Dear Mr. President Read online

  When you want to start thinking where do you start?

  I didn’t know the answer.

  My heart jumped up a couple decibels. Still I kept on: riding and pondering my question for as long as I could stand it, but then my brain was suddenly tired from all that thinking, so eventually I figured that until I got my memory back I should keep it simple. The best I could come up with was this: You are a person. You are alive. You are riding a camel.

  So I rode through the desert on a camel with no name.

  I rode for days and days and days, without food and water. I didn’t know where I was going, and hadn’t even given it a thought. The sun, that great ball of fire, came up and went down and came up and went down and came up and went down more times than I could count. I watched my haggard shadow do its mindless dance on the desert floor and I watched the horizon.

  Once a vicious sandstorm came up in a blur and ate my uniform right off my body. I kept my eyes closed the whole time. The storm came and went. I was completely naked. The camel galloped on like it was in a race against time.

  Then one day I looked up and saw ahead of me a palm tree and an oasis of clear blue water. The water shimmered in the heat. My camel had been stumbling throughout the day, and I knew it wasn’t long for this world. I considered throwing the camel over my back and carrying him, but I decided against it. I was so thirsty my tongue felt like a balled-up piece of paper in my mouth. I shook my head, and took another look to make sure this wasn’t a trick my mind was playing on me. At the sight of the water my camel picked up its pace again, with renewed enthusiasm. It broke into a trot. That camel was amazing. It had a heart of gold. I said, “Thata boy. Thata boy,” and my voice came out as a whisper. We were getting closer and closer. I tried to smile, but my lips were exhausted.

  And then the camel stumbled, faltered, and came crashing down facefirst, and I was pitched forward, airborne, right to the bank of the oasis. I scraped my knee in the sand. The camel was lying on the ground, floundering like a newborn colt, trying to get back up. It was elegant. It was tragic. I felt like I was witnessing the secret of the universe in the camel’s effort. Then it let out a tremendous, “Harrrumpppp,” and its soul flew out toward the world beyond.

  I named the camel Applejack.

  I know you’re thinking what’s the point in naming something after it’s dead, and the answer is: Well, I don’t know. But I did it.

  The water was a plate of glass. I don’t think I ever saw anything so beautiful as that oasis. When I slipped into the water, I could feel the weeks of agony and fear wash off me like a bad cologne. I was clean.

  More days passed. This was a time of joy. This was something different than I had ever known. I ate coconuts out of the tree. I didn’t understand what was happening, but when I looked at my reflection in the water, I thought, You could be pretty. I let my hair grow out. I put on lipstick that I made from tree sap. I spent most of my time looking down at my reflection. I built a hut out of palm fronds. I made a two-piece bikini bathing suit.

  Days days and more days.

  Finally I thought, “It doesn’t really matter who I am. People sound like a pretty good idea.” So I set off on foot. I had been walking for centuries. I turned and looked and saw my footprints in the sand as far back as I could see. The entire desert stretched out before me. One day it snowed. Right there in the desert. I know it sounds weird but it did. I was so relieved to be out of the heat that I ran around catching snowflakes on my tongue. I built a snowman named Bert. I shook the snowman’s hand and said, “Hi, Bert,” and Bert’s arm broke off in my grip. Why had Bert’s arm broken off but not mine? I laughed out loud because I was so grateful that I still had two arms. I laughed harder than I have ever laughed. I laughed so hard I almost choked on my beard. It seemed to me that the snowman was laughing too, but then Bert said, “Okay. Here’s the deal. Your name is Lieutenant Dugan. That’s your first clue. People are looking for you. Follow me. I’m going to lead you back to your base.”

  And that is exactly what Bert did.

  Well, it turned out I’d been lost in the desert for six months. And back at Khamis Mushait, I got the POW recovery treatment, which was nice, because I certainly was tired. I slept for three days straight. And it was only afterward, when I woke up and called my wife and she told me that six months before Libby had been killed by a red car, that everything came flooding back into my mind. Because it was then that I remembered how Libby’s ghost had appeared and helped me escape from the compound, and it was only then that I truly understood what happened to me out there, what that thing with my belly button was.

