Dear Mr. President Read online

  Cross-Dresser

  THE WRITTEN TESTIMONY

  OF CAPTAIN JEFFREY DUGAN,

  418 TH SQUADRON, BANDIT #573

  My name is Captain Dugan and at the request/demand of Dr. Barrett, I am writing all this down. She says that only if I write all this down will she be able to make a strong case for me to her superior, Dr. Hertz. I have never actually seen this Dr. Hertz, and so I have to take Dr. Barrett at her word that this Dr. Hertz even exists. Otherwise, Dr. Barrett says, if I do not write down my side of it, then legally they will have no choice but to keep me here at the neuropsych ward at Holloman AFB, because she said that a sane man has nothing to hide, whereas a crazy man is full of secrets. To which I said, “Well, I’m sure as hell not crazy.” That’s when she pushed this pencil and paper across the table and said, “So prove it.”

  If I am to do myself justice, then I suppose I should start with a thesis remark, and so here it goes: This world is strange, and to me it is all very sinister and miraculous. If you don’t agree with me now, perhaps you will agree with me by the time you are done reading this. Before I begin it’s important to me that I establish credibility, which means I want to say that I’m not nearly as dumb as I look, because the truth is that how I look is not who I really am (and I’m just not saying this because I’m short either). Probably other people have this secret too, that how they look is not who they really are, though sometimes I forget about this until I look in the mirror and think, “Oh God, not him again. There must be some mistake.” But then think, “Okay, what the hell, might as well: I mean it’s not like I have a choice or anything.”

  Then I get in my F-117A Stealth Fighter, which I call Gracie, and fly up into the sky and kill people. Or at least I have, in the Persian Gulf, for which I was awarded the Silver Star, and I’m sure I’ll have to kill some more people when I get out of here. This is what I do for a living, and I try to have fun with it, since it’s my job. I zoom around the earth in a sleek, black weapon of mass destruction, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s a serious rush to be in the cockpit, because when I’m up there in the sky it’s like I’m straight out of God’s head, a divine thought inside a divine thought bubble, totally invisible.

  Except that day when I got my ass shot out of the sky in Iraq and crashed Gracie in the desert. Right in the middle of a ramshackle military compound where I was taken as a POW and sadistically tortured by a one-eared man named The Mule. I didn’t feel so invisible then.

  Here is where I should mention my curse. This will explain some things. I was born with a gift. Or a curse depending on how you look at it. It’s my dreams. My dreams let me see into the future. I know it sounds bizarre, but as proof to support this claim I’ll tell you that three nights ago I had a dream in which I saw myself wearing a dark blue dress and red high heels (just like I am now) and sitting in a padded room with one arm handcuffed to a chair (just like I am now), writing a document that started, “My name is Captain Dugan and at the request/demand of Dr. Barrett, I am writing all this down.” I should also probably mention that that dream had a happy ending because in that dream Dr. Barrett read over my statement proclaiming that I was innocent (which is the same thing I shouted when I felt the MP’s tranquilizer dart stick in my hip) and then in the dream Dr. Barrett let me return to active duty (just like you will after you read this) after concluding that if anything I was merely compassionate to a fault, completely sane, and that I am a victim of my wife’s vindictive, ridiculous accusation that I am some sort of sicko transvestite pervert.

  The mission was supposed to be simple. A routine sortie, clear skies, fly low and blow up some oil refineries south of Nukhayb, and then get the hell out of there. I was sitting around with Captain Jibs and Colonel Cowry under the tent, this was in Khamis Mushait, trying to stay out of the heat, sipping on a cold one when I got the word. I remember downing my beer and standing up in the same motion, and then slamming the bottle on the table and looking at Jibs and Cowry with a grin and saying, “Back in a jiff, boys. Desert Storm calls.” Then I hopped in Gracie and hit the wide Arabian sky. Well, when I came up on the oil refinery below me, I saw three Iraqi soldiers jumping up and down on barrels, waving white flags attached to sticks.

