The Man Upstairs


Time and Space break down as I go deeper into the trance, leaving my body behind and moving into dreamtime with aboriginal dexterity. The only navigation is intention, and with it I move to Washington, and the White House, finding myself in the Yellow Oval room, where Dick Cheney is laying on the floor, speaking into a heating vent, disguising his voice to sound like Charlton Heston's. "George," he says, "this is God."

I try to recall what is below this room, and a flash of blue appears behind my eyes. "Must be the Blue Room," I think, and quick as a wink I am downstairs in the formal reception area, where the President is dressed in a pair of designer pajamas, made from a cotton flannel print featuring Oreo cookies on a blue background. He is barefoot and wide-eyed as he cautiously looks upward. "I'm here, Lord," he whispers.

He glances around the room to make sure the Secret Service men have remained outside, as instructed. His face is radiant beneath his mop of tousled hair. He is rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A clock is striking midnight. "I'm here, Lord," he says more loudly.

"Did you do as I instructed?"

The President smirks involuntarily and looks around again to make sure nobody is watching. It feels eerie when he looks directly at me and for a moment I wonder if my energy is visible, but then I realize he is looking right through me, at a nude painting of Dolly Madison.

It is a little known fact that the conventional art in the Blue Room is replaced after the last public tours with erotica, one of the Clinton innovations retained by Mr. Bush.

"Yes I did," Mr. Bush says shyly.

"Well. Show me."

I realize the heating vent is near the picture of Dolly, who sprawls suggestively over a French provincial sofa, and that there is something odd about her left eye. The moment I wonder what is out of place about it, besides the heavy makeup, I find myself behind it, looking through the lens of a tiny spy camera.

"That Cheney is a sneaky bastard," I think, as I watch George slowly unbutton the pajama top to reveal the shimmering gold rings through the piercings in his nipples.

"Laura does not like this at all," he says. "She flat refused to do it, so I had to ask Wolfowitz."

"Why Wolfowitz?"

"Well, if he tells, then I'll tell what he's got tattooed on his ass."

"What's that?"

"You don't know? I thought you knew everything."

"Of course I know, I'm just testing you."

A look of panic comes over George's face. "A test?" He involuntarily glances at his palm, realizes nothing is written there, and squints with exaggerated concentration. "It says, 'If you can read this, you're too close.'"

Muffled laughter comes through the vent. "Why did you want to talk to me?" the disembodied voice asks. "And by the way, aren't you forgetting something?"

George drops to his knees onto a rug woven with a scene from the rape of the Sabine women . "You remember when you told me the Iraqis were gonna scatter flowers in our path, that all we had to do was chop off the head and replace it with Bremer? Well, they're scattering explosives in our path, and Bremer can't find his ass with both hands."

"Beware! I let it go the first time but don't try my patience."

"I mean he can't find his hiney with both hands."

"That's better. Oh ye of so little faith, did I not tell you that the road would be long and the trials many, that you would be hated by the liberals for your fortitude? Never waver from the course and nothing can stop you."

"What if I don't get reelected?"

"Hey, just keep hitting Kerry as soft on defense."

"But he's a war hero and the only fighting I ever did was when I was drunk at football games."

"Just keep saying it over and over, like you did with weapons of mass destruction and that there's a connection between Iraq and nine eleven."

George glances back toward the door where a Secret Service has opened it to glance inside. "Everything okay here, Mr. President."

"Get your ass out of here, I'm praying." The muscular black man nods curtly and starts to close the door.

"Henry?"

He pauses. "Yes Mr. President?"

"Why don't you ask Condoleezza out? She's getting snappy with me."

"Sheeeit," the man says, cupping his balls protectively in his right hand and closing the door softly.

The President turns his attention back to the direction of the voice. "Lord, are you still there?"

"Through eternity, my son."

George smiles with childlike pleasure. "Sometimes the path is hard," he says. "I mean, we're killing the people we were supposed to be setting free."

"I told you, those are foreign agitators and remnants of the old regime."

"You're sure, Lord?"

"What did you say?" The voice is ominous.

"Of course you're sure." He grins and runs a hand through his hair. "Karl says I have nicer hair than Kerry."

"Yea? So what."

"I just wanted to thank you."

"Sure. No problem. Now, what do we have to do?"

"Be Right, no matter what happens."

"Very good. Now, show me the other ring ..."

Posted: Wed - April 21, 2004 at 01:48 PM