Download PDF­­­ Here

Wish

12 July 2021

A black Prius passed a sign saying “FACIAL RECOGNITION IN USE” and entered a gated security garage.  A thin man, about thirty, black hair needing a haircut, parked, and checked through an employee security entry with two guards, above which another sign said “State Department Employee Entrance”.

“Good morning Mr. Burroughs.” A bored guard checked off Edward R Burroughs on his clipboard and then said to the other guard, who was even more disinterested. “I’m telling you Oscar; I’m going to win.  I feel it.”, his blue security uniform straining against his stomach.

“You’re only betting with two dollars?”

“Doesn’t matter.  It’s eighty million Bud.”

Edward placed his phone and billfold in a plastic bowl, was motioned by the guard to enter the metal detector, raised his arms for the scan, then walked through.

“And what would you do with eighty million?” Oscar said, uniform baggy on his thin body.

“I know what I wouldn’t do, and that’s give you any.” 

Edward pushed his way through the turn-style. He could hear behind him as he walked down the hall.

“Yea, well, most people who win end up miserable.  Did you know that Mr. ‘I’m Going To Be a Big Winner’?”

“I’ll take my chances and suffer with the eighty mil.”

#

Edward took a crowded elevator up six floors and then walked down a nearly empty hall.  He went through a door saying Editing - What You See Here Stays Here, went down an even smaller empty hall, entered a windowless room, took his place in a small cubicle, one of ten others, and picked up a report that said Employment Statistics in Baghdad.  On his desk was another report on a tall stack titled Power Generation History in East Africa.  He looked over one cubicle at a woman about his age who was concentrating on paperwork. She had long legs, a glow.  She glanced up, caught him staring, her eyes went back to her desk, and then back to him. 

Unbeknown to Edward, she had been noticing him also.  She scrutinized Edward as if reconsidering and then said “What exactly is it that you do again? Edward is it?” gesturing at him with a pen.

            “Research.” Edward said, observing the woman’s neck at the edge of her blouse where it curved so flawlessly.

“Research.”, she said “We all do research.  No.  I mean when you’re not here.  What do you do when you’re not here?”

“What do you mean?”

The woman hesitated as if she was making a decision, then challenged him, “What inspires you Edward?  Gives you a hard-on?”

Edward glanced back to his desk. “I don’t know.  I don’t think about it really.”

“You don’t think about it?  You must get hard-ons Edward.”, she said with a teasing smile.

He started quickly flipping through reports. His face flushed.  “Excuse me.” and with that Edward left. He knew her name, Melissa, but other than the courtesies of working together they had never talked.  Edward felt sure if it was up to him, they would never talk, share a bottle of red wine, walk with hands held, lie in the intimacy of each other’s arms.  But whenever he saw her at work, that was all he thought about.

#

Edward climbed the three stair flights of his pre-war rooming house, stairwell smelling of humid disinfectant, sweat.  As he walked down the hall a few doors were open.  One tenant was kicking his window air conditioning unit, another lay near naked on the bed, a third in his grubby tee-shirt on a computer, a pale glow on his face.

He went in his bedroom, a small single bed, nightstand, and TV on a table directly in front of the bed.  The walls were empty.  Later he trudged down the hall outside his room in bare feet to wash in a shared grimy bathroom, mold around the shower edges, still-wet towels from strangers discarded on the tile.  He examined himself in the mirror, and said out loud to the reflection of himself as he shaved “loser”.  As he had many times before, he stretched out on his bed, listened to Wagner on his headphones, gazed out his one window, the brick bare wall of the adjacent building just a few feet away.  The music attempted, but failed, to transform him.  When he positioned just so on his bed, he could see grey sky above the buildings.  It always reminded him of the sky above the dirt walls of an unfilled grave, a pathetic ironic cliché.

