The Coming of the Bullocks

by Gene Brewer

  Someone added, “Could you bring the cone and demonstrate the kinds of things that might be available on that?”

  The chair said, “We’re already working on that.”

  “By the way,” I asked, rather meekly. “How long should the whole thing be? The speech, I mean, and any videos I can show.”

  “The former President replied, “As long as you need. Within reason, of course. But don’t drag it out with anecdotes or the like. It’s strictly business there. Set a goal of fifteen to twenty minutes for the speech itself.”

  “I don’t know any anecdotes.”

  More chuckles, but perhaps they were only humoring me.

  “Okay,” said the chair. “We all have some thinking and some homework to do. How about we re-convene here at eight o’clock in the morning and begin to seriously draft Dr. Brewer’s speech?”

  There were no objections, least of all from me.

  Scraping of chairs. Mike, as always, escorted me to the door. “How are you feeling, Gene? I mean, any unusual symptoms, like those associated with stress or nerves? Remember, there are doctors who are always on call.”

  “Nothing unusual, no.”

  “And you have an effective sleep medication you can use tonight if necessary?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” We reached the door, where we shook hands, something we had forgone in the past few days, as friends are wont to do. He looked into my eyes as if trying to find any indication of weakness, a hint that I might want to back out of my duty, if that’s what you would call it. “I’ll see you in the morning. Would you like me to come to breakfast with you and Karen, or would you rather it be more private?”

  “No, I think you’d better come in case I have questions, or the heebie-jeebies.”

  “See you then, my friend.”

  I nodded and turned past the agents guarding the door. The short walk to the house seemed to take a million years. Partly because I expected to hear something from Walter. But the other thing on my mind was whether I would find myself flying through space toward K-PAX or some other distant planet, not knowing where I was going or how to stop myself and turn around. And if I got to K-PAX again, would I encounter anyone I knew? I would love to see my daughter again, but how would I find her, or anyone else?

  I was halfway there — I had almost made it — when I saw Karen in back of the house cutting the tops off some plants in the garden. Preparing for winter, I supposed. I was almost upon her when I noticed that she was wearing her hair like she used to in the first years of our marriage. How nice! Then I saw our son Fred behind her, and I realized that I was forty years in the past. Freddy started running around, and our first dog, Daisy, came out from under the porch and chased him, barking. Fred giggled and ran and ran. My lovely wife looked up and smiled. How beautiful they all were, how young! I was overcome with joy. How short life is! And when it’s gone, it’s gone, never to return. Even when you’re alive everything from the past exists only in memory.

  I watched them for a while. I tried to speak to them, but of course they couldn’t hear me. I even tried to touch my wife, but she didn’t notice. Just once I would love to pet Daisy, feel her short stiff hair in my fingers. All for naught. No one knew I was there. I wondered whether even the Bullocks knew I was there. If so, there was no sign of it.

  Then I started to panic again. I would love to stay here forever, but I had a job to do (I was still carrying the reading material I had been assigned), and had no idea how to get back to the present. If I just thought about it, would I be able to go there? I thought about it, hard, but went nowhere (nowhen?). Everything that was happening was beyond my control! I felt sick; no one was there to help me — not Walter, not fled, not prot. I knew, at least, that time was not moving. Not the usual present time, anyway. If I stayed here for twenty years before returning, I would find myself making my way from the Nerve Center to my own house, only a short walk away. How bizarre. The universe is so unfathomable, a fact first glimpsed by Albert Einstein, who, in a moment of sublime inspiration, realized that time and space were not constants, but symbiotic variables. And here I was on the other side of the coin, I suppose, able to manipulate time and space in some way, but without the slightest understanding of how I could do that. Einstein would probably have loved to be in my running shoes. But not me. “Help!” I shouted. “Get me out of here!”

  I needn’t have worried. In another moment Flower came barging out of the dog door and wrapped herself around me. I was home.

  But the work day wasn’t over. The President was waiting for me in the living room (along with a couple of Secret Service agents). We chatted for quite a long time, an hour and a half, perhaps, about everything under the sun: his childhood, my childhood, sports, climate change, American history — you name it. Finally, of course, the Bullocks, and how we were dealing with them. He knew that the particulars of my speech hadn’t been set, or even discussed yet, and he didn’t offer any suggestions on what to say, just that I would do fine as long as I tried to do my best. “That’s all anyone can do in any given situation,” he assured me. “And your best is quite good enough.” He shared a couple of stories about how he had misspoken during a campaign speech or two, which eventually rebounded in his favor, owing partly to the empathetic nature of the American people. I reminded him that I wouldn’t be speaking to Americans, but to the whole world, and I hoped they would be empathetic as well. He told me that he had spoken all over the world, and people were basically the same everywhere. That most people of whatever race, creed or nationality wanted the same things: peace, a loving family, and productive employment. “Talking to the Russians or Chinese is exactly like talking to a bunch of Americans,” he contended. I wasn’t so sure of that, but it was comforting to hear him say it. I almost felt as if he were telling me that if things didn’t go so well at the UN, he would be sharing the blame. Whether that was his intention or not, I suddenly had another motive to provide a clear, logical message to the Security Council: to win one for the Gipper.

