Ruby's Pearls Elecmag 14/RUBYV14.ZIP/RUBY14-7

Text File | 1992-11-22 | 20KB | 352 lines

Copyright 1992(c)

                            THE DEAL
                         By Del Freeman

     Lane Matthison looked away from the hard grey eyes, past the
symbolic flag and out the tall window, idly observing the
snowflakes drifting rapidly downward. Traffic would be hopelessly
snarled as Washingtonians attempted homeward passage in the
gathering dusk, cars stalled bumper to bumper on the freeway,
horns blaring sharply at intervals, like angry alleycats
threatening their intention to rumble.
     It would be another typical Friday evening, the kind that
left you tense and angry, craving the soothing effects of a dry
martini when you finally arrived at your front door. Typical,
that is, except that he wouldn't be warming his wet toes and
calming his frayed nerves with a generous bite of gin before the
warm fireplace in his apartment, Nancy Wilson crooning about
'long, last love' from his state-of-the-art surround sound
system.
     He felt the determined gaze silently demanding his
attention, and looked back into the grey eyes, tearing his
thoughts and his eyes away from the swirling snow battering the
window panes. He sighed deeply as the recorder on the table
continued to spin, collecting segments of silence like coins in a
Salvation Army kettle.
     "Okay." His voice sounded defeated, even to himself. "Okay,
here's the deal," he began, and saw the stiff figure before him
tense and then deliberately unbend, lean back, rocking the chair
slightly as though seated in a La-Z-Boy recliner.
     And Lane Matthison spilled his guts.
                              * * *
     It was April, and the promise of cherry blossoms were heavy
on the spring air. The parks were filled with government-types
digging into brown bags while seated on park benches, producing
neat sandwiches in tightly-sealed baggies, dragging forth the
errant apple, banana, kiwi-fruit for the more adventuresome.
     Lane looked around nervously, feeling conspicuous in this
place without a brown-bag lunch. He fondled his cellular phone
and glanced impatiently at his watch, noticed the mysterious
morning caller was fully three minutes late.
     He should leave, he told himself, and remained firmly seated
on the worn bench, feeling the groove of the wood beneath his
buttocks where someone had, accidentally or purposefully, bashed
the seat with something sharp and heavy enough to gouge away a
portion of the wood. He shifted his weight just enough to trace
the scarred wood with his posterior. The edges of the hole had
worn smooth, and only the absence of hard surface beneath his
seat that told him the cavity was there.
     He recalled again the raspy whisper on the other end of the
phone.
     "If you like the taste of that power, you'll be there.
You're no fool. You can see it slipping away as surely as
everyone else."
     And he couldn't deny it. It had been on his mind more than
he let on - the loss of that power. In a cut-throat town like
Washington, where power was everything, there was a lot to be
said for having the ear of the President. A lot more to be said
when it looked like that ear might soon be outside the Oval
office, peering in.
     Sure, it was unlikely, but it had happened in the past. More
than one sitting President found himself unemployed due to his
poor performance, and the country seemed to be adhering to
pattern - getting fed up with Republicans and electing the
obligatory one-term Democrat before retreating back to the known.
Bush had not only been ineffectual, he'd been stupid - insisting
there was no depression; insisting the country was turning around
from the depression that hadn't been; fumbling around with all
that Iran Contra mess and generally stepping in great piles of it
everywhere he went. Even the magical, mystical sleight of hand of
Jim Bakker hadn't made a dent in his steady, downhill slide, and
President Clinton had merely been a fiasco. The interest rates
Clinton had mocked in the Bush administration had climbed
steadily, unemployment had shot up right alongside, and the
deficit loomed larger by the moment.
     And if slick Willie was out, so was Lane. Willie didn't want
to be out, and Lane wanted it even less. Hell, he was young, and
his career just taking off. Putting Clinton in office had been
the first notch on his belt as independent political adviser, and
going down in defeat wasn't what he had in mind.
     So, the voice had insinuated, a change of candidate might
just save him. Nothing, it said, would save Clinton, and Lane was
inclined to agree.
     The phone interrupted his reverie, and he answered
cautiously.
     "Frank Gifford," said the voice.
