Wishful Thinking 4
From: Kal Wagenheim, 116 Myrtle Ave., Millburn NJ 07041
Tel: 973 376 2314 or 973 885 6897 (cell) Email: kalwagenheim@cs.com
WISHFUL THINKING
a short story by
Kal Wagenheim
(about 1,600 words)
A chilly morning near the edge of Spring. March 18, 2003, to be exact. In the Oval Office of the White House, a rerun of The Three Stooges was playing quite loudly from the small TV set atop a side table.
President Dubya, feet atop his desk, sat back, sipping Pepsi-Cola from a glass, chuckling, as he enjoyed the antics of his favorite movie clowns.
“I thought Moe and Curly were quite amusing, but I wasn’t too wild about Larry,”
said a voice.
Dubya sat up, alarmed. He looked around and saw no one. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“It's me...I used to live here,” the voice said.
"Me? Who's ‘me’? George Washington?”
“Oops, sorry,” the voice said. “Maybe this'll help.” The sound of snapping fingers. Suddenly there appeared an 81-year-old man, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie.
Dubya saw the bearer of the voice and recoiled, frightened. “Holy shit! Richard Nixon?”
“Yep.”
“Ain't you supposed to be dead?”
“Yep.”
“I used to see things when I was drinkin',” Dubya said, “but I been sober since 1986!”
“It's really me, just dropped in for a short visit...”
Dubya turned off the TV and reached for the phone. “Man, I oughta call my Dad. He'd love to see ya!”
“No, please,” Nixon said. “Let's just hang out together. The two of us...”
“Wow! The ghost of President Nixon! Right here in the Oval Office! Nobody'll believe me!”
Nixon put his right forefinger to his lips. “This should remain just between us...”
“Oh! Yeah! Anything you say, Mister Nixon!”
“You can call me Dick...”
Dubya shook his head. “Oh, no. I keep that for my VeePee, Dick Cheney. It would get kinda confusin'. I feel better callin' you Mister Nixon.”
Nixon smiled, leaned forward and whispered, “Some people used to call me Tricky Dick...”
“Yeah! I remember!”
“You can call me Tricky!”
“So!” Dubya said. “How can I help ya, Tricky!”
“You can help me...” Tears swelled in Nixon’s eyes. “Climb up to Heaven, to be with my darling Pat!” He began to sob.
Dubya rose, and patted Nixon on the shoulder to comfort him. “Gee Tricky,
as we say in Texas, what's el problema?”
“I'm stuck in...purgatory!” Nixon continued crying.
“God!”
“That’s right! God put me there, on probation! And it's been years!”
“Wow! Tell me, Tricky. What's it like in purgatory?”
Nixon pulled a hankie from his pants pocket, dried his tears, and explained. “You ever been in a car, in a real bad traffic jam, during rush hour? I mean, real real bad!”
“Coupla times…”
“It's like that!” Nixon said. “Being stuck in a real bad traffic jam...not for hours, but for years! And having to pee! From what I’ve heard, it's not nearly as bad as Hell, with all that fire and brimstone...but it's...terrible!
“Poor fella...So! How can I help ya, Tricky?”
“One of God's emissaries looks in on us once in a while,” Nixon explained.
“Yesterday, he told me that I might--might!--qualify for Heaven...providing I performed one really really really good deed.”
“Really really really good?”
“Yep.”
“Like what?”
“Talk you out of invading Iraq.”
Shocked, Dubya asked, “How didya know about Eye-raq?”
Nixon smiled and pointed to a chair in the corner. “Oh, I've been sitting over there for days, listening.”
“Jesus!”
“Your so-called advisors have been filling your head with all sorts of--pardon my French---bullshit! All this stuff about Weapons of Mass Destruction! Bullshit!”
“Ya think so, Tricky?”
“I know so! And what the hell has Saddam Hussein got to do with the Twin Towers attack?”
“Gee...I dunno...Dick and Wolfie and the others keep tellin' me it's the right thing to do. I was gonna issue the order tomorra...We got thousands of troops all packed, ready and waitin'.”
Nixon pointed to the chair in the corner. “I know. I sat in on the last meeting yesterday.”
“Holy shit...” After a moment, he asked, “So! You don't think we should invade Eye-raq?”
“Definitely not! You'll wind up with thousands of dead American GIs, and many more thousands wounded...you'll be stuck there for years...”
“Holy shit...”
“The price of oil, most of which comes from the Middle East, will go through the roof. Americans will blame you for it!” Nixon stared at him. “They'll call you the worst president ever!”
“Holy shit!” Dubya sat back in his chair, gazed out the window of the White House. “You know when I was happiest?”
“When?”
Dubya smiled, reminiscing. “Back when I owned the Texas Rangers baseball team! It was such fun. Sittin' in the stadium with all the fans! Seein' a game. Chewin' on hotdogs, and gabbin' with the people!”
“That's because you're a nice guy,” Nixon said. “A people person...”
Dubya was moved by the compliment. “Ya really think so, Tricky?”
“Yep.”
“I think you're a mighty nice guy, too! How come you're in purgatory?”
“Well...I did a lot of good things,” Nixon said. “I set up the Environmental Protection Agency. “
“Wow, ya did?”
“Yep. And the Office of Minority Business Enterprise. And the Occupational Safety & Health Administration.”