The door to the Oval Office swung open and Doc Oyle entered, looking smug and exuberant, pushing a bright red dolly. Strapped to it was the machine, our new commander-in-chief.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States."
We all stood, exchanged our good mornings trying our best not to stare at it. The simple box was a perfect metal cube, about the size of a microwave oven. It sat there on the dolly, silent, next to its animated creator, and our old friend.
A credit to its maker, boasted the now Vice President Oyle during their whirlwind campaign. And a gift to the American people. The machine would offer them everything they wanted. If elected, their administration would guarantee security and prosperity in these troubled times. So the people put their faith in the machine and cast their votes.
Oyle heaved the machine into its chair and plugged it into the electrical socket on the floor beside the great oak desk. It proceeded to chirp and clear its metallic throat. Oyle turned to us and grimaced. Not knowing what else to do, we - the Chief of Staff, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Secretary of Defense, National Security Advisor, and Secretary of State - could only remain standing, uncomfortable in our own shoes, and gaze at the machine that was going to run our country for the next four years. There could be no doubting its charisma - it had won by a wider margin than any human president.
"How did this happen?" the National Security Advisor whispered.
Oyle secured the machine behind the desk, making it comfortable.
"Desperation," the Chief of Staff speculated.
We all sat as the machine seemed to ease itself into the chair. Its lights flickered and gears inside began to squeak and grind as if it were trying to address us. Oyle sat down in the chair beside the desk facing us. He turned to the machine. "Speak through your synthesizer, Mr. President. Like I showed you. They can't understand."
Oyle looked satisfied, sitting high, his neck craned as he gazed at us. In all the years we'd known him, we'd never seem him so confident, so proud. Finally, an invention worthy of public praise. Though we found it difficult to share in his paternal arrogance. We had all wordlessly conceded that the machine was just another manifestation of his misguided, albeit staggering, genius.
"Thank you residents of Mobile, Alabama," the machine chirped. "And now may I introduce my running mate, Dr. Eugene Oyle."
Oyle leapt from the chair, opened a small panel and made adjustments. Twitches of chagrin consumed his face. "Hail to the Chief" began to bellow from somewhere inside the machine. After a bit more tuning, the music stopped and the machine hollered, "Unite against terrorism! To contain and defeat the unseen enemy we must unite!" then fell silent and dim.
"What the president is trying to say, gentlemen," Oyle said as he adjusted the machine's chair, "is that we've not forgotten the people. This administration is about security and prosperity, the American way. There'll be no more bombs in playgrounds, no more planes flying into buildings, no more random murder at the hands of strangers. We can no longer attempt to explain this evil away. Scholars have tried. Art and philosophy have tried. And they've all failed." He stopped to glance down at the machine. It didn't make a peep. "The old axiom no longer applies. We need not understand the enemy in order to defeat them. If we want peace, the enemy must come to understand us."
He waited for one of us to answer, but no one did.
"Introspection, gentlemen. To the very root of what makes us Americans, what makes us human beings. The President wants everyone to look inside of themselves. Are you following me?"
We nodded wordlessly, hoping clarity wasn't far off.
"Then and only then," he continued, "will differences in culture and religion, differences in ideology, no longer be an issue. Every person around the world will understand. We'll all feel the same, think the same. And from that will come compassion and tolerance. Peace, gentlemen. Lasting peace."
The thought of speaking up frightened us, but someone had to.
"Mr. Vice President," the Secretary of Defense finally said. "I think I speak for all of us when I say this seems a bit overwhelming. Exactly how does... the president intend to implement such a sweeping change?"
"Yes," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs followed, nodding in agreement. "To be so persuasive. Sounds very daunting."
"Perfect," Oyle clasped his hands together. "Skeptics, all of you. You were chosen to join our administration for that very reason. I think a demonstration of the president's abilities is in order. What do you say?" He leaned over the desk for the intercom. "Janice, would you send Candy in please."
No sooner did he sit back down when the north door opened and Candy, the First Dog, Oyle's chocolate lab, came charging in. It stopped at Oyle's knee for a quick greeting then made his way around the room sniffing our shoes and pantlegs. Once the dog had settled we noticed that Oyle was hovering over us, the machine in his arms. He motioned for the table and the Secretary of Defense quickly moved the coffee cups to make room. Oyle placed the machine down in front of us.
