On the surface, Duke's chief adversary was Jim Hornswell. He knew Hornswell didn't trust him and felt that he was a political liability for the President. Hornswell might even believe that the pastor was responsible for the President's current 'leap of faith'. The Reverend, however, saw himself as merely a humble, spiritual guide, facilitating the President's ordained fate. Jim Hornswell believed in nothing except politics. Nevertheless, to Reverend Duke Norman, the Chief of Staff still served one critical purpose—to help keep the President in power long enough to achieve salvation. The problem was that the President's childlike enthusiasm could, at times, be prematurely self-destructive. Rumour had it that, just two days earlier, Hornswell had barely kept the President from being both politically and literally exposed. It seemed that the POTUS had dashed from his shower to greet a White House tour group without stopping to put on pants. He'd wanted to welcome them personally and explain his idea to finally bring peace to the Middle East. The plan, apparently, involved a lot of hugging and the Commander-in-Chief thought he could demonstrate how exactly that might all work. "To get the ball rolling," he told the bewildered and somewhat traumatized tourists. After ushering the President out, Hornswell assured the visitors that this was not the President of the United States, despite the striking similarity. He told them it was a body double performing a security exercise. "You can tell it's not the President," he said, "because the President wears clothes." Hornswell then told unsettled staff members that the President was somehow asleep and therefore didn't think he needed to put on trousers. He reassured them that the President was "solidly pro-pants" having worn them on many occasions. It was an argument few could dispute. The incident had been a close call, averted by the Chief of Staff's quick thinking. A deposed President was no good to anyone, on that Duke Norman and Jim Hornswell could agree. So for now, they were unwilling allies.
"I am somewhat concerned, Mr. President" said the Reverend.
"So am I," said the President.
"What are you concerned about, sir?"
"Judas."
"Judas?"
"Judas Hornswell. He might have to go."
"I see," said the Reverend. This was exactly what he had feared, that the President might wish to prematurely fire his Chief of Staff. A few days earlier, the Reverend had found what he suspected was the President's list of possible successors to Hornswell scrawled on a napkin. Several of the candidates were fictional characters, and two of them were deceased. Even if he could persuade the President to choose a more qualified replacement, whom could they trust? Jim Hornswell may be a secularist damned to Hell, but at least he was the devil they knew. This was a situation that even the Reverend had to deal with carefully, lest he too be seen as suspect. Managing the Commander-in-Chief was a constant game of chess, except that the President wasn't playing chess. He was playing Yahtzee and could, at any moment, roll his dice across the board and declare "war." In other words, the President's rules were constantly changing. You had to be careful lest he take your king, demand a triple letter score or decide to pass go and collect two hundred dollars. This wasn't entirely a metaphor, the President really did confuse which rules applied to which game, making poker night at the White House an often bewildering affair. Still, he was the most powerful man in the world and that made the game, whichever it was, worth playing. "Why does he concern you, Mr. President?"
"I believe he will betray me."
"I wouldn't worry about him, sir."
"No?" The President turned to face the Reverend, studying him carefully. As he did so, he inserted his index finger into his nose and extracted a bead of mucus. He then carefully placed this into a No. 10 envelope. The envelope contained that morning's collection of nose-pickings which, the President was convinced, contained traces of brain-matter. It wasn't that he wanted to keep the snot for himself, so much as he wanted to prevent it from "falling into the wrong hands". Later the envelope, along with others, would be mailed to an underground bunker in New Mexico. It was the same undisclosed location where Dick Cheney had spent much of the Bush presidency. The interior was still decorated as the former Vice-President's 'man-cave'.
"Sir, I think Jim Hornswell is simply concerned with keeping you in office. His motives may be... impure, and he may not appreciate the, um... magnitude of your destiny, but his interests are unwittingly aligned with ours. That is why you're so clever to keep him around."
"Hmm, yes, I am clever. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," said the President, nodding his head thoughtfully. "Jesus said that, didn't he?"
"Well, someone certainly did, but yes, exactly, Mr. President. Brilliant." The President, happy with this, nodded enthusiastically. Duke Norman saw an opportunity to both change the subject and address his own, growing concern. "If I may, sir... you are attracting a good deal of attention. Some are suggesting your recent behaviour is... eccentric."
The President looked surprised, "Eccentric? How?" As he said this, he carefully folded the snot-filled envelope and tucked it into the crotch of his loincloth.
"Well..." began the Reverend. He paused for a moment, unsure whether to remove his hand from his knight and make his move final. With the President, every turn involved a certain amount of guesswork. It was possible that, just when Duke Norman thought he was going to declare 'Checkmate', he'd be told to 'Go Fish'. "You know Washington; it could be any little thing."
"Hmm," said the President, accepting this. "You give good council, dear friend. It won't matter, when the time comes. Unless, that is, one of these doubters ruins it all by saving the day. Judas insists we must make every effort to stop it. That failing to do so might cost us votes. He said if the world ends we'll be crucified in the election."
"Indeed, sir. It would be a tough thing to spin."