He opened the window, reached under his bed, smelled the dust, and pulled out a bag of bird feed, Arron’s Feed written on the side.  He poured a hand-full in his palm, opened the window just enough, sprinkled some food on the exterior window sill, and waited.  It didn’t take long.  A bird, a large Magpie, wild, with white winged patches, white breast, and long black tail swooped down, ascended, and pecked at the feed.  The bird’s head bobbed and weaved and stared at the glass.  Edward felt the bird’s self-awareness, the recognizing of its own reflection in black emotionless unblinking eyes.  Ah, my friend, Edward thought. You see a bird in the glass and know it’s yourself, don’t you?  But then, feeling tingling on the back of his neck, he could see the bird not just observing its own reflection, but peering through the glass, directly into his eyes, like he knew him, like human’s eyes.  Edward’s forced his eyes away, but he could still feel the bird probing him. This is ridiculous.  It’s a stupid bird.  He glanced back.  The magpie’s eyes pierced him even more intensely, intelligent, a dark eyed gypsy, knowing.  He tried to pull away, but was transfixed, drawn in, frightened. Then, just like that, and with an abrupt clapping of wings, the bird simply flew off away.

#

13 July 2021

“Hello research drone.” said the voice on the other end of Edward’s cell phone.  “This is Melissa.”

Edward felt his throat tighten.  His voice squeaked, “I guess… I mean… who is this again?”

  “I hope you don’t mind.  I got your number off the State directory.  I feel kind of bad for yesterday.  You remember.  The hard on comment?

“No big deal.”

So … there’s this art reception in Georgetown. At the museum, but it’s tonight. Want to go?”

Edward felt his body freeze up.  His voice broke even higher.  “Who is this again?”

#

Edward and Melissa stood in front of an abstract sculpture, crowded room, conversations lulled, wine glasses, the power crowd. Edward fiddled with his collar, stared silently at the sculpture, tried to think of something to say.   I can barely look at her, he thought, black boots above the ankle, black dress that hangs just right on her athletic body, skin warm, flawless.  My god I can just breath her in.

“Now that piece sucks.”, Melissa said throwing her eyes at an eight-foot abstract.

“Looks like Popeye on steroids” Edward said.

“So, you’re an art critic?” Lisa said and smiled.

They walked the museum.    Melissa, chatty, comfortable in her own skin, prattled on in her quirky New York accent with her short blond hair, tussled bedhead.  How she grew up poor in Yonkers, struggled to stay in art school at Pratt, even part time, then gave it up.    She kidded Edward about his shyness, pried him to open up.  They walked the grounds. He fidgeted less.
            They walked down to the Potomac, passed restaurants, retail shops, and then a fountain where young children were throwing coins. “Look at those kids.”, Melissa said. “They’re having a ball.  I wonder it it’s true Edward.  Making a wish. Throwing coins.”  They stood looking at the children.  “Let’s try it.”  Melissa rummaged through her purse.  “Here you go.  A dime for you.  I’ve got the quarter.”

They threw the coins in and watched them sink in the clear water.  The bottom was covered with coins.

“All those coins are wishes when you think about it.  So, what did you wish for?” Melissa said with a curious expression.

“It’s a secret.  Supposed to be anyway.” Edward said, and thought how he wished he could have one more day like this one, hearing what Melissa thought, watching how she moved, wishing he could take care of her, and wishing he wasn’t a geek, a nerd, and some research loser. 

 #

“Take a right on 14th.” Melissa said as Edward was driving them home in his Prius. “Good.  Now get in the right lane to get to Columbus Circle” and then with a firm voice, “Cut that guy off to make your left.” 

Edward made a bemused sidewise look at Melissa. “Do you micro-manage everyone’s driving or is it just me?”

“Sorry.  You need to cut that guy off though.”

Edward smiled, and cut the guy off. “So, you’re a cutter.” he said, and thought about how now he was the one teasing Melissa.

#

14 July 2021

            A clock alarm rang.  Edward glanced at the clock, rolled over, and closed his eyes into his unwashed pillow, smelling of yesterday’s sweat.  He lay there and listened to the cold rain hitting the window from the outside, a faint arguing of a couple on his floor, someone walking by in the hall coughing on their way to the bath.  This morning feels different, Edward thought in his darkness.   Something had changed, or maybe shuffled. He could feel it in his chest, aware of a stirring, a rustling, a dry wind.  He felt weak but over-layered, cast away on an empty beach too tired to move in the heat—but also that feeling of being watched.  It wasn’t exhaustion. No.  That’s not the word.  Shifted is closer.   That’s it.  Shifted.  Something has Shifted. And then he thought, not just in the world but in his mind as well. 