     Lane thought about it. Gifford, the junior Senator from
Iowa, had been under consideration by the party several months
ago. When Clinton decided to run, however, speculation had died
down. Gifford had spent the past several months in one televised
spot after another, spouting the party line. Gifford's blue-eyed
blonde wife and the couple's eight-year-old son and six-year-old
daughter, completed the perfect domestic picture.
     "What, you think Gifford is going to declare against the
President?" Lane asked the question like he would have asked
whether he should set himself on fire, or if the stranger really
thought the Dodgers might go all the way.
     "Leave Gifford to me," said the voice. "Are you interested?"
     Lane thought about it. It would mean a declaration against
the incumbent, a dangerous move if he guessed wrong. Still,
public opinion was strong in that regard. Like the rat he was, he
decided the moment had come to abandon ship.
                              * * *
     For the next few months he applied all his energies to
promoting candidate Gifford. With the advent of the electronic
age, it wasn't as hard as it had once been. The push to instigate
computer voting which had failed in the last election was now
firmly in place. Americans could not only register with ease,
they could cast their ballot for the highest office in the land,
(or any other), by lifting the telephone.
     Since Ross Perot introduced himself to the American people
via television during the last election, everybody had come to
grips with the electronic message, and many incumbent politicians
had never shook the first hand or kissed the first baby. With the
institution of term limits, politicians had been in, and out, of
office without America ever having seen them up close and
personal, and politicking was done strictly via the tube - both
computer and television.
     After several months of active involvement with his
campaign, Lane, himself, had never met the man he was promoting.
Oh, sure, he talked to him by phone, but he'd never actually seen
the flesh and blood candidate, and neither had anyone he knew. In
fact, when Gifford managed to upset the electoral college by a
minuscule 11 votes, Lane watched from campaign headquarters as
Gifford accepted the nomination on the widescreen with just a
hint of resentment. After all he'd done to get Gifford elected,
it seemed like the man would at least want to shake his hand.
     Gifford, though, didn't seem to want to shake any hands at
all. Even his inauguration was a spectacle designed for mass
public consumption via the electronic media. There were no balls
due to the recently-announced austerity program, and no public
appearances whatsoever. It was months after Gifford assumed
office before Lane realized that, with the exception of Gifford's
wife, Catherine Leigh Gifford, and the couple's two children,
pretty much no one had seen Gifford. But then, no one had ever
seen Catherine Leigh or the Gifford children, Carlton and Lisa,
either. The entire family appeared on national television on
election eve to wave confidently to the viewing audience, but
Gifford had conducted his campaign from start to finish on-
screen, as it were.
     Lane had had several conversations with his raspy-voiced
friend after that first initial meeting in the park, and he'd
tried to influence a public appearance several times, but
Gifford's spokesperson had been adamant.
     "You can reach a hell of a lot more people through the tube
than you can any other way," he'd insisted. "The future president
will be happy to answer call-in questions, and to campaign
unstintingly via the electronic medium, but there will be no
personal appearances."
     According to the mystery-man, who had ultimately identified
himself as Gifford's aide and former college roommate, the threat
of assassination was too great for any candidate to risk public
appearances, and he did have a point. No President had been
assassinated in 30 years, but attempts had been, the latest only
two years before against then-President Clinton.
     Clinton, a young man when he entered office, had aged
visibly during his four-year stint, and would nurse a heart
condition the rest of his days as a result of an errant bullet
which had nicked a valve.
     Lane thought the aseptic presentation of a presidential
candidate unusual, but it had worked, and President Gifford had
been elected. Since that time, he'd conducted all the business of
the office of the President of the United States on-camera.
Americans, tired of looking into the shifty eyes of their local
politicians, seemed to welcome the absence of constant media
surveillance of every trip to the former Senator, now President's
home town, every fishing/golfing/sporting pastime, every address
to this or that ignominious group. Aside from his 15-minute
monthly updates, Gifford came on the screen only when he had
something significant to say, and otherwise applied himself to
running the country, and Americans liked it.
     In fact, six months into his first term, Gifford's approval
rating was 82.9, the highest of any President at any point in
history.
     "See, we knew what we were doing," said the raspy voice that
called to crow over the first half-year's performance.