  I let them have it. I swooped down and dropped a GBU-10 bomb, and my stomach was lit up with that smoky, mystical sensation you get when you kill something, which is virtually indescribable, though I can say for sure that it’s the only time I can feel God really watching me: it’s a good way to make Him sit up and take notice. And so there I was, basking in God’s gaze, the wreckage smoking below me, when that son-of-a-bitch Iraqi fighter dropped in out of nowhere and tried to kill me, shooting my tail wing to tatters.

  Gracie skittered forward among the clouds like a bumper car. I was dazed. I smelled smoke. The Emergency Gear Extension handle was stuck. Then I tried to duck and roll, but Gracie was shimmying all over the place and I was in a spin, streaking toward the earth like a comet, and I watched in horror on the Multi-Function Display as the desert’s giant yellow jaws rose up and then opened wide and swallowed me whole.

  When I came to I was strapped in a chair with a lightbulb hanging over my head. There were cracks of sunlight coming through the bamboo walls. After blinking a few times I saw that I was in a small hut with three Iraqi soldiers. This was the place I would come to call The Shack. The soldiers were smoking and laughing about something, and one of them had his hands up in front of him, squeezing the air, like there were breasts. Then the one squeezing the air heard me moan and after glancing in my direction put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud through the tiny barred window in the door. The door swung open and a small man with one ear walked directly up to me and cracked my jaw with a bully stick. My jaw was instantly dislocated, and I toppled over with the chair to the floor. Through the scream trapped in my head I heard the men laugh, and then the one-eared man said, “Hello. My name is The Mule. I have some questions for you. You will answer, no?”

  I gasped for air. It felt like my mouth had been knocked up into my forehead. I tried to say something, and the top of my head opened up. I slowly squirmed forward a few feet, knees and elbows, dimly aware that the soldiers were watching my progress with detachment, and I heard one of them chuckle and mutter, “Americana.” Finally I pushed my jaw hard up against a wall and then clink, with the sound of a camera shutter, my jaw popped back into place, and the relief flooded up my spine in waves of ecstasy. The relief never really went away after that. So that two hours later when The Mule struck me across the jaw for what seemed like the hundredth time I was almost, but not quite, grateful.

  Instead I spit out some teeth.

  From there on out it’s mostly a blur. Because of the pain, I only remember images and flashes, smells, and, finally, the taste of blood in my mouth. The Mule wanted me to make a propaganda videotape.

  The Mule said, “If you ever want to see your family again.”

  The Mule said, “This is not too much to ask. You will be a movie star.”

  The Mule said, “I am losing my patience, Lieutenant Dugan.”

  The Mule said, “That looks like it hurts, Lieutenant Dugan.”

  I didn’t say anything. I kept my mouth shut, but not because I was feeling patriotic, because to tell the truth I couldn’t care less about my country at that moment, but because I was sure that if I did it, make the videotape, then they wouldn’t have any more use for me and they would kill me.

  The Mule whipped out this handheld electric drill. I had my focus back. He revved the trigger a few times and the drill made a squealing sound. Then he walked over to me and placed the drill to the back of my head. “Perhaps now you make the video?”

  I gave him a look. I said, “Please don’t do this.”

  The Mule smiled. “Have it your way, Lieutenant Dugan.”

  “Please,” I said. “No.”

  Then I felt the bit of the drill push hard against my skull. It was very quiet, and I could see everything,
even though I had my eyes closed. All the hairs in The Mule’s nose. The three soldiers who were now standing outside The Shack. One of them was thrusting his hips back and forth like he was having sex. The other two were laughing. A vulture flew by overhead. Then I saw The Mule’s index finger slowly push down on the orange plastic trigger of the drill, and the roar of the drill’s motor was deafening, and I felt the bit push in and break the skin around my skull.

  As you can imagine, this thing with my dreams hasn’t always been easy. I’ve never told anyone about it, not my wife, Mrs. Dugan, and certainly not my daughter Libby, when she was alive, may she rest in peace. And of course I don’t always like what I see (the future is not always pleasant), but by far the worst part is the guilt. Which is to say I always end up feeling like these things happened because I dreamt them first, like the time my next-door neighbor Mr. Gordon’s Tricksy turned on him and bit his thumb off. Now it’s true I have never liked this Mr. Gordon, given the fact that he got drunk at a neighborhood barbecue last year and grabbed my wife’s right breast in front of everyone and said, “Knock knock,” and then she, albeit drunk, smiled in a coy way, and said, “Who’s there,” which was of course completely humiliating for me, but that’s really beside the point, because it’s not like I wished Mr. Gordon would get his thumb bit off. But I dreamt it. And then it happened, and so you tell me, how can I not feel a little bit responsible?