He opened his eyes and there in front of him where the TV used to be was a blank space on the table at the foot of his bed. The TV was gone.  It had been there, he knew.  A square clean area where the TV had been was outlined by dust.  No, not gone he saw, but moved, to a side table.  Was someone in my room last night? That’s not good.  Scary even. Dangerous.  Edward checked his wallet on the nightstand, Ok.  Keys to the Prius, Ok.   Room key, Ok.  Who would come in my room, put the TV on a sideboard, and leave?  Then he saw not something missing, but something gained.  A second door in his room beckoned like the darkest impossibility, laughed at him even.  Edward had gained a door, a door to a bathroom. A second door appeared where none existed the night before, a mirage, a hallucination to be sure, he thought.  Edward walked to the new door.  He put his hands on the frame.  He felt it, fingers running down the dirty white wood, smooth but ridged where prior paintings showed through.  He went in the bath.  His toiletries were on the counter, toothbrush, paste, razor, shaving cream, bar of soap in a grimy puddle by the sink, toilet with last night’s pee un-flushed.  I’ve had a blackout, he thought, split identity, another person, an abomination.  Edward picked up his phone on his bed stand to check the day.  The screen said 9:10 am and the correct date.   He paced.  He told himself to ignore it.   I’ll go to work and when I come back to my room I suspect, I know even, this mental break or whatever it is will be gone.  Edward dressed while averting his eyes from the door, walked down the hall, down the three flights of stairs to the street.  As he pressed the start button to his Prius, he tried not to think about the wall he saw where the hall bath used to be.

#

31 April 2023

            Edward sat at The Morning Times Café and stared down at eggs.  They were perfect.  Perfect over easy.  Edward was scared; no, not scared really, more excited he thought.     Over easy, perfect.  He had gone to bed wanting perfect over easy eggs and there they were.  He had never had perfect eggs here.  Never, he thought.  There feels like a connection.  You can’t just think about something you want, sleep on it, and wake up to it being true, can you?  You can though. It happens. But life doesn’t work that way.  If you ever, truly, thought it did… why, you would be ready for a psych ward.  Still.  My room.  These eggs.  You did think about wanting those things.  Didn’t you? 

1 May 2023

            A silver BMW x3 SUV with less than 500 miles.  Edward opened the door with a key he had found on his bed stand that morning.  He checked the speedometer.  422 miles.  He checked the glovebox.  Car manual and small tool kit.  He checked the license plate.  Current stickers.  He thought a minute staring at the car.  He then quickly checked his wallet.  Edward R. Burroughs on a registration card for a 2023 BMW x3.  Edward walked to the front of the car and just stared at it.  He touched the hood.  He turned his entire body away.  He turned his entire body back.  He stared.  He touched the hood again, opened and closed the driver door.  Edward then yelled at the top of his lungs in the middle of the parking garage “Holy fucking shit!”, jumped up, and clicked his feet in the air.

#

22 September 2023

None of this seems true, he thought, scanning the two bedrooms, the southern sun swept view to Columbus Circle.  I’ve never talked to anyone.  I can’t.  I know they would put me away.  And my life is getting better isn’t it?  I’m not bothering anyone. Maybe everything will flash back to how it was should I examine this too closely.  It’s best to let this… apparition, reside just out of sight.  On the periphery.  Something not to be considered straight on, not to be faced.  But still.  He felt the rising anxiety, of working without a net knowing you’re not ready, the impending fall being imminent, the feeling of a scream all the way down.  He remembered month’s past how out of control he felt going to work and seeing the building had … reconfigured, the floorplan reshaped somehow, going to his cubicle only to see someone else there, faking it as he found his way to his office, seeing it had a corner view.  But time.  Time doesn’t change, he thought. It’s like you instantly get what you… No. Not instantly, but the next day after sleeping for the night.  Yes.  That’s it.  The next day. You’re not hallucinating though.  This is real. You know real.   And if you get whatever you want, anything you wish for, is there a limit? To the power that is.   And with that, an unconscious epiphany, an awakening, a blood rush realization, the biggest lottery hit in the universe, struck Edward like a diamond of euphoric possibilities.

#

7 July 2024

Hearing the clock alarm, Edward rolled over into fresh sheets, and listened to the traffic on Columbus Circle.
            Melissa, who lay next to him, said “I thought about it.  Let’s get married. “

“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I slept on it and you’re right.  I decided you’re right.”