"Electronics are the wave of the future. You'll never see another
candidate stumping anywhere in this country," the voice said
confidently, and Lane had to agree. Gifford's campaign had
changed the rules of running for office -- possibly forever.
                              * * *
     "You can see how I might have been fooled, can't you?"
     The hard-faced agent across from him never moved a muscle,
indicating neither by word or deed that he empathized with Lane's
dilemma. He waited silently. Patiently. Lane drew a deep breath
and tried again.
     "Honestly, I had no way of knowing anything. I was just a
small cog in a large wheel that was spinning with a velocity I
couldn't even imagine."
     "Go on," said the agent noncommittally.
     Go on, indeed, Lane thought. Go on and what? - Tell you I
was hustled by a phantom? Yeah, that oughta' be real good.
                              * * *
     Almost immediately after taking office, Gifford had
instituted his monthly updates for the populous. In a manner
similar to Roosevelt's fireside chats, Gifford reserved 15
minutes each Friday night to advise the American people on the
direction his leadership was taking. The event had developed its
own popularity, and despite the cries of cynics who predicted the
President would be lucky to get a single-digit share, audiences
had been decidedly loyal, giving him an average 30 percent share
each month.
     Lane made it a point to watch, because although his orders
emanated directly from the Man himself, they were always by phone
or memo. He was a bit ashamed to admit that he enjoyed the sight
of the virile blond President as much as anyone else. Somehow
Frank Gifford managed to instill a feeling of youth and
invincibility into the American populous which hadn't been felt
since JFK, and not even then with such a degree of certitude.
     So Lane, like the rest of America, curled up before the
television with his customary bowl of light popcorn to hear what
the President had to say from month to month, and last night had
been no exception.
     He ruminated again on the soothing effect President Gifford
had had on world affairs since taking office. Relationships with
foreign powers were at an all-time high, and Gifford's brain
child: a national lottery with half the income to be applied to a
reduction of the national debt, had been an overwhelming success.
Ignoring the naysayers, Gifford had plowed right on, and in only
three months the lottery had managed to whittle the budget
deficit almost in half. Americans were slapping themselves on the
back in congratulations for electing Gifford, and even bleeding-
heart liberals could find little fault with him. No wonder all of
America turned on and tuned in to his monthly gabfests.
     And on Friday, June 28, 1997, America had every reason to
look forward to what their President intended to say. Former
President Clinton's heart had suddenly given out early that
morning and Lane knew there would be a tribute to him. There had
been hints that there would be increased festivities this year to
mark the fourth of July holiday, and few doubted that there was
real cause for celebration this year. President Gifford was
expected to reveal his plans for the gala observation at the top
of his program, and Lane, who'd been instrumental in generating
ideas for the celebration, wondered which ideas, if any, the
President had chosen from those he had supplied.
     He munched on a handful of popcorn and waited for the
commercial to fade and the handsome, smiling face of Frank
Gifford to take its place. As it did, he settled deeper into the
sofa with a contented sigh and waited.
     "Good evening," said the soothing voice of the President of
the United States. The slightly-graying blond hair waved back
from a forehead that appeared tanner than usual; the hazel eyes
seemed to have a touch more blue to them. "Tonight, I'd like to
talk to you a little about the untimely demise of a former
leader, President Bill Clinton, and what we've planned for this
Independence Day to commemorate our freedom and pay homage to our
fallen former leader."
     The President looked directly into the television camera and
smiled slightly. Slightly behind him and to his right were his
wife and two children, seated side-by-side on a sofa.
     "We've had a sphlact and the past year has been froctic," he
said. "Our budget deficit is diminishing daily and relations with
other super powers are negabisile."
     The President's expression didn't change. A bite-sized chunk
of his head disappeared before America's eyes, however, leaving
him looking like a partially finished print; a jigsaw puzzle with
a vital piece missing. As he continued to gaze calmly at his
audience, another round chunk disappeared from his left cheek.
     "Wehagasmit hoga bi ventmur," said the President, raising
his right arm slightly and gesturing toward his seated family,
whose eyes, noses, arms and bodies began to rapidly disappear in
a series of Pac-Man-like consumptions. The eyes crinkled and the
lips smiled slightly. "Icksack dup nibby lo restodan mega, obza
lin doop," said the president.