  My dad didn’t want me to die, and so he leapt out of his body and forced me into it, because he wanted me to live. My dad couldn’t bear the guilt. That’s what that thing with the belly button was. He was leaving his body and pushing me into it. That’s how much my dad loved me.

  So this is me, Libby. I am a thirteen-year-old girl living inside an air force captain’s body. It was the only way. I hide my identity from the rest of the people in my life. I conduct myself as an air force pilot and I report for duty at Holloman AFB and take Gracie up for training runs. It’s not so hard to be a captain in the air force, and plus my dad’s body remembers how to do everything, so it’s a cinch. And like I said, when I’m up there in the cockpit it’s like I’m straight out of God’s head, a divine thought inside a divine thought bubble, totally invisible. Sometimes I feel bad for my mom, because she doesn’t know the truth and I can’t tell her. She wouldn’t believe me if I did anyway. It would just cause her unnecessary pain.

  When I got back to Holloman AFB they awarded me a Silver Star and bumped my rank up to captain. Then my first day home, my mom drove me out to the cemetery to visit my grave, or should I say the grave where my old body is buried. I forced a tear out for Mom’s benefit. The plot was nice. There was an oak tree with a crow in it. On my gravestone it said, Libby Dugan, Beloved Daughter, Too Good to Be True. Of course sometimes at night Mom tries to get frisky in bed, but I turn her away. She thinks it’s because I’m sad, and she tries to talk to me about it. She says, “I know what’s bothering you. But we can get past this. Libby’s in heaven now. Life is too beautiful for us to be sad. And we still have each other.” But then recently she’s started getting mad. She’ll start yelling and telling me that the flower inside her is drying up. Well, I always change the subject because it makes me feel funny. Or I’ll roll out of bed and go out to the back porch and smoke a cigarette.

  Smoky Joe was the only one who knew the truth. He followed me everywhere, rubbing on my shins and jumping into my lap whenever he got the chance. I guess he was grateful to me for saving his life. Sure I was glad to see him too, but he was also causing me massive problems. Because Mom would come home and see Smoky Joe lying on my chest, and say, “That’s weird, isn’t it, Jeff? I thought Smoky Joe hated you, Jeff. Since you’ve been home he won’t leave you alone.” Well, I started to suspect that Mom was on to me. She’d give me these funny looks whenever I tied ribbons to Smoky Joe’s tail, or gave him liver treats. Threads were starting to unravel. My story was coming loose. I couldn’t sleep at night, and then I’d look down at the foot of the bed and there would be Smoky Joe, staring at me, purring. So it shouldn’t come as any surprise that one brisk morning I accidentally backed over Smoky Joe in our driveway with my truck.

  Other than that it’s all good, and sometimes when Mom’s still at work I come home early from the base and lock all the doors to the house and close the curtains and take all the phones off the hook. Then I go to the back of the closet, where I keep some things in a trash bag that I don’t want anyone to know about. I tape my penis down between my legs and put on a pair of flowered panties. I put on one of my mom’s dresses and too much lipstick and eyeliner and admire myself in the big mirror in the living room. On special occasions when I imagine that I am going to a royal ball, I put on long white gloves that come up to my elbows. I curtsy, and in my mock elegant voice I say, “A
nd how do you do? You look so lovely tonight, dear. Tea? Yes, please. Well, thank you, you are such a darling.”

  Which is what I was doing today when Mom came home early and walked in on me holding our video camera. When I saw Mom come through the front door, I leapt back out of sight and dove into the closet. I guess she saw me because she rushed over and started banging on the door and said, “I know you’re in there. I know what you’re doing. I’ve known about this for weeks. There’s no need to hide this anymore. I got you on videotape this time. We need to talk.”

  I started getting nervous, with her banging on the door like that. I was trying to figure a way out of this, where nobody’s feelings got hurt, and nobody ended up learning more than he or she needed to know. My mind was on fire. But at least you know I’m not crazy. Dr. Barrett, at least now you know. You make sure you tell this Dr. Hertz as much. You make sure he reads every single word I’ve written. And surely now you can understand the logic of my thesis remark: This world is strange, and to me it is all very sinister and miraculous.