Edward turned and reached to Melissa, pulling her closer. “I love you Melis.” he said, “Are you really sure?  Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’re a curiosity.   I never would have thought… Why, since we worked at research, it’s like you’ve grown up somehow, even physically changed, filled out.  You’ve become the most confident, I mean …  But there’s something else.  I miss the sweet innocence a little.” and then she kissed him hard, like she meant it.

Later Melissa lay on her side and faced away from him on the bed, “What would you wish for Edward?  If you could get anything that is?”

Edward stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know.  You I suppose.”

“But you already have me.”

“Are you serious Melis?”

“Yes.  What would you want?  If you could be anything?  Do anything?”

“I guess more of everything.  I would want more.”

 “I would want to be an artist, I think. Sculpture maybe.”  She then turned to face Edward and put her hands on either side of his face. She met his eyes.  “You just can’t snap your fingers and be an artist Edward.  It’s not like inheritance.”, then she kissed him, rose from the bed, dressed, and left for work.

#

5 June 2028

            “Mr. Secretary, the President has returned your call” said the young man with perfect shined shoes, immaculate nails, gesturing to Edward to take the mobile phone.

            Edward took the phone and said without listening, “Bill, I can’t go to Riyadh.  I just landed in Damascus.”, and thought, it’s always me that has to put out the fires.   I can’t be in two places at once.  I could be at the New York townhome, or Monaco for that matter.  He then thought, like every day, how he missed Melis.  He knew he’d never gotten back the feeling of peace, the inner warmth, the passion, the touch of a simple caress, like with Melis.  You know what it was, he said to himself.  It was you knew her in the before. Before the power.  The power you now know you have, the re-charging, weeks, years, before another shift.  A re-charging.  You should have married her in the before. But those were the crazy years, the woman, more money than I would ever need, the rush to power.  I’ll need to sleep on it, Edward thought. Yes, sleep on it.

#

10 June 2028

“You must do more Secretary Burroughs”, the gaunt middle-aged woman said, hair pulled back business like, standing in a seedy room at the head of a conference table.  She had clipped hair, her eyes grey blue and life weary.  She was exhausted. “Thousands are dying, hundreds of thousands.   The world watches and thinks only of their national self-interest.  Their tribalism. Not even that really.  Their own personal self-interest is more like it.  Enough, Secretary Burroughs, enough.  Please.” 

Edward listened to the woman but his eyes passed behind her.  He could see through the conference room windows the shells of bombed out buildings, the agony of Damascus displayed, facades wiped away, columns of smoke. 

His attention was brought back to the intensity of the room.  A handsome middle-aged woman with jet black hair pulled back, dressed elegantly, was seated in the rear. “You Americans don’t even do the right thing after trying all the others.” she said. “Ambassador Arafa can beg all she wants.  The truth is you Americans come over here.  You mess it up, kill countless innocent people, waste billions.  And then you leave.”

“Stay out of it, Margaret.” Ms. Arafa responded.  “This is Syria’s fight, not yours.”

“Maybe.” Margaret said looking offended. 

“I didn’t mean that like it sounded.  I apologize. We need your input.  Your help.”

Margaret gave Ms. Arafa a perfunctory nod.  She then indicated to the woman seated with her, like she was accustomed to command, they should leave.  

“And whom am I… “, but before Edward could finish Margaret stood up, ignored him.  Three others, all woman, followed her like an entourage. Ms. Arafa watched them go.  Edward could see the giving up in her eyes, the frustration.

After Margaret left, she said, “I apologize to you also Secretary Burroughs. The Iranian’s want to be in charge. There’s nothing we can do.  Margaret and I are friends.  She is an honorable woman.  I had hoped she would stay, but this meeting is effectively over.”

As people filed out Edward walked to the window, a glass screen protecting them from reality, chaos.  Politicians can’t do a thing he thought as he looked out at Damascus in ruins, people going about their daily lives, the endless war, a new reality.  His phone buzzed with a message.  The message stared at him, accused him. ‘Do you really care?  I don’t think so.  Margaret’. 

Edward decided right then to change things, and he sensed the re-charging might take years.

