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Updated Sunday 18 July, 2010 12:11 PM |
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SNAKE OIL
By Doctor What
Chapter Sixteen Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a refund from the IRS, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with. ~ From a Washington Post word contest
** March 1, 2017
The White House, in its long and checkered history, has seen the entire spectrum of human emotions pasted on the faces of the individuals waiting outside the Oval Office. There had been angry people, happy people, depressed people, scared people, nervous people and a great many confused people.
The reasons for the varying emotions on these individuals were also long and checkered, running the gauntlet from wars to disasters to heroic acts of derring-do to simply being in the right (or wrong) place at the wrong (or right) time.
Miss Tallingham had been a secretary at the White House since the Carter administration, initially working as an assistant secretary to the assistant to the Assistant Director of the White House Fellows program. Her place in the White House food chain at that point was essentially one (very small) step above the coffee maker and she used to joke that the photocopier machine outranked her in the office hierarchy.
That was almost 40 years ago.
She ended up moving up the food chain very quickly and had worked as a Personal Secretary to no less than three different Presidents. She’s seen everything, been everywhere, done everything.
Now – the joke was that nothing fazed her anymore.
King of Saudi Arabia showing up drunk? Yawn. The Canadian Prime Minister trying to cop a feel from the Prime Minister of Denmark? Not even worth noting in her diary. Fistfight between the ambassadors of Russia and Finland? Ten bucks on the Russian guy for the win. An actual honest to God extraterrestrial wandering around the building under heavy Secret Service protection? That got a slightly raised ‘bemused eyebrow’ from her – and only because one of the Secret Service guys looked a bit like her nephew.
Despite all this – even she was a bit intrigued about the young man who was the President’s 9:55 appointment and who had been patiently waiting in the waiting room since 8:55.
For one thing, she was vaguely curious as to exactly how much sweat a human can produce and still stay conscious.
She was rather certain that anything above half a liter per hour was cause for concern but by her calculations the young man who was in the midst of a full blown meltdown looked like he had sweated twice that amount in the last 45 minutes and she was rather curious as to whether she should compliment the young man on his stamina or call the paramedics.
Pondering on this for a few seconds, Miss Tallingham picked up the phone.
“Mr. President? You really should see your 9:55 now.”
“Miss Tallingham? It is only 9:40. I’m rather busy right now.”
“I really do think you should see him now, Mr. President. I don’t think he’ll survive another five minutes, let alone fifteen.”
“Miss Tallingham – do I need to remind you again that I am the President of the whole freaking United States and that I am currently dealing with about twenty different political crisis … er … crisises … crisiseses… fuck it whatever … and Mister Baldwin would just have to wait his turn?”
“Ok I’ll tell him that Mister President. Should I call the paramedics or shall you?”
There was the sound of some deep sighing along with that of a very deep breath being drawn in a moment later
“Miss Tallingham – I am well aware of your thirty-nine year service to this building –“
“—forty years, Mister President - ”
“—forty years Miss Tallingham and that impressive accomplishment does give you some leeway with the rest of the staff here. But – believe it or not – there are certain rules that need to be followed in this building. Shocking I know…but there it is. He just has to wait his turn like the other six hundred and eleven people I have to meet today –“
“—six hundred and fourteen, Mister President – “
“—six hundred and fourteen people I have to meet today! Not to mention the Cabinet meeting I have at 11—“
“—you have the Cabinet meeting at 11:15, sir—“
“—at 11:15 – plus the meetings I have with the CEOs from the car manufacturing industry at 12 o’clock –“
“ –12:20, sir –“
“—12:20! Plus I still have Beth’s birthday present to pick out! So he just has to wait his turn, okay? Understood?”
“Understood Mister President. “
“Good!”
“By the way, Mister President, your wife’s birthday was yesterday…”
There was a very, very, very long pause.
And then –
“But that’s alright, Mister President – I took the liberty of ordering a present on your behalf,” replied Miss Tallingham sweetly.
“Ah.” said a meek sounding voice a moment later.
There was silence for a brief moment. And then –
“Er—what did you – I mean – what did I get her?”
“You got her a silver pendant necklace with a picture of the two of you on your wedding day.”
