Drifting in and out of codeine dreams he sees George H. W. Bush going mad.
The President stands at a podium on a stage in front of thousands. The shouts of hecklers rise from the crowd, their words waver in a fierce wind. “Iran-Contra haunts you! Iran-Contra haunts you!” the noisy protesters chant.
Iran, Iran-Contra, The Iran-Contra Affair: one thread of a democracy unraveling.
Bush’s grin widens maniacally, his arms flail wildly, he shoots out his left hand in defiance. “You know, I wish, I wish those draft dodgers out there would go back to, to CANADA where they came from," The Commander in Chief stutters in that Yankee Texan twang of his.
The faithful roar in Pavlovian response.
What is this, he thinks haltingly, Campaign ’68 or just another grotesguery of the mind?
In the middle of the night he senses what must surely be: In his desperation to retain the Presidency, Bush has fallen into frenzy, and he’s taking the country down with him. He lies awake and wonders if others sense this to be true. Although it is a cool night, his bed sheets are damp with sweat.
He turns on the television, to CNN. Lost in a drugged fog, he sees blurred talking heads mouthing disjointed, Felliniesque sound bites: Watch out for that ozone man . . . My dog Millie knows more than those bozos . . . Pundits opine the President has found his stride as he heads into the homestretch.
A plane flies through gray skies trailing a tattered white banner reading GEORGE BUSH, IRAN-CONTRA HAUNTS YOU.
Iran-Contra haunts you once again.
He is awakened by the sound of the early morning newspaper bouncing off of the hollow front door. Unable to escape back into sleep, he eases carefully out of bed.
He hobbles to the hall and looks down the darkened stairway, uncertain whether to descend. Deciding to do so, he stops after each step, trying to control his response to the pain.
He twists open the two deadbolts and the front door’s brass knob. The courtyard is brightly lit. An emergency vehicle’s siren pulses somewhere in the distance. A spent moon shines through an oak.
He folds down onto his hands and knees to pick up the banded paper and crawls halfway outside. He sniffs the barely cool air. He feels a kinship with the animals that prowl through the night when he’s forced to assume their position. He reaches for the paper and withdraws back into his own human shell.
Seeing the date on the masthead of the paper, he realizes he’s lost many days. He looks at the lead headline—BUSH, CLINTON IN VIRTUAL TIE—and shudders involuntarily in response.
It’s not that he’s a fan of the Arkansas Governor’s: Bill Clinton seems too much a part of the Corrupted Wing of the Democratic Party, Federal Government Division. But, unlike the sitting President, Clinton hasn’t had a chance yet to wreak havoc at home and abroad. Cream rises to the top only in dairy products, he thinks. What rises to the top in American politics is something else altogether.
“But who cares what you think?” he asks himself savagely. He feels the words reverberate in the room. He crawls to the couch as another damning consideration dies into a mutter. He climbs onto the couch.
He looks at the plaster swirl marks on the ceiling, searches for patterns, feels the weight of the newspaper on his chest. Must you immerse yourself again in the sordid details of this all-too-animal human planet in the midst of your own going under?
He hears no response. He closes his eyes and sighs—what he wants to do most is stop thinking. He dams welling tears with his knuckles and whispers, “Be still, be still, be still.”
In that moment before sleep, when the body often jolts, a final question shakes him: what has happened to my country, and to me, as a result of “winning” the Cold War?