  As he stood up to leave, the President informed me that I had been firmly inserted into the Security Council’s agenda, where I would be reading my speech at 2:00 P.M. a couple of days hence. And with that he left, whether to return to Washington or somewhere else he didn’t say. Karen and I escorted him and his entourage to the door, where we both received a warm hug. But perhaps he gave that to everyone he met. Even Flower got a good ear scratch from the President, who observed, with a broad smile, that he knew a couple of dogs much like her. How could anyone be so upbeat at a time like this? So confident, so unafraid? Of course I had no clue as to how he really felt — maybe it was all a front.

  After he had gone, my supportive wife informed me that dinner would be on the table soon, and asked whether she could help me with my “homework,” something I had already forgotten about. I said yes, of course, and started looking over the booklets I had been given about the history of the world and the workings of the United Nations. The first thing that struck me about the former was that our history was indeed a violent one. Wars, assassinations, murders — most of civilization’s major turning points hinged on vicious acts of one kind or another. As Karen handed me a stiff drink, I remarked that the only way we, the people, could get out of this mess was to entirely change society’s outlook toward other nations, other people. She countered with the observation that things are better now than they were centuries ago, and were getting even better all the time. I asked her how long, at our present rate of progress, she thought it would take for people to stop killing each other entirely.

  “A thousand years?” she ventured.

  I reminded her that we only have one.

  “Maybe Walter can cut us some slack.”

  “I think they would probably say they have given us 100,000 years to get it right and we aren’t even close yet.”

  I could see tears forming in her e
yes when she asked, “What do you think they’re going to do to us if we don’t meet their demands?”

  “I suspect they’ll make us disappear from the Earth, like they did the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Where did the Eiffel Tower go? Is that where we’re going, too?”

  That I couldn’t even begin to tell her. But I said that all of time and space is open, and maybe they would just let us start over with a warning not to let it happen again. I thought she would be comforted by this, but instead she cried out loud. I got up and gave her a hug like the one the President had given us. What else could I do? Then I told her about my trips to K-PAX and to the past of forty years earlier, describing in detail her and Freddy’s activities. She sobbed even louder.

  “Honey, we just can’t let this happen. Somehow I’ve got to convince the world that human life is worth saving, even if we have to give up some things in order to survive. Doing without wars and an eye for an eye and all that crap can’t be so bad. Once we try it, we might like it.”

  She nodded and smiled, took the booklets, and started quizzing me on the day-to-day operations of the United Nations.

  DAY SIX

  Because of heavy rainfall overnight, half the leaves had been knocked off the trees during the night and now there was a brisk wind and the rest were falling fast. The colors never last long enough, like life itself. Then I remembered that a year from now there might not even be anyone to witness this, and the duration of human life would be moot. It was only a couple of days before I had to go to the United Nations, and the demons had started roaring around in my head. I stayed in bed a few more minutes grappling with that reality before deciding, as anyone facing a difficult ordeal must, that it was time to get up and face it. How bad could it be, after all? If the Security Council wouldn’t listen to reason, was that my fault?

  Partly, at least. If I couldn’t convince them that the end was near, like some of the patients at MPI used to scream, I certainly wouldn’t be blameless.

  Mike came to breakfast, as promised, but none of us said much about the upcoming meetings or anything else. The three of us did enjoy one another’s company, however. He reminded us of our son Will so much that he almost seemed to be part of the family.

  After breakfast Mike and I returned to the conference room we had left, it seemed, only minutes before (how arbitrary time seems to be). Everyone was all smiles, another feeble attempt to boost my confidence, I suppose. I saw that both the former President and the current one had joined us, sitting in the back, not taking an active role, for the present, at least, chatting between themselves as only those who knew their awesome responsibility could. Nor did my putative shrink, Dr. Schultz, though I caught him studying me from time to time.

  A first draft of my speech had already been prepared, and everyone who hadn’t been involved in its actual writing, including myself, was given a copy. My hands were shaking as I took it. The good news is that it wasn’t a long one — I guessed about fifteen minutes — and there were no surprises, though I was impressed by the tone, which was much more conciliatory than I would have thought. Not exactly pleading, perhaps, but certainly making it plain that the United States was fully committed to appeasing the Bullocks, and that the very survival of the human race depended on the unanimous support of the other four members of the Security Council, followed immediately by the rest of the world. My first thought, however, was quite self-serving. Rather than analyzing the words and their possible effect, I found myself thinking: I can do this! Perhaps a natural reaction to being put in such a spot, but I nevertheless felt ashamed for internalizing something so vastly important. Be that as it may, the head speechwriter opened the meeting with, “You’ve all read the draft. Any comments before we begin?”