“Oh—that’s good…”
“So Mister President – back to Mister Baldwin. Shall I be proactive and write a letter of condolence to his widowed mother apologizing for his freak dehydration death?”
There was a long sigh from the other end of the phone.
“Send Mister Baldwin in, please…”
Michael Baldwin was shocked when he got the phone call that President McDonald wanted to see him.
Contrary to popular misconception from TV and movies, it is quite rare for a person working in the West Wing to actually meet the President.
Sure – occasionally one could see the President walking down a corridor for a few seconds if you’re really lucky but generally speaking – unless one actually has a reason to meet the President or the Cabinet regularly – people in the past have been known to work in the building for years without seeing the person they’re actually working for.
Even as ‘Special Assistant Advisor to the President for Alien/Human Policy Affairs’, Baldwin was very well connected to all the rumour mills in the White House – he even was responsible for helping create one or two of them for ‘official dissemination’ – but he never actually met the man in person.
Until now.
The fact that the meeting was scheduled so soon after he had made his decision was not lost to him.
As it was, he had showed up bright eyed and bushy tailed for his meeting.
After all – one does not show up late for a meeting with the President.
In retrospect, Baldwin had to concede that drinking six cups of coffee to ‘calm his nerves’ was a somewhat unwise decision on his part. This, in conjunction with being a hairsbreadth away from having what appeared to be a nervous breakdown, meant that he really, really, really wasn’t feeling very good.
It came as a relief to him when the secretary told him he could see the President now.
Baldwin was surprised to see Doctor Loew Kasjusz sitting next to President McDonald as he walked in.
“Michael!” shouted Loew cheerfully, brushing a shock of errant white hair out of his face. “Such a pleasure to see you again after such a long time!”
“Er...I saw you yesterday morning, Doctor...” replied Michael, using his usual neutral voice that he always adopted whenever he found himself in a conversation with Loew.
Loew frowned for a brief instant, blinking in confusion and then broke into another grin.
“Ah yes! So I did! I was wondering why I was getting a sense of hzi qamatar just then.” Loew blinked again and gave a little laugh. “Of course, technically speaking it’s not hzi qamatar - or as some misguided people insist on referring to it - déjà vu - but rather déjà vécu from the term 'already lived' and made famous by Charles Dickens in his book –“
“Thank you, Doctor!” replied McDonald very quickly. McDonald looked at his watch and faced Loew again. “I do believe that you’re late for your appointment, Doctor? The Secret Service agent outside will escort you to the car downstairs. It’s waiting for you.”
“Ah! Yes! My appointment!” replied Loew, standing up from his chair and picking up his cane. “My appointment! Very important…” continued Loew, vigorously nodding his head. “Just one minor question, Mister President –“
“Your appointment with the scientists from Harvard, Yale and Cambridge.” replied McDonald. Clearly he was beginning to get used to Kasjusz’s personality. “They wanted to discuss some matters relating to your theories on the Lytasians.”
“Ah—now I remember!” replied Loew, grinning again.
Shaking hands with Baldwin one last time, Loew walked out of the Office and into the waiting hands of an agent there.
As the door was shut closed by another agent who replaced his colleague, McDonald turned to Baldwin and indicated the now empty chair.
Baldwin settled a moment later into the comfortable chair. He was rather pleased that he had stopped sweating now. The very last thing he wanted to do right now is be responsible for staining some 100 year old chair.
McDonald sighed briefly as he turned and sat into his chair.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward and shouted –
“Why the hell are you quitting on me, son?!”
Baldwin fought the urge to leap out of his chair and – with an effort of some untapped source of willpower he wasn’t aware he had - took a deep breath and stood his ground.
McDonald wasn’t finished yet.
Sighing heavily once again, he leaned back and ran a hand through his salt and pepper coloured hair. Baldwin noticed that there seemed to be a lot more ‘salt’ than ‘pepper’ in McDonald’s hair since the Lytasians had shown up and now actually looked like a fifty-five year old rather than the ‘Young and Hip and Pretty Boy’ persona he had during the election.
Leaning forward again, McDonald made a visible effort to calm down and spoke again.