The two men walked on in silence for several moments. The pastor noticed that the President's skin was actually starting to sizzle. Right now, however, he had more pressing concerns. While the potential end of the world was on everyone's mind, there were other issues he needed to discuss with the President, specifically, the explosive growth of the Pō Lights. The cult's rapid expansion was culling members from every religious flock, including his own. Having some upstart religion led by a bunch of rabble rousers babbling on about a 'messiah' was an anathema to what Christianity was all about. Having the group's tax exempt status revoked might do much to stem their growth. Once again, however, the President needed to be played like Parcheesi, not pushed. "Have you considered my request, sir, regarding the pagan Pō Lights?"
"What? Oh right, the tax exempt thing. Yes, yes, we'll make that happen. You're sure you don't want them simply thrown to the lions?"
The Reverend stared a moment before he saw the trace of a smile on the President's lips. "Oh, right, you're joking, sir. Very good. Ha-ha!"
The President chuckled. "Of course I am. PETA wouldn't allow it; one of the lions might get sick. They'll get their own, along with the rest of the heretics, when the time comes. I'm not crazy, you know?"
"No, no, of course not, sir."
Even after all these years, the President could still surprise Duke. The Reverend had first met the POTUS at his inauguration. The President had been a long time fan of Duke Norman's Pray to Power television program and podcast. He asked Duke to lead a national prayer breakfast event. At the breakfast, Duke was offered the role of White House Spiritual Advisor. Duke Norman's appointment was not without controversy. The doubting-Thomas news media questioned the goings on of his televised church and his great personal fortune. He responded to these critics by scolding them for being obsessed with such matters. Duke Norman explained that, like Jesus, he was unconcerned by wealth. The fact that he had so much of it was "neither here nor there." When they pointed out that he'd been paid over nine million dollars by his church in the previous year alone, he responded that his salary worked out to only pennies per parishioner. Surely, he admonished them, they would not begrudge a few cents to save a soul. As with all teapot tempests,
it soon fell from the front-pages, aided by a salacious scandal involving a Senator and his pet poodle named 'Noodles'. Duke Reverend Norman had since grown to know the President as a man of passionate faith. The President, in turn, increasingly looked to Duke for guidance. "Sometimes, Mr. President, life will hand you a square peg that doesn't fit into the round hole of your faith. Do not be deterred. Hammer that peg until it fits, or toss it away. Never question what you believe. It is the peg that is wrong." They were words the President took to heart. Critics decried the Commander-in-Chief taking guidance from an unelected clergyman over matters of state. Duke argued that he was hardly the first such confident to offer advice to a sitting President. Appearing on Charlie Rose, he reflected on Joan Quigley, the Reagans' astrologer. At the time, alarmists questioned the President of the United States running the country by horoscope. None, however, could doubt the political efficacy of his presidency. Would Ronald Reagan have been as good a leader were he a Capricorn or Pisces? Only the stars could say.
As he followed the POTUS through the desert landscape, Duke cringed uncomfortably at the sight of white blisters now bursting fourth on the Commander-in-Chief's shoulders. "If I may, Mr President, perhaps it is best to... play along. After all, whether or not the world ends is ultimately in God's hands, not yours or mine."
The President stopped, considering this for a moment. He looked down at his own hands, opening and closing them like an infant wondering what they might be capable of. "What, exactly, do you mean by 'playing along'?"
"Well, to start, perhaps by wearing pants. You know, to assuage people. People expect the President to wear pants. It's just one of those things."
The President nodded, accepting this. "Fine. I will wear your pants, if that's what it takes, although it sounds like the kind of political pandering Judas Hornswell might suggest."
"Heaven forbid."
"On a more important note," said the President, "I think it's time we start planning the 'Going Away' party."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Invite all the participants. The witness, the innocent child... oh, and that fellow from the CIA."
"That fellow from... Draper? I believe he's unconscious."
"So? He can be unconscious anywhere."
"A very good point sir. Why not? The time foretold is approaching."
The President nodded with satisfaction. He then sniffed. "Reverend, may I ask you something?"
"Of course, Mr. President, anything."
"Do you smell barbecue?"
Chapter 21
"Never go to bed angry." – Clytemnestra
"I told you about this a week ago," said Lisa impatiently.
"No, I don't think you did," said Charlie, as he loaded the dishwasher with dishes he'd already washed in the sink. This was the eco-efficient model that featured a water-saving mode only. It meant that the dishwasher conserved water, but required dishes to be washed first. "Clean dishes in, clean dishes out," the salesman had promised with a smile that Charlie had insisted was more of a smirk.
"Yes, I did," Lisa insisted. "In fact, you were doing exactly what you're doing right now. I'm doing yoga on Tuesday, I said, so you'll be looking after Faith."
"I..." Charlie hesitated. He couldn't prove that she hadn't told him this and, since it was his job to load the dishwasher each night, her description was plausible. "Well, regardless, my thing is a work thing."
"So?"