At closer inspection we could see the machine had several small doors on each of its sides, very hard to see if we weren't really paying attention. They were pocked with tiny divots, and just above each was a small thumb dial controlling a selection of single words. One was in English - understand - but most of the displayed words were foreign. All we recognized, some we understood. Oyle spun the dial that had showed the Hebrew word to respect. He stopped on an odd group of letters and we had to take a closer look. The dial read, woof.
"Has anyone seen Mittens?" Oyle asked as he tried to get the dog to sit in one spot for more than a few seconds. "Would someone have Janice round up the cat for us?"
The Secretary of Defense moved to the door first. Within moments, Janice poked her head in and without a word handed the Maine coon to him. It was common knowledge that the First Cat and First Dog couldn't stand each other. We could only imagine what absurd act of diplomacy was about to take place.
Oyle motioned for the Secretary of Defense to stay put as he scrolled through a list of words on the second dial, stopping on what was obviously meow.
"Okay, bring Mittens here," Oyle said, "and put him on the opposite side of the table from the dog."
The cat saw the dog first and immediately starting hissing. It clawed at the Secretary of Defense's lapel forcing him to pull it off and drop it on the table. It stood next to the machine with its back arched, fur on its nape standing erect, as the dog barked and charged the table. Oyle held its collar.
The machine intervened with barks and meows of its own. Regardless, the dog and cat were focused on each other, their animal-speak still bearing signs of instinctive animosity. Nothing unusual. Cats and dogs being cats and dogs. The barks and hisses grated our nerves. We could barely stand it.
Then the machine dinged like an egg timer and it was over. Oyle immediately tugged the dog's collar forcing it around to the back of the sofa. He fed it a treat to quiet the barking. The cat's back softened as it leapt to the arm of the chair occupied by the National Security Advisor and then to the floor. It skittishly looked around for the dog then ran behind the desk.
While the animals were moving to their separate corners, we noticed the machine had opened its trap doors. In each was a small cup of white milk-like liquid. With a firm hold of the dog's collar, Oyle removed the cup from the door marked woof. He held it to the dog's muzzle and after one sniff the dog lapped at it until it was gone. With the cup from the meow door Oyle moved slowly around the desk and knelt out of sight. Within moments the cat came running from out of nowhere, chasing its tail for three spins, then made way to the dog. We naturally braced ourselves for another fight, expecting a barrage of cat and dog fireworks, but none came.
Oyle stood over us, lifting the machine into his arms, his wide smile eliminating the last remnants of our skepticism as the First Cat and First Dog frolicked at our feet.
***
VP Oyle lifted the president off Marine One and waved to the press as they moved across the White House lawn. Their guests, the Israeli prime minister and Palestinian leader, followed two steps behind, arm in arm, laughing like school children. There was a storm of flashes and shutters. The revolution of peace had begun.
The meeting at Camp David had taken less than a half hour. From the first announcement of the meeting, we had been sworn to secrecy about the president's true agenda, but once we saw the chummy antics of the two leaders we couldn't contain ourselves. These two men had ended a centuries-old conflict over a single drink. We exchanged handshakes, passed around congratulations to those who were there to see the outcome. They hadn't witnessed the president in action like we had, though our account did the process no justice.
Oyle winked at us as he passed by. "Gentlemen, would you please join us?" Carrying the president on his hip, he led us into the Oval Office.
"I must say," the Israeli prime minister said, "I do love this room. Always have Mr. President. Very warm, inviting."
"Couldn't have said it better myself," the Palestinian leader said with an energetic nod.
"The president and I appreciate that gentlemen," Oyle said. "Please, take a seat everyone." Oyle set the president down on the great oak desk and took a seat. We remained standing, eagerly waiting for the two leaders to choose their seats. The Israeli prime minister sat on the left side of the couch with one arm around the back and his feet crossed on the coffee table. The Palestinian leader took one of the wingback chairs, slouched a bit and sighed, clasping his hands behind his head. They both looked comfortable and content. The sight was right out of a dream. It left us speechless. The best we could do was pass around warm smiles to the two leaders. It seemed to be the universal language of the room at that moment.
