, they'll make it. Is Rose still around? She made an apple pie..." He was all business picking up shards of glass. "I believe we can save some of these pickles, George–here, put these on the table, if you don't mind," he said handing three whole dills to the President, who, again, absent-mindedly did what he was told.
"I don't believe we're trackin' the same conversation. See, I'm supposed to be sleeping right now—I have this job that I have to get up early in the morning for–"
"Yeah, you go to bed really early don't you? I never made it to bed before one or one-thirty at the earliest."
"The point is, I'm desperately tryin' to figure out what in the name of Jesus are you doin' in here, in the middle of the night no less, lookin' like you're about to feed my staff—"
"Is your staff comin', too? I don't think we have enough food, George. I–"
"Too?!? What are you talking about?" The only way this ridiculous situation could be possible was if George W. Bush was dreaming it. He didn't feel like it was a dream, but, the evidence to the contrary was piling up. "Look, uh, if this is a dream, I don't want any part of it. The Lincoln dream was kind of cool, but if this is somehow connected to that, I ain't playin'. I hereby pronounce this dream ended, and you out of here."
"George, I have nothin' to do with your dreams, okay? I didn't ask to be in it, and I frankly can't do anything about it, so lighten up and see if there's a small dust broom in the closet. And you can put down the flashlight, and turn on some lights in here."
The President put the flashlight on the table, turned on the overhead recessed lights, and found the dustpan and broom in the closet. It was after he turned on the lights that he got a good look at what was on the table. There were sourdough rolls, onion rolls, French bread, some kind of wheat bread, and rye bread. There was roast beef, a nice ham, some sliced turkey, pastrami, and some Italian-looking roll of meat. There were two heads of lettuce, a half-dozen tomatoes, onions, four avocados, and a jar of jalapenos. Condiments included ketchup, two kinds of mustard, mayonnaise, some kind of Cajun hot sauce, Mexican salsa, lemons, salt, and pepper. There were large bags of potato chips, tortilla chips, and one bag of pork rinds. It was obvious that this man wasn't planning to eat alone.
George W. pinched the top of his left hand this time, but nothing happened. "Look, I got nothin' against you personally, didn't agree with too many of your policies, but that's just politics, heh-heh-heh." President Bush leaned over to help him with the broken glass. He now spoke purposefully just above a whisper. "But I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit in here and listen to a sermon from you on whatever it is you think I'm doin' wrong." Then more to himself, he muttered, "there's gotta be a way to wake yourself up from something like this." The President was sounding almost desperate.
"George, I didn't expect you to listen to me. And I will remind you again, that I had nothin' to do with this. Naw, I didn't think you'd listen to me. But you might listen to a sermon from him," he said, thumbing at the other kitchen entryway. There, coming in out of the shadows, was a very familiar-looking black man with a trim mustache and short-cropped hair, wearing a dark suit and tie.
"Awright, now there's no doubt that I'm dreaming," said the President, standing up and almost falling back over a chair.
"Martin, this President George W. Bush. Mr. President, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr." Bill Clinton made it sound like the reverend was here to play cards.
"Mr. President, it is my pleasure, sir," said Dr. King.
"Naw... Dr. King, I've... always admired your work," said a flabbergasted President Bush, trying to hold it together.
"Thank you, Mr. President. I believe I met your father once. He's a good man."
"A good man, indeed, Martin," said Bill Clinton. George W. Bush shot Clinton a look that said, You don't know my father well enough to comment.
"Are ya hungry, Martin?" asked Clinton.
"When am I not?" replied the Reverend, rubbing his hands together at the sight of the spread laid out in front of him.
"Well, then, pull up a chair, m'brother! The others should be here in a minute."
"Others? What others? There are others?" President Bush made a mental note to see the White House physician as soon as possible.
"I've never been one to turn down a free meal–God's bountiful blessing, yes it is!" Dr. King began surveying the bread choices.
"I must admit I'm partial to the ham, Martin. I don't know where they get it from, but it's real good."
"Ralph and I had a running joke when we were on the preacher's circuit–anything but chicken... anything but chicken," laughed King as he and Bill Clinton started to roll.
"Martin, why did the chicken cross the road?"
"I dunno... why?"
"I dunno either, just pass me some of that ham!" The two were cracking each other up, quite oblivious to the President of the United States sitting next to them.