"So, I think my job is slightly more important than your burkha shake-weight class."
"It's Bikram Shake Weight," said Lisa, rolling her eyes. She closed her bag and fastened her yellow yoga matt with a Velcro strap. Bikram-Shake Weight was Lisa's current passion. This involved engaging in high temperature yoga, while using the as-seen-on-TV spring-loaded barbells known as 'Shake Weights'. She loved the combination of the physical and the spiritual or what Andrew, her instructor, called the 'chakra shakera'. It was all part of the new mind-spirit-body fusion workout trend. Fusion-fitness was the new big thing from California. The first fusion-fitness viral fad had merged Kangaroo Shoes with Shake Weights. That particular variation had been banned after an epidemic of injuries and the hospitalization of a celebrity. The problem was that the combined kinetic energy of the oscillating shake-weights and equally spring-loaded kangaroo shoes had proven overly volatile. This culminated in Gwyneth Paltrow being launched out of a second story studio in Venice Beach, ricocheting off a car roof on Abbott-Kinney Boulevard and hurtling through a furniture art store window on the far side of the street. Despite this disaster, the combination trend continued unabated with Swing-Stick Spinning, Aqua-Zumba Tai Chi and Bikram Shake Weight Yoga. "See, this is your problem," said Lisa. "You think work is more important than life. Work to live, Charlie, don't live to work."
"You just read that on Facebook."
"And I liked it. So what? It's true."
"The point is, we need my job to pay for stuff like our mortgage, food, and bikram yoga-whatever classes! Oh, and, as we agreed, so that you could stay home to look after Faith."
"During the day, not twenty-four-seven. Not so you could go to meetings at eight o'clock at night."
"The CIA isn't a nine-to-five job."
"Neither is being a parent."
"Exactly!"
Lisa's eyes narrowed. Both glanced towards the living room where Faith was watching television. They couldn't see her from where they stood, but the noise and image of Yo Gabba Gabba reflected in the window was enough.
"Look," Charlie pleaded, "my boss is expecting me. Go to class tomorrow night."
"There are no good teachers tomorrow night. Besides, Andrew is expecting me."
"Your yoga teacher? So what? There are other students."
"Andrew's very... he promised to give me... one-on-one instruction tonight. He's going to help me find my chi." They stared at one another for a long moment. Charlie resisted the urge to say he didn't know she had a 'chi', let alone that she'd lost it. Inane TV noises from the other room filled the void. "Fine," said Lisa. "I won't go. I've only been waiting weeks for solo time with him, but whatever."
Charlie realized he was now in the classic no-win scenario. He'd try to escape, although he knew from experience, escape was impossible. If he went to his meeting now, he'd pay for it for weeks. "No, look, I can tell Bryan that I'm not feeling well, or that Faith's not feeling well. We can reschedule."
"Don't be silly, your job's more important, right? Like you said, it pays the bills." She put the words 'pays the bills' in air quotes.
"It's not that it's more important, it's just that..."
"It's just that what? It's fine, Charlie, you made it quite clear what you think."
Charlie felt like a gazelle that had stumbled and now finds itself in the lion's maw. There's no escape, he thought. Simply relax, fighting only makes it worse.
"Lisa, please go to your yoga class. I want you to go."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do. Please. Look, I should be spending more time with Faith anyway. I've been so busy, even when I am home I barely acknowledge her. If not for me, for her sake, go."
Lisa hung her head. In Charlie's mind the lion was pondering whether to play with the gazelle some more, or mercifully snap its neck. "Fine," she said, "because you're right, you don't spend enough time with her, but this better not come back to bite me."
"No, of course not. As I said, I want you to go."
Snap! The truth of it was, he had no moral high ground. Charlie was lying. He didn't have a work function. Once in a while he simply felt the need to escape. He'd blame work events or other excuses. He would then walk around the city, visit a museum, or have a few drinks in a bar. He didn't get drunk or look at other women; he just needed to get away. He fantasized about not going back, but he loved his family too much for that. The fact that he even thought this way sickened him. That was what his father had done. After years of preaching responsibility and telling Charlie to 'be a man', his father had simply gone out one night and neve
r returned. Charlie despised him for it and, when he felt like doing the same the same thing, he despised himself too. Hate father, hate son, he thought.
* * *
"Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?"
"Spongebob Squarepants!"
Alex stared at the cartoon rerun impassively. He'd seen it before and, even if he hadn't, he wasn't exactly in the mood. As a kid he'd loved the show. It and The Simpsons were his go-to TV shows for a sense of normality. Spongebob was trying to explain something to his friend Patrick. Patrick was a talking starfish. The joke was that Patrick was too stupid to understand, but it should be noted that, in terms of real echinoderms, Patrick was nothing short of a genius. Of course, as a plastic sponge, Spongebob's intellect was even more impressive. Spongebob Squarepants, however, was rarely watched for its zoological accuracy, in spite of being created by a marine biologist. Spongebob and Patrick were now joined by Squidward, the show's token cephalopod.
Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World Page 18