"Gentlemen," Oyle said. "The decades of strife and misunderstanding between your peoples is an example of what inspired me to create this mechanism and bring it to the presidency. It seemed only fair that you be the first to reap the benefits. The Middle East continues to be a place of turmoil, of mistrust and hatred. Once this revolution of peace spreads from your reunited country it will change the face of the globe."
"I think we both feel the same way, Mr. Oyle," said the Palestinian leader. "The hostility has gone on long enough." He turned and smiled at the prime minister who returned the gesture and raised him a thumbs-up.
"Wonderful," Oyle exclaimed. "I knew I could count on you both to perpetuate the president's vision. Oh, lucky men. Envoys for our new world. Now we need you to persuade the skeptics. Make them sit down, open their minds and mouths. Let the president do the rest."
A round of amens and that-a-boys circled the room.
"Cynicism is our new enemy, gentlemen," Oyle continued. "It is now the president's objective to eradicate it, all in the name of peace."
"Where do we start?" the Prime Minister said.
"Yes, let's not wait," the Palestinian leader followed.
"We'll accompany you to Istanbul tonight," Oyle said. "The president and I will make an unscheduled appearance at your Middle Eastern summit. We'll meet with each nation's leader, and one by one the dominoes of conflict will fall. We'll show them the way, that we can all be the same and live together as one world." Oyle grinned and it warmed us all. He truly was a genius. And the president - finally a genuine leader for the American people. What more could one nation ask for?
Oyle looked at his watch. "Anyone for lunch?"
"Well I don't know about you," the Palestinian leader said, "but I'm starving."
"You took the words right out of my mouth," said the prime minister, the first to stand.
We all chimed in agreement and made our way to the door. The Palestinian leader slapped Oyle on the back. "No offense to the White House chefs, but ever since we got back here, I've been craving a nice cheeseburger and one of your American football games. That sounds crazy to you?"
"Not to me," said the prime minister.
We all had a good laugh and Oyle roared out, "I know just the place." When he opened the door Mittens and Candy came charging in sporting their new red, white and blue collars. We laughed some more and watched. The cat was following behind the dog, moving around us like a slalom, stopping occasionally to exchange playful gestures before taking off again. Back and forth, the cat after the dog, around the couch, behind the desk.
"You don't see that everyday," the prime minister observed.
"You will now," Oyle said, and we all laughed again, following the leaders and Oyle out of the Oval Office.
I stood alone at the threshold, pulling the door closed, when a commotion drew my attention back inside. I assumed the animals were still up to their playful antics, but as I stepped in I realized that wasn't the case. Office supplies were scattered on the floor. All that remained on the desk were the cat and dog, the president in between them. Growling and hissing, they leapt for the power cord and together started to pull the president to the edge. I moved in but too late. The animals tumbled, landing on all fours. The president followed, hit the floor and split open. Gears, springs and bits of circuitry spilled out. It was all over, but the animals refused to give in. They dragged and tugged, leaving a trail of the white milk-liquid behind the mangled mess. I reached for the cord to salvage the president, but they wouldn't have it. They turned on me and stared me down, eyes filled with hatred. Paws moving slowly, they edged closer.
I tried to reason with them, pled for compassion, but my diplomacy sounded absurd. They would never understand me. Frozen, helpless, reeking of fear, I could only stand there and wait for them to attack.
Tim Kenyon was born and raised on the seacoast of New Hampshire. After several years in law enforcement, Tim turned to writing full time. Ersatz Nation, his first novel, is the result of many hard years of work including time spent earning his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degree at Goddard College in Plainfield, Vermont. He is currently finishing a new book, American Melancholy, a crime novel set in a near-future San Francisco. He also recently sold a short story, "The Weather Artist" to Hadrosaur Tales which is scheduled to appear in their April 2004 issue. Tim currently makes his home in Reno, Nevada, where he is also an instructor of English at the University of Nevada and Truckee Meadows Community College.
For more information about Tim Kenyon, contact him by e-mail or visit his Web site.
© 2003 Tim Kenyon
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