"You know, fellas," interjected the President, trying to get a word in. "I'm having a dream right now that I'm basically not particip–"
"That's funny–Martin, didn't you have a dream or two?"
"Me? A dream? Me?"
"I think you did, my man."
"Oh, yeah... I had a dream."
"What kinda dream?"
"I had a dream that one day the kitchen table at the White House would be filled with every imaginable sandwich item known to mankind. I had a dream today!"
"Work it, baby!"
"I had a dream that way down... down at the end of the table...there might be some mustard for this bread that I'm holding in my hand right now. I had a dream today."
"I'm feelin' ya bro. The man is a maestro," twinkled Clinton, looking at George W. Bush. "Lemme pass you some of that Grey Poupon, sir."
"You two should take this act on the road, but–"
"I had a dream... that before this night is through... ham will rest upon turkey and turkey upon pastrami high on the mountaintop of the bread of life, where pork rind can live in peace with potato chip in righteous harmony and all will ultimately take their final resting place inside my stomach. I had a dream today!"
"You know, Martin," said a teary-eyed Clinton, "I wish you had waited for the fellas to launch into that. That bit never gets old."
As if on cue the swinging door burst open, and in walked former Vice President Al Gore followed by the Irish rock singer Bono, who was wearing his signature wraparound sunglasses, smoking a cigarette and holding a bottle of wine. He also had a parrot on his shoulder. President Bush put his head straight down on the table. "This is not happening... this is not happening," he kept saying, almost as a mantra.
"Al! Bono!"
"Bill! Dr. King!"
"Fellas!"
"Is there any beer?"
"In the fridge!"
"How ya been? S'been too long!"
"You're looking well!"
"Thanks! You too! Look like you lost a few pounds."
"Aww, I wish!"
There was much joy and backslapping all around.
"Where's the real beer?" Bono wasn't pleased with the choices in the refrigerator.
"Sit down, friends, and enjoy a midnight snack," said a gracious Bill Clinton. "Bono, what in the world are you doing with a bird on your shoulder?"
"Well, you, of all people, should know the answer to that one!" winked Bono, "but his name is Michael Collins, and I'm watching him for a friend."
"Rraahhkk!" squawked Michael Collins.
No one seemed to realize that President Bush was sitting at the table.
Al Gore surveyed the spread. "This looks great, Bill–how's Hillary? Did that bird just say Iraq?"
"She's fine. That's the junior Senator from New York to you!"
"Well somebody's gotta work–and Chelsea?"
"Aw, you know, she's great."
"Americans have such lousy taste in beer–it's pathetic, really." Bono sadly opened a Coors.
"Well, we have great taste in sandwiches! Boy, come sit yourself down next to me and dig in," said an already half-sated Dr. King.
The former Vice President was eyeing something out of his reach. "Reverend, could you please pass me a couple of pieces of that rye? I believe I'm going to have a pastrami-on-rye."
"You'll probably want some of this mustard, then," answered Dr. King.
"Yes I do! Ab-so-lutely!"
"Bono, I'm sorry we don't have any corned beef," joked Bill Clinton.
"It's a sad day indeed," replied Bono. "Bloody Coors, and no corned beef."
"Rraahhkk!" Michael Collins seemed to agree with Bono.
"And...some of those tomatoes, if you don't mind." Al Gore was pointing to a juicy trio of plump tomatoes on King's right.
"You ain't puttin' tomatoes on a pastrami sandwich! There's some kinda law..." Dr. King was gently mocking. "White folk have the strangest habits..."
"There should be a law against those pork rinds you're eating, Reverend. Those things'll kill you" countered Gore.
"You can't die twice! And besides, the Negro is blessed with a strong constitution, both mentally and physically, made that way by hundreds of years of oppression at the hands of the white man," said Reverend King.
"The bloody Irish were oppressed for hundreds of years before the black man left the jungles of Africa... and there should be a law against bloody American beer, especially ones named after Nazis," muttered Bono.
"Rraahhkk!" exclaimed the parrot.
"Will you can it about the freakin' beer! After the first couple you won't be able to tell the difference! And that bird is saying Iraq! That's hilarious!" And this comment from Bill Clinton sent the whole table into another convulsive round of laughter, as bread, meat, condiments, and friendly banter were quickly exchanged and returned.