  All total The Mule put six quarter-inch holes in the back of my head. I was barely conscious. When it was all over, I remember looking up in a steamy haze as The Mule smiled and said, “You are a very stubborn man, Lieutenant Dugan.” I was vaguely aware of his putting my ankles in shackles, which were clamped to a stake in the middle of the floor. Then The Mule said, “Perhaps you will die. Perhaps not. But if not, you will be hungry. And maybe when you’re hungry, well maybe then you will make the videotape. Good-bye for now, Lieutenant Dugan,” and then he slipped out the door.

  After that things went downhill fast. I was alone with my madness. You’ve heard it all a hundred times before. The whole POW story. I went to hell and back in my mind. I gave up hope. My soul was a pink worm stuck through its belly with a hook, and I waited for the Angel of Death to come swimming up out of the darkness and swallow it whole.

  That was the first day.

  The second day was worse. The second day I started hearing my thirteen-year-old daughter Libby’s voice. I knew it was an illusion, but still. I was sitting with my back against the wall, and there were flies buzzing around my head. I heard Libby’s voice say, “Lieutenant Jeff Dugan, this is your daughter speaking. Get a hold of yourself. Snap out of it. Yes, it’s true, things don’t look good, but I’m here to help. You are a Lieutenant in the United States Air Force, and this is war, so keep your wits about you. A little cunning can carry you through.”

  I realized Libby’s voice wasn’t inside my head. I looked up and there standing with her back to the door was Libby. Or at least some sort of wavy version of her. She was surrounded by a white, wavy energy. She was well dressed, with fine leather loafers, off-white hose, and a green cashmere turtleneck. Her nose was, as always, small.

  I couldn’t believe the stupid tricks my mind was playing on me. “You’re kidding, right?” I said. “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “No, Daddy. It’s me. Libby.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “All right then,” I said. “Why are you all wavy?”

  “Because,” she said, and then she told me everything. She said she was dead. She told me about how her Siamese cat, Smoky Joe, had run out in front of a red car and how she had saved Smoky Joe, but was hit and killed in the process. When she was through, I spoke up.

  “This is ridiculous. How I am supposed to believe something like that?” I started beating my head with my fist. “Hello? Hello? I know you’re in there, brain. I know you’re behind this. I expected more from you. Stop it now.”

  I could tell by the look on Libby’s face that she wasn’t interested in my cynicism. Her brow was wrinkled, and she was chewing on her bottom lip.

  “Look. You aren’t real. This is a trick, it’s the stress. Please go away. I can’t take this.”

  “Come on. I’m here to help, Daddy,” she said. “We’ve got to get you out of here. Mommy can’t lose both of us.”

  I could feel my temper start to rise. “Yeah, right. Listen, you, whatever the hell you are. You’re starting to piss me off.”

  “Shhhhh. Now that’s enough. We don’t have time. I have to go now, but I’ll be back tomorrow to help you escape,” and with that Libby turned and stepped into the wall and passed through it out of sight.

  The next morning I woke to someone kicking me in the shins. “Wake up. What are you doing? Sleeping in?” I looked and saw Libby. She was all business. “Okay,” she said. “I’ve been spying in and listening to what they have been saying. Things are getting nuts up there. I think they’re planning some sort of attack. The leader seems like a real jerk. You don’t want to cross this guy, trust me.”

  “Ooooh, I’m scared,” I said. I pointed to my head. “I’ve got six holes drilled into my head, and now I’ve got some wavy figment of my imagination telling me I’m in trouble. Give me a break. What can you tell me about trouble that I don’t already know?”

  “Daddy, they’re going to hang you in the courtyard today. Now. You and some other pilot they captured. They want to make an example of you two, to boost morale before the attack,” she said.

  “I told you. You’re not real.” I put my hands over my eyes. “I can’t see you.”