  There were, of course. Indeed, they went on all morning, and it occurred to me that the Gettysburg address might never have been delivered if it had been written by a committee. There were some (out of the two dozen or so participants) who thought I needed to go deeper into proving that the Bullocks were who they said they were (much of the world still didn’t trust this fact, it would appear), and others who wanted more solid data showing how a 20% reduction in human killing could best be accomplished (though that was the work of another subcommittee). It was also suggested that the mention of my travels through space and time ought to be minimized because the presence of the cone should be enough of an inducement to comply with the Bullocks’ demands without going into bizarre tangents. The President’s science advisor asked how much of the cone had been deciphered, and whether its contents would be available for presentation. On and on the discussion went, including arguments about a couple of grammatical points and syntax. The Vice-President, noting perhaps that I was feeling a bit flustered, remarked perceptively that I shouldn’t worry; this happened all the time with important speeches. I nodded and smiled weakly. I found that I couldn’t swallow without difficulty.

  During a brief coffee break (with donuts), I was assured again and again that I would do fine, that I had been reading all my life, and that delivering a prepared speech was “a piece of cake.” Even if I never lifted my eyes I would do fine. I nodded unhappily over and over again.

  By then another draft had been prepared and distributed. A few lines had been changed, but the thrust was about the same: we were coming to the UN with hat in hand, and everything depended on the cooperation not just of 95% of the world, but 100%. Someone asked the question, already raised days before by a different task force, whether the majority of the world’s population might have to agree to wipe out a country that would not agree to stop the killing, for the benefit of everyone else. As before, it was decided that the Bullocks might take a dim view of such a course of action. The former President noted, however, that some third world countries might demand something from us in exchange for their co-operation. And on and on it went. I found myself wondering whether a demonstration by Walter during the Security Council presentation wouldn’t be worth a thousand — or a million — words that I could give them.

  “Why do you need another demonstration?” the Bullocks roared.

  “There are some who don’t believe the ones you’ve performed,” I told him as calmly as I could, forgetting, as usual, to say it aloud.

  The roar became deafening. “Then why would they believe another one?”

  I actually covered my ears, even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Almost no one noticed, though I saw Schultz staring at me quizzically. “Let me tell you something about our race that you may not understand, Walter. We may not be a logical species, but we are far more convinced by something we see with our own eyes than we are by being told about it. Even with a video, which can be altered with certain tricks. We call these tricks ‘photoshopping.’”

  “Thousands of your beings saw the last one with their own eyes!”

  “But the United Nations representatives did not!”

  “Should I make the UN disappear while you are there?” he sneered.

  I shouted out loud, “You want me to succeed or not?”

  The room immediately became silent. Mike ventured, “Walter is here?”

  “They’re always here!”

  The chair calmly asked whether they had offered us any suggestions.

  I took a deep breath. “I suggested they give the Security Council a demonstration of their capabilities.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They said we’ve already had enough demonstrations.”

  The room was silent for a long moment before the former Secretary of State asked me, “Can you twist their arms?”

  I restrained myself from pointing out that they didn’t have any arms. “I can try, but they don’t pay much attention to what I want.”

  The Vice-President concurred with the others. “I think another demo, especially while you’re giving your speech, would be a good idea. Keep trying.”

 
“Whatever the Bullocks do shouldn’t affect the thrust of Dr. Brewer’s speech,” said the chair. “For the time being, let’s try to finalize that, shall we?”

  I had no idea how every phrase in the English language, and probably all the others, was so nuanced. Every paragraph, every sentence, every word in the working draft had to be pondered, analyzed again and again, decided upon, and later changed to mean something even more clear (or less subtle). I didn’t envy diplomats, government officials, or politicians their jobs, which must be composed mainly of endless minutiae, at the cost of a fortune in time spent. I thought; how boring their lives must be! We didn’t even stop for lunch except for some sandwiches and coffee. As the meeting droned on an on I found myself resting my eyes for a moment, but when they came open I found myself in the past again. “Walter, are you doing this to me?” But there was no response from the assholes of the universe.

  I wasn’t sure what year it was, but I found myself inside our home of several decades ago. It was daytime, perhaps after school. Two of my sons were there, along with my daughter Jennifer, who was on the phone. Fred was playing with a model airplane he had built, while Chip was apparently doing his homework on the kitchen table, something he rarely seemed to do. My wife wasn’t there, nor was Abby. I presumed they had gone shopping or the like, but there was no way to know. I wandered around the house. Funny — I neither walked nor flew, I just went from one place to another without thinking about how I got there. There was our old sofa, our shiny dining room table, the old TV set without disc player or Tivo. I had almost forgotten how nice it was then, but it was all coming back. I started to sniffle a little because it was all so peaceful. It occurred to me to wonder where I, myself, was at that moment in the distant past. Probably working at the hospital. I tried to will myself to be there, but that didn’t work. Would I have to return to the present and start again from there to get to another place?