#

15 June 2028

            The private jet lifted off from Damascus International Airport. Edward felt a familiar rising surge in his seat as the plane banked into clear sky. The attendant unclipped and brought him, without asking, a scotch straight up.  Staff conversed in the other seats.  From his window Edward observed the same smoke as yesterday, the same bombed out buildings, but also, he could swear, something new.  There was more traffic and activity on the streets.   He didn’t remember seeing construction cranes, as many glass and steel high-rises wrapped with busy freeways.  A beautiful blue bird day he thought.  He felt omnipotent, like a Master of the Universe, a God.  Edward had slept well this last some days.  He had wished for world peace before he’d gone to sleep.

#

1 July 2029

“Do you know what thirty-thousand feet of sex looks like?” said a young woman sitting next to Edward, eyes playing with him, unfocused. She was drinking a vodka tonic, her sixth.  As the 747 hit a spot of turbulence she weaved, part of the drink slopped down the front of her dress.  She reached her fingers down underneath her bra, massaged herself, and then put unsteady wet fingers almost to Edwards lip’s.  “Want a lick Mr. Ambassador?”

“Let’s just slow down a little Dottie.” But why not, Edward thought.  He knew the flight was overnight, New York to London, nearly empty, what few people there were sleeping, four staff members playing cards in the far rear.  It was just sex.  And, unlike Dottie, he didn’t owe anyone loyalty.  Melis was long in the past. She just couldn’t keep up. And who was Melis anyway, to tell him … how had she put it … ‘disgusted by the man he had become’?  Anyway, this was exciting and you like getting want you want.  You deserve it really. You could do, be, anything you wanted.  “You know Dottie, what happens at thirty thousand stays at thirty thousand,” he said, then licked Dottie’s fingers.

#

7 July 2029

            Edward sat on a park bench looking at the White House.  His bench.  This is where he went when he needed to think. Something about looking at the White House from across Pennsylvania Avenue, the temporary isolation with no one after him, tourists tromping by gaping about. Even the summer heat seemed to cauterize him, protect him.  The Jackson statue on horseback gave him pause.  Did he have my power he thought?  Did anyone?  Does anyone?  I doubt it. But I’m still recharging since Syria.  It took more than I hoped. Over a year now.

            “Did you see the birds?” A boy about six years old stood in front of him, dirty tee shirt with Spiderman on it, a tourist hat that said FBI.

            “Sorry.  What do you mean?”

            “There mister. Look there.” and the boy pointed to the Lafayette statue.  It was covered by birds.  Magpies, Edward noticed, with their black wings, white breasts, black eyes.  Large magpies beginning to squawk, people looking, pointing.  Hundreds of them.

            “Well, I never…”, but Edward didn’t have a chance to finish what he had to say.  The birds had taken flight with a rumbling, rising, beating of wings.

            They flocked to Edward, taunted him, surrounded him on the bench, squawked at him, covered the ground near him.  Dozens circled close above.  He felt trapped, stayed still, tried to keep the fear down, the urge to run.  The squawking increased to birds screaming at him, beating wings in his face.  He threw out his hands, swiped with his arms. Giving up he ran, stepping on birds, crushing birds, shrieking birds, as he broke through.  He could feel thudding against his back as they attacked him.  Now birds were pecking at his ankles, the back of his neck, smelling blood. He fell.  He covered the back of his head.   He couldn’t think.  But then the birds just broke off.  They left him, scattered in the sky, like they had heard a signal, a reprieve.  He didn’t move.

            “Are you alright sir?”  People were gathering.  Police running over.

            Edward lay there on the ground and felt something inside, like his skeleton shifting, his flesh sliding, scraping against his bones.  A changing. He felt the shifting settle, leave him.  He felt his power leaving him.  He was on his own.  He was Secretary of State but he felt like the geeky researcher had taken back his mind, and everything was going uncontrollably, horribly, wrong. 

#

18 February 2030

            When Secretary of State Edward R. Burroughs entered the crowded Oval Office, President William Barker sat behind his desk with his back to the room.  He was holding a red phone.   He looked out through cold frosted windows and could just make out the Kennedy portico covered in ice, and beyond that the Rose Garden, thorns now frozen.  A winter storm of snow and sleet blew across the back lawn. 