George W. Bush wondered if somehow he had been rendered invisible. "Hello? Testing, one, two... testing one two." No response. "Dr. King? Hey, Clinton!" Nothing. Had he disappeared from his own dream? It was weird, because he was there a few minutes ago. And the parrot was getting on his nerves.
"I did bring a nice Australian Petit Sirah if anyone is interested," volunteered Bono.
"Sounds good to me," Al Gore answered. "Better drink Australian wine while Australia can still grow grapes."
"I didn't know Australia grew grapes," said the Reverend.
"Another thirty years of global warming and they won't," said Gore.
"Bloody hell, where does this administration get off with being in such denial? Does the White House itself have to be swept away in a flood?" Bono was searching for a corkscrew.
"Rraahhkk!" echoed Michael Collins.
"You should call the bird Saddam," offered King.
"Over to your left–no, one more–that one," Bill Clinton seemed to still know where everything was. "Whatever do you mean? Why, they've got the 'Clear Skies Initiative'–"
"Hah!" The former Vice President almost spit out a tortilla chip.
"Hey, that's not all! What about 'Healthy Forests'?"
"Compassionate clear-cutting," returned Gore.
"Philip Cooney? Ring a bell?"
Gore was popping a vein. "That... bastard changed the wording of the National Assessment on Climate Change...the guy was the head of the White House Council on Environmental Quality–an oxymoron if there ever was one–anyway, this guy, who wasn't a scientist, who was a former employee of the American Petroleum Institute, takes a red pen to a document painstakingly produced by over two-hundred scientists over a period of something like a year-and-a-half, and starts changing the absolutes to qualifiers!"
"Tell us how ya really feel!" Dr. King knew a rising sermon when he heard one.
Bill Clinton threw a wink over at President Bush. Could he see him or could he not?
"This president has done more damage to earth by not doing anything than he will ever know," continued Gore. "We'll all be dead, him included, by the time it starts affecting us on a personal basis here in our cozy homes in America–"
"I believe I am already dead, if I'm not mistaken," corrected Martin Luther King, Jr.
"I stand corrected again, Martin. My mistake. But I fear for our grandchildren... it seems criminal to me to be in possession of such knowledge and not act to stop it. For many parts of the world, it's not gonna take two generations." Gore took a sip of the Australian wine. "This is really good."
"Rraahhkk!" Bono gave Michael Collins a sip of his beer, which he spat out in disgust.
President Bush was getting angry. The nerve of these people, coming into his house, sitting in his kitchen, and ragging on him and his people!
"Th-thz-id-th-vibgl-tha-wral-thwrs-thrrth," mumbled Bono with a mouthful of ham.
Clinton laughed, "Was that Gaelic or something? Run that by us again with an empty mouth."
Bono finished masticating. "I said, it says in the Bible that we are all stewards of the earth. For a Christian man, this president doesn't seem to walk the walk."
"I have been aware that the man's rhetoric does not match his actions," said Dr. King.
"Well, I gotta say in his defense, none of ours ever does," replied Bill Clinton, as he wiped mayonnaise off of his polo shirt.
"Yes," Bono countered, "but who amongst you ever wore Jesus Christ on his sleeve like George W. Bush?"
"Rraahhkk!"
"Carter, maybe," answered Al Gore.
"Jimmy Carter... a fine man of God," mused Dr. King. "Lousy president, but a good man."
"It just seems to this administration that the truth is so..." Gore was searching for the word.
"Inconvenient?" offered Dr. King.
"Yes! That's it. Inconvenient!" Al Gore stared off into space as if suddenly mesmerized by something.
"George Bush is giving Christianity a bad name," said Bono, opening another Coors.
"Rraahhkk! Rraahhkk!"
"That's the pot calling the kettle black! And does that bird know any other word except Iraq?" Clinton got the table laughing again.
"President Cigar slagging me off eh?" laughed Bono.
"Preach the truth, boy!" Dr. King was egging them on.
Al Gore was busy scribbling Inconvenient Truth on a note pad he had pulled from his pocket.
"Rraahhkk!"
President Bush had heard enough. He was going to crash his own dream. "HEY!!" he said standing up and rapidly pounding on the table twice. That did it. All eyes were now on the President as the four men stood.
"Mr. President!"
"Where did he come from? Did we wake you up?"
"We were... just talking about you."