  While I was in the closet I resolved to make a break for it. I was going to bolt out of there and streak over to my truck and zoom away before my mom could see me. But I didn’t know that my mom knew that that was exactly what I would try to do. I didn’t know that my mom had already been in touch with you. I didn’t know that when I burst through the closet door and ran out onto the lawn that there would be MPs with tranquilizer guns waiting for me. I didn’t know.

  Dear Mr. President

  The Honorable George Bush

  President of the United States

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

  Washington, D.C. 20500

  Dear Mr. President,

  I remember it like it was yesterday, sir. Yes, the day we met will always shine bright in my mind, like a beacon as I sail through the stormy waters of my life. I remember the first words that I spoke to you, and I hope that you remember them, too. I was standing in formation, and I said, “Cheddar is better, sir.” (You had found out that I was from Wisconsin and asked me if cheddar was better.) And then I half smiled at you, and you winked, and I knew that we’d made a connection, that you were someone who understood the real me.

  I am sorry. I just want to say I’m sorry for how messy this letter is because I just now had to wipe some bird poop from it with a wet napkin, and as you can see it smeared a little when I wiped it. One second I was rehashing our “cheddar is better” moment, and the next second some bird poop dropped on this letter. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised, given that I’m having to write this letter to you from up here in the tree. All I can say is imagine what this letter would look like if I didn’t have the wet napkin.

  Anyway, there’s not a single person in my family or at my Reserve Unit who doesn’t know of our first meeting, and you can rest assured that I will pass our story on to little Jimmy, Jr., just as soon as he is old enough to understand the significance of it. But just in case First Lady Barbara Bush or your son George W., down in Texas—I saw the 60 Minutes special on you and your family ranch called Western Crusader—haven’t yet heard the story of your friend Lance Corporal James Laverne of the United States Marine Corps Reserve, I’ve enclosed a copy of the picture that was taken of us (it’s paper-clipped to the top left corner of this page). That’s you wearing the gas mask. I’m not wearing mine because, as you know, the corpsman gave us red experimental anti-biological-warfare pills every day so that we didn’t have to wear gas masks. Boy, I took more pills over there than I’ve taken in my entire life. But don’t get me wrong, those red pills could have saved my life if Saddam actually had used biological warfare. If Saddam’s biologically laced Devil Air had ever come and tried to crawl down our mouths and noses and into our lungs, the red pills would have been there to say, “Hey there, Saddam’s biologically laced Devil Air, don’t even think about it. There’s no way you’re getting into this American nose and mouth. Nuh-uh. Don’t you know that America is the greatest country on earth? You might as well go back to where you came from and try to crawl inside the nose and mouth of the Devil himself, Saddam Hussein. Now scram, Devil Air.”

  Do you remember the other things you said to me over there in Saudi? Let me refresh your memory. First off, you arrived on one of those fiery days, so hot your brain could cook inside your helmet, like an egg, and some of us had just buried what was left of a couple of ragtag Iraqi border soldiers we’d killed with a mortar attack. What a mess we found when we arrived at that scene, sir. If only you could have seen it. When we jumped down from the Hummer to inspect the damage, it looked like one of those N.E.A. modern-art projects that you see on the news—just a black hole in the ground filled up with charred wood and smoking body parts and blood and hair and sand, and I have to confess that the sight of it made me consider what a long and strange journey life really is.

  Anyway, that afternoon I was just hanging around on my rack, writing Mrs. Laverne and little Jimmy, Jr., a letter, telling them about the mortar attack, when some Marine suddenly ducked his head in my hooch and said, “The President’s here. Come on, crazies, the President’s here. Fall out in formation, Devil Dogs. Double time. Double time.” I could not believe my ears. I had dreamed of meeting you for so long, sir. I flew out of my hooch with my gear flapping around me and fell into formation so fast it was like my feet had grown wings. I was the first Marine there, that’s how fast. And then, in a heartbeat, the rest of my platoon fell into place, and we all stood proudly as your chopper came down, kicking up all that sand and wind so that we had to squint and cough and spit and, eventually, turn our heads. Do you remember how, the first time your chopper tried to land, it came down right on top of our formation, sir? And how we had to scatter at the last second, so that we must have looked like one of those herds of zebras you see on the nature channel, running away from the lion?