     Now, the entire top half of the head was gone, and only the
nose and lips remained on the screen, addressing his audience as
though it were the most common thing in the world.
     Suddenly, the screen went black and then was filled with the
Presidential seal. After a few seconds of silence, the
announcer's mellow voice announced technical audio problems.
After 10 minutes of nothing but the Presidential seal, the
announcer's voice again returned to advise that this evening's
address from the President had been cancelled. The raucous
laughter and nasal voices of the Simpsons filled the air as Lane
sat in stunned disbelief.
     Frantic phone calls to the President's advisory staff
produced no explanation. Everyone he spoke with seemed as
befuddled by it all as he was.
     It was just like that Max Headroom thing years ago, Lane
thought, but everyone knew Headroom was just a computer-generated
character. The President's face had disappeared just as though
it, too, hadn't been anything more than a computer-generated
image. Of course, that was ridiculous.
     Suddenly, he was tired. Very tired. He couldn't think about
it anymore or he'd go off his rocker, he decided. Lane poured
himself a stiff shot of scotch and stumbled into his bedroom,
shutting the door behind him.
     He was awakened by the sound of pounding on his door, and
when he opened it, expecting to find someone from the President's
staff with an explanation, he found the FBI agent who was even
now listening to him with a cynical smile on his lips. The
Agent's silent companion had handcuffed Lane without explanation,
and the two had ushered him downstairs and into a car with two
other agents, depositing him in this tiny cubicle where he'd been
ever since.
     He'd been served a single cup of coffee and a stale cinnamon
roll just as the sun came up, and had run out of cigarettes two
hours before the agent returned to take the seat across from him.
In the meantime, he'd had pause to rethink the evening's events.
There had been nothing to indicate the night had happened when
the pounding had awakened him, and he'd thought at first that it
had been some sort of horrible nightmare.
      The Agent's first words were the only indication he'd had
that the problem might not be one that would rectify itself as
soon as he got the President on the phone this morning.
     "The President's disappeared," the Agent announced flatly as
if waiting for Lane's reaction.
     "What? But, that's impossible... the Secret Service..." Lane
couldn't imagine it.
     "Oh, the Secret Service are there.  It's the President who's
missing," the Agent said dryly. "His wife and children are also
gone."
     "But where is he?  A man that well-guarded can't just vanish
into thin air, you know. Hell, who's running the country?"
     "Actually, the vice president is maintaining the country at
the moment, and from the looks of things, he just may be the new
President," said the Agent.
     "But where the hell is the President?" Lane wanted to know.
     "Disappeared, I told you. According to the television
cameraman, Frank Gifford's image simply fragmented into sections
which disbursed across the television screen and vanished. So, I
figure since you're the mastermind that got him elected, you must
know something about all this."
     Lane watched the snow drift against the window and he
thought about the futility of convincing the hard-nosed agent
that the entire world had been duped by a computer genius. One so
good he'd disproved the old adage.
     He had fooled all of the people.
                              * * *
     A diminutive man with prominent ears sat behind a massive
mahogany desk in his corner office and contemplated the same
snowflakes. It had all been so easy, he thought. A lot like
taking candy from a baby. Nobody had thought he could do anything
of this magnitude, but he'd told them not to bet on it.
     They'd all thought he was a fool - that he was throwing his
money away, but he'd known the ultimate plan needed his
investment of time, effort, money - he'd needed to be believable.
And then, he'd needed someone else to win the victory - take the
office and disappoint the public. Disappoint them enough so that
he could implement some of his plans without exposing himself.
     Hence, the perfect presidential candidate and his perfect
family. The programs - the idea - they were all his. America had
lost nothing when they lost the image on the television screen.
Oh, sure, it might take them a while to figure it out, but they'd
come around. Once they learned it has been his ideas the
computer-generated image had been implementing, they would clamor
for him to assume the office. Short or not, he would be
President. Let Bryant Gumble put that in his pipe and smoke it.
     "Yes sirree," he spoke aloud, a small smile on his lips.
"Here's the deal."
                              END