DC was numb. Snow weighed heavily on Jefferson’s granite shoulders, sleet crystal covered the stairs to the Lincoln Memorial, shut down Reagan International.  The snow-covered ground was trampled between the Houses of Congress and the Lincoln Memorial – where tens of thousands of people were protesting, then pleading, their common anthemic humanity, “Peace Now… Peace Now… Peace Now.”, like transformed bloodless ice-covered corpses.  

Behind the President sat aging men in their military uniforms, clusters of ribbons, and riveting bloodshot eyes.  They heard him say, “I guess that’s it then.”, and watched him turn his chair.  The men studied him, leaned forward, strained to hear him, to know what he knew, to gain guidance, deliverance.  “Russia’s bowed out but the Iranian bombers are in-bound.  We have no way of preventing it. The viruses shut it all …  Thirty minutes.”

“We can still negotiate, Sir.”

“It’s too late for that George,”  the President snapped irritably, “If you had done your God Damn… “ and stopped, reflected, thought about his wife, how he would never see her again, how all this would almost immediate be gone, their petty strategies, and started to cry.

Edward watched the scene moving slow, surreal, the hush in the room. He wished he had more time, that he could last a day even, get some sleep to correct things, gain him time to re-charge. But those days, those years he wasted, he knew were gone.   He had one more, and only one more, thing to do.  He left the office and called Melissa to say he was sorry, to give his regrets, to beg her forgiveness. To give her something.   As he called, he listened to the panicked halls of the West Wing, glass breaking somewhere, sirens in the distance, and then her voice. “This is Melissa Andrews.  I’m not available but appreciate your call. Please leave a message at the beep.” Edward turned off his phone, unanswered MESSAGES appeared on the screen, empty appeals.  He felt calm, accepting, powerless.  He knew there was no time and he knew he loved her and he knew his wish for world peace, by some sick twist, meant there would be no more humanity left on earth.

Edward turned his phone back on like a last thought.  Maybe. His thumb scanned his message list.  There it is, +98.  He texted Margaret.

#

Margaret Kashini was seated in the rear seat of an Iranian state helicopter going over pristine mountains, snow-capped, clear forever sky.  She could see the GPS on the pilot’s instrument panel’s red and blue dials, showing they had just entered the Caucasus mountain range. The man to her right did not notice she was looking at a text because he was looking at the view like it was his last time.  The Americans are over first, she thought, but at what cost?  An eye for an eye means the whole world is soon dead.  The co-pilot turned all the way to the man to her right.  She could hear in her headphones beneath the roar of the helicopter blades, “We have plenty of time to make the shelter Mr. President.  In just minutes we’ll be there.”  He then turned to her. “Madam, I have confirmed your children are already there.” 

“Thank you Major.” Margeret said.  She then paused, and grasped both of her husband’s hands in hers.  She looked directly in his eyes and she saw wisdom, understanding, love, but something she’d never seen before, resignation to failure, fear.  “You need to listen to me now.”

#

Edward Burroughs knew there was no sense joining the panicked last rush on the white house lawn where helicopters waited, whirling rotors in clouds of snow, people shoving to gain entry, to just get in, muscling out the weaker, throwing others to the ground.  He had decided the best place to be was the Situation Room where Pentagon staff, all business, surveyed wall monitors now showing dozens of inbound red dots, getting ever closer, Iranian nuclear armed stealth bombers entering the US mainland.  Edward’s phone buzzed, a text. It was from Margaret.   He glanced at the text and then went back to the wall monitor nearest him showing The District of Columbia in fine detail. A single red dot was slowly starting to go over them on the map. 

“This is it!” someone yelled.
            He braced himself.  At least it will be instant. He fixated back to the monitor. The red dot on the screen was still there, now directly over them, blink-dot red …, blink-dot red …, blink-dot red .... The room went silent, waiting for the bomb to hit, imagining the nuclear blast detonation one mile above their head, knowing it would come. No one moved, frozen.  Some looked at the ceiling, a submarine crew in the conning tower, straining to hear the last depth charge, the one that explodes bulkheads into the room, with an unforgiving wave, a wall of cold obliteration.  There was a low voice in the back of the room, “our father in heaven… so help me God.”. The woman next to him wept. Her cellphone screen said, Calling … but no connection, no getting through, no last chance to tell her husband, her children, she loved them.   A man next to him broke, went to his knees, vomited.   Just hit dammit, please hit, fear rising with realization, like pain, like knowing he couldn’t take it anymore.    Blink-dot red …, blink-dot red …, blink-dot ... 