"George, for the life of me I didn't know where you went off to," said the eternally affable Clinton. "Why don't you sit down and have a midnight snack with us and shoot the bull a little bit."
"Rraahhkk!"
"Oh, I've heard enough bull already, thanks. And somebody better shut that damn bird up! Since this is my dream, and you fellas are just... in it, I think I'd like to thin the crowd a bit, Clinton. For starters, I really don't want to listen to your 'Save the Whales' baloney anymore, Mr. Vice-President-loser of the last election, so put down the mustard, and poof! off you go." Al Gore vanished. "And Bono, my Irish rock star, you can take your Irish beer and whine all the way back to Ireland for all I care–and take Polly with you." poof! Bono and Michael Collins disappeared. "I always thought he was overrated, anyway. Now, you, my fine predecessor–"
"I don't think you can do that, George. See, I convened–"
"I can do anything I want to do, Bill. It's my dream. The only person in this dream that's worth talking to is the Reverend here. The rest of you are just a waste of fine luncheon meat."
"George, you don't underst–"
"Understand this!" poof! Bill Clinton was gone. Suddenly the only sound in the room was the crunching of pork rinds on Martin Luther King Jr.'s teeth.
"Geez, Dr. King, no offense, but where did you find your friends?"
Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open, and Bill Clinton walked in again.
"Rraahhkk!" Michael Collins was now on Bill Clinton's shoulder.
"Now, George, I was tryin' to tell you that you can't get rid of me. I am the facilitator of this meeting. I don't make the rules, George. Believe me, I had my fill of this place. And the last place I wanna be is in one of your dreams. So why don't you just calm down, and you and Dr. King can talk, and I'll just sit here quietly and eat."
"Clinton, what is the freakin' bird doing on your shoulder?" asked a thoroughly exasperated President Bush.
"George, if I could tell you the answer to that...I just hope he doesn't crap on my shirt," answered Clinton. "Martin," continued the former President, picking up his ham sandwich, "since the President here seems to want to talk only to you, why don't you enlighten him with some wisdom... that is, when you can take a break from... geez, how many sandwiches are you gonna eat?"
"Man does not live on bread alone, Bill," said Dr. King, solemnly, as he finished another large bite of ham and cheese on sourdough. "He also needs meat, lettuce, and condiments!"
"I can see that," retorted Clinton. "I can also see that there are caloric advantages to being... immortal."
"Rraahhkk!"
"There are certain advantages, yes," replied King philosophically, washing down a mouthful of groceries with a huge gulp of Dr. Pepper. "I've had a judicious opportunity to reflect on the plusses and minuses of my unique condition in juxtaposition to the particular advantages or disadvantages that would have accrued had I not prematurely departed this earth. Could you pass the potato chips, Bill? A man in my state becomes more or less omniscient. I can go where I want, see what I want, and yes, eat whatever I want. I have access to things mortal men can only dream of." King took a handful of chips from the bag, and turned his attention to George W. Bush.
"Mr. President, you are a devout Christian, and you have portrayed yourself as a substantially moral man. You have inserted morality into the discussion of almost every policy, foreign and domestic. You are very devoted to the struggle of good versus evil. There is nothing inherently wrong with any of these things." Dr. King made a huge dent in a whole dill pickle, and washed it down with a swig of Dr. Pepper. "You call yourself a 'compassionate conservative', I believe, is that right?"
"I believe that it's possible to treat each and every American equally and fairly without the massive intervention of the Federal government at each and every turning point in life," responded the President.
"I suppose the exigencies of being a Republican president have forced you to favor the 'conservative' over the 'compassionate'–"
"Ha!... sorry," apologized Clinton to the glaring president, as he wiped mayonnaise from his chin.
"Rraahhkk!"
"See, you'd have to be in my shoes to–"
"Martin, if you were in his shoes with your big ol' feet, things'd get ugly fast!"
"I thought you were supposed to shut up," said a visibly angry George W Bush.
"'Tighten thy shoes and gird thy loins, for the day of the Lord draws nigh,'" quoted Dr. King.
"Tighten thy shoes? What book is that from?" Clinton smelled a rat.
"It's from the Book of Balonius 'cause I just made it up!" The two of them started laughing uncontrollably while Michael Collins added a couple of "Rraahhkks!" and then Bill Clinton coughed and nodded in the President's direction. The President was not amused. The two men mumbled "sorry" under giggles and the clearing of throats. "Please continue, Mr. President," nodded a solemn King.