“Look. I know that you were not too happy with this assignment. I know that you saw it as one step above a baby sitting assignment. And I know that you’re not happy with all the secrecy and white-washing and so forth we’ve had to do. But god-damn it! You’re ex-military! You should be used to having to do stuff like this!”
Baldwin didn’t reply – obviously McDonald was on a roll and his military instincts – Baldwin shook his head and mentally corrected himself – his ex-military instincts was already running all kinds of scenarios in his head on what would be the possible repercussions if a soldier – dammit! ex-soldier - interrupted the President when he was on a bitch-fest.
McDonald picked up an envelope.
“I can not accept your resignation. I just can’t. You’re too valuable.”
McDonald fell silent.
After a moment, he frowned.
“Well?”
Baldwin spoke, his voice a raspy croak.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
That seemed to catch McDonald off guard. He stared back at Baldwin, blinking in confusion for a few seconds.
“No need to request permission – I’m not your commanding officer…”
“Force of habit from my Army days, sir. And technically speaking, you actually are my commanding officer…”
McDonald hrumphed and nodded his head.
Baldwin swallowed a lump in his throat and spoke again.
“After very long and careful consideration, I’ve come to the realization that I can’t continue this…charade…in good conscious. I greatly appreciate the opportunity that I did get and I enjoyed working with my fellow colleagues but – “
“Cut the touchy feely PC crap and get to the chase,” interrupted McDonald.
Baldwin took a deep breath.
“I’m not comfortable with all the lying and ducking and weaving and bullshitting,” replied Baldwin. A moment later he added, “Sir.”
McDonald sighed and began rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
“Son, I’m aware that there are some in this administration who weren’t happy with all the bullshit cover stories that we were spreading and I know for a fact that they’re not going to last much longer, but surely you can understand why we decided to go with those stories? We have to come across like we’re the good guys here doing the nice altruistic thing rather than the real story that we were pretty much blackmailed into doing business with them. And – to their credit – the Lytasians seem to be holding up their end of the bargains so everything is good. So why jump ship now?”
“I can’t deal with all this,” replied Baldwin. “Look—I know that this isn’t sounding right and to be perfectly honest I’m a bit confused about why I’m doing this too. But I’m really conflicted here. I’m tired of all this stuff and I just want a nice simple mindless job somewhere where I don’t have to even think about cover stories and aliens and all this other nonsense.” Baldwin blinked his eyes for a few seconds, trying to wipe away the tears that were welling up. “Am I making any kind of sense to you, sir?”
McDonald shook his head. “No, not really—but to be perfectly honest, you’re not the first one to tell me they feel that way. This whole ‘we have an offer you can’t refuse’ business with the Lytasians is making a lot of people around here weird. And you should see how some of our allies are acting about all this. We’re the ones who are being seen as the voice of reason and compromise and sanity by the Europeans. Do you realize how fucked up things are when that’s the case?” McDonald sighed. “And God—don’t even talk to me about the Chinese and the Russians…”
McDonald shook his head again. Sighing again, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“I will accept your resignation on just one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Read this,” said McDonald, passing the sheet over.
Baldwin snatched the sheet out of the hand and frowning, began to read it.
A moment later, he leaned back in his chair, the blood drained from his face.
“This…this…is a joke…right?” stammered Baldwin, his voice barely above a whisper.
McDonald shook his head.
“No joke – that came straight from, er, ‘Bob’ himself. Apparently they were impressed with your intelligence and thoughts and questions when you did that little visit a few weeks back. They insisted that all the ship crew we’re sending up for training at their new … school … will be approved only if we put you on the top of the list.”
Baldwin was silent, his jaw nearly dropping to the floor.
“In other words – not only do you get to be a member of the crew of our new spaceships – you get to be a bridge officer.”
McDonald leaned back, folding his arms over his chest.
“Still wanna resign?”
Baldwin stared at the letter in his hand and then moved his gaze towards the letter of resignation that was still on top of the President’s desk.
He shifted his gaze back and forth for a full minute before he made his decision.
When Baldwin left the White House a few minutes later, the letter from Bob in his right pocket and the torn up remnants of his resignation letter in his left pocket, he wondered if he made the right decision.
Years later, he still wondered about it…
~~
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