  Then you hopped off the chopper, and Captain Griffies saluted, and the two of you went into his tent. Now, I don’t know what you and Captain Griffies talked about, but it must have been top security because you were in that tent for close to two hours, and of course we all stayed standing at attention, and I think I can speak for all of us, sir, when I say that I had never been more proud to stand at attention, knowing that the President of the United States was hashing out high-priority war strategies not thirty yards away. And when you came out, well, what can I say, that’s when you demonstrated your unbelievable leadership skills. You could easily have hopped back on your chopper and sailed away and nobody would have thought anything of it, but that’s not what a brilliant leader does, is it, sir? No, sir. I’ll tell you what, sir, Sun Tzu could learn a thing or two from you. Because, instead of sailing away, you made your way through the ranks, boosting morale, stopping at each Marine to talk to him, and, boy, did I start to get nervous when you got close to me. My heart was beating so fast. And suddenly there you were, President George Bush, standing right in front of me, Lance Corporal Laverne. In case you were wondering, sir, yes, your voice did sound a little fuzzy, but that’s because you had your mask on the whole time. I mean everybody sounds fuzzy when they have a mask on. But not everybody sounds like Darth Vader. No. And that’s what you sounded like: Darth Vader with a drawl, only in a cool way.

  Anyway, I was standing at attention and you came over and said that thing about cheddar. Then you said, “Relax, son,” and you asked me if I knew why I was over here, and I said, yes, sir, I sure as heck did. I said, “We are over here to defend the citizens of the United States of America.” And you said I was damn right, and then you leaned over and whispered, “You know what I want you to do, Marine? I want you to go into Kuwait and kick Saddam’s butt.” I said, “Yes, sir.” I said it so loud that you jumped back for a second, and your two bodyguards rushed in and stuck their pistols to the back of my head, but, sir, I only said it so loud so that everyone else would know I had just confirmed an order given directly to me by the President of the United States. Maybe I was being
a little too proud in front of the other Marines, but we had just made that special connection, and, besides, guess what? Well, you already know what. We went into Kuwait and kicked some major towelhead ass.

  I know you’re probably busy right now ruling over the Free World, sir, but I just want to give you a few details of that glorious day when we liberated Kuwait—how we rolled out like the cavalry, barreling at top speed through desert lanes that had been swept clear of mines and onto the Main Supply Route for the final approach. Overhead, the Apaches and Cobras were firing missiles at any Iraqi foot soldier or tank or vehicle that made the grave mistake of crossing our path, and there I was, Lance Corporal Laverne, sitting in the high seat of our Hummer, bouncing around as we sailed over the dunes. We were all wearing our War Grimace, with our weapons ready, because who knew what lay ahead, and, off in the distance, we could see the first oil wells burst into billows of fire and black smoke. I felt for a moment as if this were truly World War III, or, more precisely, Hell, and here we were, endowed by God Almighty—Manifest Destiny come back to the Holy Land to cast out the Prince of Darkness himself.

  As we approached Kuwait, we kept getting spot radio reports about a firefight at the airport, and my squad was dispatched to provide support. In our three Hummers, we smashed through the wire fence that surrounded the airport and stormed down the runway, and that’s when we heard another report, this one about a sniper on the roof of the airport, so Private Breeks and I dumped our Hummer and sprinted through the chaos and into the main building. The door to the roof was locked, so I C-4’ed it open, but what we saw when we stepped through the smoke onto the roof took us by surprise, sir. Breeks said, “That’s no sniper. That poor thing’s going to get hurt.” And he was right, because all there was on the gravel roof was a dog, a beagle, with a stick in its mouth. Then just as Breeks darted over to the dog, I remembered those stories about the Vietcong kids who ran up to G.I.s with lit sticks of dynamite in their butts, and I said, “Breeks. No. No, Breeks. But Breeks scooped up the beagle and turned to me with a grin on his face, and I saw that the stick in the beagle’s mouth was just a stick, and I breathed a sigh of relief. And that’s when we heard a clatter, and a grenade bounced across the roof and came to rest against Breeks’s boot. Breeks, still grinning, dropped the dog and was blown straight up into the air. You have to understand that this all happened really fast, sir. In a couple of seconds, really. Breeks’s body twisted in what looked to be a perfect triple gainer, ripped in half at the waist, and landed in pieces on the gravel roof. Private Breeks had been torn in two like a movie ticket.