"Rraahhkk!"
"Clinton, if you don't shut that bird up, I'm gonna call Spotty in here and give him an early breakfast! That's an order from your President!" The bird was taking its toll on the President's serenity, if not his sanity. "As my predecessor knows, it's not as easy as it obviously looks to some folks balancing the competing interests in this town. Everybody has their hand out for somethin'. Sometimes I feel like a... a glorified referee. But we've made great strides with our Faith-based Initiatives. I'm proud 'a that one. Gettin' the private sector involved. People of all faiths helpin' those less fortunate than themselves. Puttin' people to work. This country is made up of great people," the President sniffed.
"Rraahhkk!"
"I'm not doin' it!" protested Bill Clinton. "The bird has a mind of its own!"
"The bird might have a point," offered Dr. King. "You obviously have a domestic agenda that you that you care deeply about, things that you want to accomplish during your term in office. What our feathered friend here is trying to remind you is that it all may come back to Iraq."
"Rraahhkk!" echoed Michael Collins.
"That's right, little brutha," continued King. "Mr. President, I had the privilege to know and work with several presidents–Eisenhower, Kennedy–both Kennedys, really, President Johnson–Lyndon Johnson was a complicated man. The embodiment of a dichotomy."
The President was rummaging around his mental dictionary and coming up blank.
"Johnson did more for the Negro in this country than any man since Lincoln," said King, "Some believe he finished the job that Lincoln started, although others would contend that we still have a long way to go. Here was this Southern man, brought up in segregationist Texas, a man not known for gentleness of spirit, not opposed to doing whatever it took to win, not above rude and lascivious language–who would have guessed that it would be this man that would lead the nation–no, drag this nation by the collar into a final, lasting acceptance of the creed that all men are created equal, all little boys and little girls, black men and women and white men and women!"
Bill Clinton was looking at President Bush, and back at King, and back at Bush, the way one would look at a person to see if that person loved the thing as much as he did.
"This man, by the strength of his overpowering personality and will, after the nation was plunged into darkness with the horrible murder of President John Kennedy, took up the flag of equality and marched with it right into the heart of Dixie! Only he, a southerner and master politician, could have waded into the political snake pit that was Jim Crow and come out of it with the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Were they perfect? No, but they were the two most important pieces of legislation for the Negro people in this country since the Emancipation Proclamation. Can I interest you in a pork rind? Some Dr. Pepper?"
"Wha–no... no thanks," said the dazed President, stifling a yawn. History lessons always made his eyes glaze.
"But what, Mr. President, is Lyndon Baines Johnson's legacy? What do most people in this country, indeed around the world think of when they think of LBJ?"
"Well, the first thing that pops in my head is the freeway in Dallas...oh! oh! Vietnam!"
"Bingo," said Bill Clinton.
"Rraahhkk!" echoed Michael Collins.
"Mr. President, Lyndon Johnson's wonderful domestic legacy was ruined by Vietnam. He will instead always be remembered for escalating that disastrous and unfortunate conflict."
"With all due respect, Reverend, Iraq and Vietnam are two completely different places. Two different stories. Two different outcomes." George W. looked at Bill Clinton as if daring him to say anything.
"Rraahhkk!" Neither president had any power over the bird.
"Mr. President, have you given consideration to Just War Theory?"
"No such thing as 'just a war'. See, all war is awful, and no one's gonna feel more sorry for the families of loved ones that get killed or wounded than I will. That's the toughest part of this job."
Martin Luther King tried another tack. "Sir, if you don't mind me saying, you seem to be suffering from insufficient personal doubt."
"Again, with all due respect, Reverend, I think you're wrong about that. I have no personal doubt whatsoever. See, I decide something, and it's 'Katy bar the door', heh-heh-heh."
King stole a look at Bill Clinton who gave him a "don't-look-at-me" look back.
"What I'm trying to get at, Mr. President, is that Lyndon Johnson had no idea that the war in Vietnam was going to derail his great domestic legacy when he sent those troops over there. Maybe it was in the back of his mind, but soon enough he found himself snowballing into something that mushroomed into an absolute disaster for him politically. It poisoned our relationship. It turned the country against itself. And it ultimately drove him into an early retirement."