  She kept on. “Okay. So here’s what you’re going to do. They’re coming to get you any minute now. We need to move fast. I’m going to let you out of those shackles. You bend down and act like you’re hurt. Then grab the guard’s pistol and hit him over the head with it.” I suddenly froze. Because it was true, I could hear the guard rustling his keys on the other side of the door. My mouth went dry.

  Two seconds later the guard came in and I was lying on the floor, doubled over, pretending to be in pain. “Oh my God, oh my God,” I cried.

  There was also the time when I was nine. This dream was much fuzzier than the rest, but when I woke in the dead of night I was sweating, and though I couldn’t remember what happened, I knew my mom was in danger. And then the next night, right before dinner, I watched as my mother cut a carrot on the cutting board, and wasn’t at all surprised when she looked up to tell me to set the table and sliced off her index finger. On the way to the hospital in the ambulance I kept saying, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  But the most disturbing dream of all happened two weeks before I had to ship out to Saudi to fight in the Gulf War. This is extremely difficult for me to talk about even now. The dream was swift and simple. I saw my thirteen-year-old daughter Libby run out in the street and get hit and killed by a red car when she tried to shoo her Siamese cat, Smoky Joe, out of the way. Smoky Joe lived. Smoky Joe is short for Smoky Joe the Best Kitty Cat in the World.

  And so now you understand. Because each of these events— the thing with Mr. Gordon, the thing with my mom, the thing with Libby—have one thing in common. Each of these things happened in my dream before they happened in reality.

  When I burst through the front door of The Shack, the sunlight almost split my eyes open, but then my pupils shrank and I bounded off toward Gracie. To my horror, as I ran over to Gracie, I spotted Captain Jibs hanging by his neck from a rope in the center of the courtyard. A group of soldiers was standing around with their backs to me, jeering at Jibs, throwing rocks at him and spitting on him. When I reached Gracie, I checked behind the seat and all my gear was still there, untouched. I threw on my flak jacket. While I was rifling through my pack I heard a shout and looked up, and there in the doorway of The Shack was the guard rubbing the back of his head. He shouted something in Arabic and pointed at me. The mob around Jibs turned and looked in my direction. There was a moment of silence, and then when they saw m
e they started screaming and shouting and running.

  A siren went off. Dogs started barking.

  I took the guard’s Beretta 9mm pistol and leapt out of Gracie and ran straight at a parked M60 tank, shooting rounds off left and right, and two men dropped. I ran up the side of the tank and off of it, doing a forward flip, with bullets flying everywhere. I saw a wounded man on the ground reaching for something in his belt. Shot him.

  I leapt with my legs wide open and landed on a camel, and said, “Huyaaa,” and I rode that camel fast and hard into the middle of the windstorm of bullets and the swarm of Iraqi soldiers. The Mule appeared directly in my path, and the camel skidded to a halt. The Mule said, “This was very stupid, Lieutenant Dugan,” and then lobbed a frag grenade. The grenade was in midair when I ripped off my flak jacket and held it in front of the camel’s face. The grenade went off and all the shrapnel bounced off my flak jacket. I think that’s when the camel knew that I was a compassionate animal. I said, “Little help,” and the camel rushed forward and head-butted The Mule.

  Looking down at The Mule on the ground in that instant, I felt the strangest sensation in my belly button. It felt like my belly button was wiggling around. It was a widening sensation. When I reached down to touch my belly button, I felt a hole in my stomach the size of a silver dollar. My index finger disappeared in the hole, but there was no blood. Just this hole. And then I passed out.

  When I came to the camel was galloping over the desert. That was the sound I woke to, the steady bric-a-brac of the camel’s hooves on the desert floor. My chest kept bouncing against the camel’s hump. The sun was just starting to come up, a bloodred squirting over the horizon, as if someone had stuck the sun in a juicer, and I could see the faint silver sliver image of the moon on the other side of the sky. When I looked behind me, the Iraqi camp was a pinpoint on the horizon. “Thank God,” I said. “I almost ate it on that one.” But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I had no idea who I was, and I started to panic. I couldn’t even remember why I was out here in the desert. I asked myself a question.