I swear the dot is … Am I imagining?  And then he knew for sure. The red dot on the monitor was started to turn, to slowly, ever so slowly, turn. A man seated at the front row of desks said, “We shouldn’t be here.  The bomb hasn’t dropped.” and then yelled, “Holy shit!  The Iranians are pulling the friggin’ plug.  They’re aborting!”

#

Edward sat on a bench outside the Situation Room on his cell phone, people hurrying back and forth, people on phones, yelling orders, the government machine grinding, powering back up.

“This is her phone.  The last thing she needs is distractions,” said Melissa’s mother.

Edward spoke loudly into the phone. “I can’t hear you.  Who is this? What did you say? Is she available?  I need to talk with Melissa.  Only Melissa.”

“Well this is Melissa’s mother and I’m in charge. Who’s this?”

“It’s Edward.  Edward Burr—”

“Oh, I know who you are. Yes, I know who you are.”

Edward heard a rustle on the line.  A voice in the background said, “Edward Burroughs? Give me the phone.  …”

“You can’t talk to her.” said Melissa’s father now on the line. “She’s getting married.  With the war news we rushed it, a death-bed marriage.  Now I’m hearing…  Do you know anything?  Is the war over?”

“It looks like we’re ok.  Can I talk to Melissa?”

“She’s getting married in six hours, so no, you can’t.” The phone went dead.

#

Edward walked into the Oval Office.  President Barker was standing with a small group.  “We need to open up negotiations.” someone was saying, a Joint Chief. 

“Let’s give it a rest George. Can we at least take ten breaths before—”

Interrupting the President, Edward said, “Bill, the airports are closed, gridlock everywhere.  I need to ask a favor.”

“Anything Edward, anything.”

“Can I borrow Air Force One?”

#

The cabin was full of the sounds of celebration, champagne popping, laughter, people on the phone with wives and family.  Things that mattered, Edward thought, as he sat alone, jet engines humming as the Kansas flatlands inched by below.  He looked at his watch.  We’ll land at least an hour late, he thought.  All this and for what? Beat by an hour.  Probably not any use anyway.  But I should at least try.  If only there were someone to send ahead. But what good would that do? The pilot walked by in the aisle.

“Secretary Burroughs.  Just you all the way to San Francisco? We’re probably the only airline in flight right now. Although the airports will start to open soon, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Edward said distracted.
            The pilot gave him a puzzled look, started to walk away, and stopped as an afterthought. “Mr. Secretary. I’ve got to say …, and I don’t know if you had anything to do with the stand-down they’re talking about, but thank you.   I heard you were at the White House when all this came to a head.  I’m Captain Nick Stewart and I’d like to shake your hand if I may.”  He shook Edward’s hand.

“Thank you, Captain.”

 “Can I get you anything?”

“You can’t get me what I really need.  An hour faster flight time.”

“Why? What’s the rush?”

“I’m trying to make a wedding.”

“That, Secretary Burroughs sounds like a story, but we have an expression that I learned, flying F18’s, for times like this.”

“What’s that Captain?”

“Step on it, Mr. Secretary, step on it.”

#

“The city is a ma-ess.  People wanted out.  Now they want back.”  said the limo driver to Edward with a heavy southern accent, standing on the tarmac, limo hat askew, shirt-tails out to hide a fried chicken stomach.  “Can’t get you anywhere, no sir..ee. No gas. Kaput. Out. When the cry-sis hit the gas went. First thing to go.  That’s why your people ain’t here I suppose.  They can’t get here.”

Edward thought.  There must be an answer somewhere, like something is missing, something beneath the desperation.  He pushed his hair back with one hand and spoke into the horizon. “I need to get to a church in Mission Hills. A wedding.  I don’t have much time. Is there anything we can do?”

“A wedding?  Are you the one getting married?”

“No.  I just need to get there.  Can you help me?”