"But this is gonna be different. I have it on good authority that we're gonna be greeted as liberators in Iraq. The Iraqi people, see, they want to taste freedom. They've been starving in a desert of... of unfreedom for, for thousands of years."
"Rraahhkk!?" It almost sounded like a question. Now it was Bill Clinton's turn to steal a look at King.
"It's gonna cost you a trillion dollars 'fore you're through," said Clinton.
"That's ridiculous!" said the President. "The whole thing won't cost more 'n twenty, thirty billion tops, and we'll get all of it back and more with oil revenues."
"Rraahhkk!"
"Oh shut up!!"
"George, when was the last time anything–any war, any humanitarian effort, any police action, any large building project, or stadium or arena for that matter–anything that cost a large sum of money came in anywhere close to the amount of money that was estimated?"
"This isn't about the money, Clinton," countered the President. "It's about removing a tyrant. Spreading freedom and democracy. Going after the evil-doers. Stopping the spread of weapons of mass destruction. The great people of America will get behind the troops and support this mission once they understand its complexities."
"Spare me the speech, George–who do you think you're talkin' to? The only thing complex about it is how you're gonna convince the American people that this isn't about the oil, when you know and I know and sooner or later everybody and their brother's gonna know it's about the oil. We had Saddam Hussein tied down tighter than a gnat's ass stretched over a rain barrel. He couldn't shit without us knowin' about it." Bill Clinton was starting to feel it. Meanwhile, Martin Luther King had taken this moment to have a look in the refrigerator for some dessert. He found a nice-looking chocolate cake, and further searching in the freezer uncovered some Hagen-Daaz vanilla ice cream. He took a Flintstone-sized portion of each back to the table.
"Don't have any arteries to clog," said King with a grin, as if anticipating what Bill Clinton was going to say.
"Now I would agree with you that Saddam has to go," continued Clinton.
"Rraahhkk!" added Michael Collins.
"Bird's uncanny. Anyway, you're just goin' about it in entirely the wrong way. Hell, your own people–your own dad knew it was the wrong thing to do to go after Saddam in '91. And they had half-a-million troops over there."
"Leave my dad outta this," replied George W.
"Have you talked to your father about this, Mr. President?" interjected Dr. King between mouthfuls of cake.
"Sure...I mean no...well, sure...we've talked–we talk about a lotta things," stammered the President. "He doesn't want to interject his opinions onto my presidency. Wants me to be my own man."
"But this is a war, Mr. President. Surely a man so experienced as your father in so many areas of foreign policy would be an excellent person to consult with, whether he's your father or not."
"I talk with him–I've talked with him. He supports the idea that as the President I have to make decisions that not everyone is gonna like, that I can't do things on the basis of polls or if everybody is gonna like me." With this last point, George W. glanced in Bill Clinton's direction.
"So he doesn't like it, either," said Clinton. "That figures. He had it right in '91, and it sounds like he has it right today."
"That's not what I said–"
"That's not what you didn't say, either," quickly countered Clinton.
"Rraahhkk!" agreed Michael Collins.
"My dad and I might have differences of opinions on some things–that's what makes the world go 'round. I don't how it's pertinent to this discussion or frankly any of your business."
"You don't see how it's pertinent to the discussion?? It may very well be none of my business, but may I remind you once again that I didn't ask to be here, to be in this dream of yours, but as long as I'm here, I'm not just gonna sit here and eat..." At this, he looked in Dr. King's direction. "Sorry, Martin. Anyway, how can you sit there and say what your father thinks is not important? The president before me? The guy that went to war with Iraq in the first place? It's not pertinent because he disagrees with you, that's what it is. You don't like to talk to anyone, even in your own family, who doesn't tell you what you want to hear. That's it."
"That's–" There it was again. Coming from a different voice (from him no less), but unmistakably saying the same thing as Abraham Lincoln had. George W. Bush swallowed hard on this. He wanted to wake up, but he couldn't. He shifted in his seat and looked kind of sickly. The President was drifting off, thinking about several things that made him uncomfortable: Thinking really hard made his head hurt, especially thinking about changing his mind when he had already made it up. He wasn't comfortable with introspection. He was uncomfortable and a little agitated that this same idea had come so strongly to him again. I mean, I listen...I get input... thought the President. But the only guy he really ever listened to that wasn't preaching from the same gospel as him was Mo Levison. And he hadn't seen or heard from Mo since their falling out over five years ago. He now knew had to call Mo, as painful as that might be. The other thing gnawing at him was that if he remembered the story right he was due for one more dream–and that one promised to be a nightmare.