“Well, you’re a big shot gov’ment guy, but if you’re willin’, we can take my car.  It’s electric.”  pointing off to the airport private entry.  Edward could see a black Prius off to the side, needing paint, front right bumper pushed in from some old fender bender. “I’ll still put you in the back. How’s that?”

“Perfect.”

#

A black Prius pulled in front of a church.  The street was quiet, empty, as Edward got out of the car, the parking lot with only a few cars.  Yes.  Makes sense, Edward thought. People couldn’t get through the gridlock, wouldn’t want to either.  Death-bed.  Yes.  Death-bed wedding he said.  The limo driver smoked a cigarette out the window.  They could hear music playing inside.  Edward ran to the front door.  Closed. Locked.  He saw the side entry.

He entered the rear of the church, an office, went down a hall, some kind of reception area, now another hall.  But with each turn the light seemed whiter, more real, and he felt more like an intruder, like he didn’t belong, like a geeky researcher out of his league with a dumb idea.  Down a short corridor he moved slower now, almost turned around, but then heard voices, an organ playing. He rounded a corner. And there, standing at the entry to the rear of a sanctuary stood Melissa’s mother peering into the gathering, just getting ready to enter, and find her rehearsed seat. 

“Mrs. Andrews?”

She turned. “Who the hell ...You can’t talk to her. We don’t need you here!”

 “Mother!” Melissa yelled as she entered from the side.  “I’ll talk to who I want to.  The rest of my life can wait a minute.” 

And there was Melissa in her wedding dress standing next to her tuxedo perfect father.  “Melis?”  At the sound of his voice Melissa turned quickly to face him. “I …,” but Edward stopped.  He couldn’t speak as he looked at her.  He knew he’d never again in his life see anything so beautiful.

Her eyes met Edward’s and hung there, recognition coming into focus.  “Edward, I…?” And with recognition came tears, a remembrance, a warm intense immediacy between them.  Then Edward went heartbroken as he watched her eyes shake it off, her face brace to reality, turn resolved, and transform to a wall. She looked to her father and said “Daddy, please give me a minute.”  Melissa then guided Edward to an annex.

 “Melissa, I love you. I’m begging you. I can’t change who I was, how I treated you. But we had something and…”

She smiled as she said his name slowly, “Oh Edward …  Edward …”, like she wanted to take her time, to hear his name, to feel again the love of their past, but also to gather wisdom, the wisdom of grasping the essence of it, the rightness of the decision she had to make.  “You were my love … the love of my life.  But it’s over Edward.  I’ve moved on.  So have you.  I know you’re sorry.  I’m sorry too.  It’s time to just walk away.  If you love me, just walk away.”

“But I do love you.”

“Edward, you can’t just show up after so much time.  You hurt me.  Badly. This is not some movie.  This is real life, with responsibilities, commitments. Please just leave before this gets harder for us both.”

#

“So how did it go?” the limo driver said as Edward approached the Prius. 

“Not so good.”

“You don’t look too good either.”

“Let’s just go.”

“You got it.”

Edward got in the Prius silently, the car pulled away. Edward looked ahead not back.

“Sir?”

“Yes”, Edward said while looking out the window.

“Is the lady you come to meet in a wedding dress? That’s my guess.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because there’s some nutcase in a wedding dress behind us waving her arms like she’s a holy roller who missed the bus to the second coming.”

#

Air Force One was on the tarmac waiting to take off, passenger jets lined up, the world getting back to life, the same mistakes, wishes that come true, some that don’t.

            “Secretary Burroughs, we need your help.”  A flight attendant stood at Edward’s seat.  Edward had been looking at the aircraft, full of people, people back to their everyday lives.  So quickly, he thought.

            “It’s your wife.  You need to do something.  Please follow me if you will sir.”

            Edward approached the cabin.  Captain Stewart was in the pilot seat, four gold bars on his sleeve, Melissa in her wedding dress in back of him, leaning over him.

The attendant was insistent.  “You need to get her back to her seat sir.”

He put his head in the cabin.  “Melis, we need to—”

“Not now Edward.” She glanced at him and then looked back to the Captain, who Edward could see was helpless, outmatched, as she said “I know what I’m talking about. Just listen to me.  If you nudge forward, you’ll cut off all those other guys.” 

Edward knew there would be no getting Melis back to her seat, and besides, looking at her, he adored her too much to try.   

END