"Um, Mr. President? Are you alright? Do you need anything? Glass of water?" Martin Luther King looked concerned. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"Martin, you are a ghost!" said Clinton, and for the first time, got a hint of a chuckle out of George W. Bush.
"Huh? Naw, I'm uh...I'm uh, just gettin' a little tired, that's all."
"Mr. President, don't you have anyone you can trust that you can talk to from the other side, give you an opposing point of view, someone without a political axe to grind? I used to hate it when my people would only tell me what they thought I wanted hear." King pushed himself away from the table, apparently finally sated.
"Yeah, that's what Lincoln said," responded the President.
"Lincoln who?"
"Yeah, well, never mind that. Yeah, I have a guy–I was just thinkin' about somebody I haven't seen in a long time...too long." With that, George W. Bush got up from his chair and stretched. He was dazed and confused. "Well fellas, it's been real interesting...really interesting, but, you know, uh, Laura's gonna wonder where I am, heh-heh-heh."
Bill Clinton and Martin Luther King both stood up.
"Dr. King, it's been a real honor and a pleasure," said the President, shaking King's hand.
"The pleasure was mine, believe me," said King.
"You sure put a hurtin' on that food, heh-heh-heh."
"One of the perks of being dead, Mr. President," replied Dr. King amiably.
"Clinton...uh, thanks for settin' this thing up. Stay in touch."
"Now, George, don't go sayin' somethin' you don't mean," said Clinton, and there was light laughter all around.
George W. Bush turned around and as he opened the kitchen door, turned back and gave a nod to the two men, and then he walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and back into his bedroom. He sat down on the edge of his bed for a long time. He believed now that he was being sent a message, that Somebody was trying to tell him something important. The first thing he would do in the morning was find Mo Levison–that much he was sure of. But somehow this was bigger than even that. He debated whether to wake Laura then and there to tell her about this dream, finally deciding against it; she would just be upset that he hadn't waited until the morning. It seemed to take him a long time to go back to sleep, but somehow, the alarm went off and it was morning again.
The President awoke to his alarm in a much more agitated state than he did after the last dream. He was struggling with conflicting emotions and feelings. He was tired, and yet he felt a strange, nervous energy. He was confused, and yet he felt like he knew what he had to do. He had a palpable sense of fear, and yet he felt sure that what he was being led to do was the right thing. He had always been driven by his gut feelings, and lying there in his bed, he was startled by the feeling that his gut might not always be right. I have no personal doubt whatsoever. That's a good thing, right? Right? People are paralyzed by doubt. Can't be decisive. A president has to make tough decisions.
But what if...what if he only ever got half of the story? How would he know? When was the last time anyone ever stood up to him and told him he was wrong? There were a couple of ol' pols down in Texas who didn't seem to mind mixing it up with him when he was Governor. But among his advisors? Never. If he was painstakingly honest with himself (and he hated this stuff), the real George W. Bush led from behind. That is, his advisors would suggest a course of action, there would be some internal debate, he would approve of the action, and then, in collusion with everybody in the room, he would internalize the idea as his own. In reality, he never really thought of anything important on his own. He just didn't have that kind of mind. He was a fraud, a phony, and his shield was his impenetrable lack of self-doubt. I have no personal doubt whatsoever. It had served him extremely well over a considerable period of success, but suddenly he was feeling vulnerable. He decided to skip telling Laura about this dream, and instead got his exercise clothes on and headed to the White House gym.
After a vigorous 50-minute session on the stationary bike, the President phoned Blake Gottesman, his personal assistant. "Hey Blakey, you ever get Mo Levison's number for me?"
"Uh...no, Mr. President, I did not," stammered Gottesman.
"Yeah, well, with all that's been goin' on, I can see how that mighta slipped through the cracks. Listen, I need you to find him ASAP for me, get me a number he'll be at. And Blake–don't tell Karl or anybody about this, okay? I mean it. This is a personal thing, got it?"
"Yes sir, Mr. President, I'll get right on it."
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