Oberon's Gift

“Good! How about the singing?”“’Bout the same. I still sing like a bird--a crow!”

  “Sounds familiar. I used to have a similar problem. Maybe when your voice changes?”

  “I sure hope so, Mr. President,” his son replied with a grin. The Chief Executive winked back at him as the boy continued. “Music is my whole life now.”

  “I trust you’re keeping up with your studies. Your last grades were excellent. I’d be happy if you could maintain that.”

  “No sweat, Pop. I like what I’m learning and my tutors in economics and political science are very inspiring. But of course,they do follow your example.”

  Suddenly there was a big splash near the log where George Two’s line lay.

  “Hey, Dad, did you see that one?!” A real whopper!”

  “Yeah!” replied the President with admiration.

  “Dad?” asked the young man as he twitched the line to lure the big trout they’d just seen.

  “Uh huh.”

  “What’s it like being President?”

  “Oh, I donno. I’ve gotten used to it. Come to think of it, it’s kinda fun. Ya get to talk to a lot of interesting people. The kind who make history. And you get to make decisions that effect the lives of millions of people. I’ll admit that can get kinda sticky. I’ve been pretty lucky in that department, however, don’t ya think?” asked the President as he looked down at the boy who sat next to him, on the grassy knoll, under the spreading oak tree.

  “Yes, Mr. President. Yer doin’ a great job, nobody denies that, but then, ya do have congress by the short hairs.”

  “What’s that, Son?” The President stood up, reeled in his line and cast it into another corner of the giant pool.

  “Ya got ‘em by the balls, Dad,” replied the boy quietly.

  “George Two! exclaimed the President in a shocked whisper.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Your language is deplorable.”

  “That’s what Uncle Ivor told me.”

  “I prefer to think of it as friendly persuasion.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it works.”

  The President sat down, glanced at the boy, pulled his hat back and scratched his head. Then he straightened the cap and added,

  “Speaking of...uh...balls, I think it’s about time you and I had a little discussion about the ol’ birds and bees.”

  “Sure, Mr. President,” the boy replied, reeling in his line and zinging it out again the the direction of the giant trout’s lair. “What do ya want to know?”

  “But, I....”

  “Dad,” whispered the boy with a slightly condescending tone. “We had sex education a year ago in the fifth grade.”

  “Oh,” said the President.

  “There’s one thing I figured out by myself, though.”

  “What’s that son?”

  “When a man and a woman get together to do it they'd don’t just do it to have babies. They do it because it’s Fun. At least that’s my theory.’

  “What! Where did you...?! Ha...ha...ha...hooooo hooo...yee hee! The President broke into gales of merry laughter. “Right on, son!” he choked out between guffaws. “Right on!”

  The President rolled on the grassy knoll, holding his sides as he laughed

  “Look out, Dad!” cried George Two.

  The boy grabbed for the Chief Executive, but it was too late. The President rolled right into the pool and took his son along with him. Fortunately the water was shallow where they fell and they stood only knee deep when they regained their balance. They stood laughing and splashing on another. Finally they fell into each others arms and roared with glee.

  The secret service men, hearing the hysterical caterwauling, came running to see the cause and found the father and son laughing and hugging each other. The two were soaked from head to toe. There was some kind of water plant sticking from behind the President’s ear as they heard him say.

  “I just love you, George Two!”

  “I love you, too, Mr. President!”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The President’s passion for languages was well known. He already spoke fluent French and Russian, the languages of his college days. French because it was the traditional diplomatic language and Russian because when dealing with the Russians, it was best to be prepared for anything.

  The Chief Executive was a firm believer in the notion that if you are going to deal with people, it was only polite and sensible to do so in their own language. After all, why should they be expected to struggle with English just because he spoke it? It was a difficult language at best and had been known to contribute to credibility and communication gaps between nations.

  Therefore, the President continued his language studies. He had an unusual way of doing this. His schedule was full except for the noon hour. So, each day he’d invite a visitor to join him for lunch in the Oval office. On Mondays came a Buddhist monk in saffron robes. Tuesdays, a former officer and member of the German embassy staff. Wednesdays brought an Arab prince who was studying at the University. Thursdays he was taught by a sultry senorita, and each Friday a handsome black man lunched with the President as they studied Swahili.

  When he reached a certain stage of fluency in any one language, he would rotate another into his schedule. At the moment a turbaned Indian Sikh was alternating Wednesdays with the Arab prince.

  The Chief’s fertile mind was like a sponge. He had a perfect ear and absorbed language the way most people breathe. Each morning he’d awaken with a phrase for the day.

  “Gutten morgen meine lieber liebechen.” He might say with a stretch and a yawn.

  “Must be Tuesday,” said Lydia. “At least it sounds like German. What does it mean?”

  “Good morning, my lovely Love, “ he’d translate as he gave her a good morning smooch.

  “Wonderful darling,” replied the First Lady as she returned the First Man’s kiss.

  While he shaved, the President conjugated or declined the verb forms for the day. He made great progress and was soon fairly fluent in seven languages, with more on the way. There was one tongue, however, that had him completely stumped. It was totally incomprehensible to him and although he tried diligently to break it down into some semblance of order, he was unable to do so. George Potter refused to give up--nothing had defeated him before. His inability to grasp the subtleties of the language didn’t frustrate him, but it did start thought processes which eventually led to a momentous decision. At last, in a secret evening meeting with his closest advisors, he revealed his dilemma.

  “Gentlemen, I have a problem.”

  “What’s that Mr. President?” asked the Secretary of State, David Woods.

  “I just can’t grasp it--can’t speak it. that damnable balderdash language called--Bureaucratese!”

  The whole table broke into gales of laughter. “No one understands it, Mr. PResident,” roared Grover C. Brown, the Vice President. “That’s the beauty of it. The only thing that’s clear about it is the definition: Bureaucratese is that incomprehensible language that reached it’s height at the Federal level where communications is reduced to numbers!”

  The President hadn’t jointed the laughter, although he did offer a wry smile.

  “Then If I’m not the only one who finds difficulty with it. I have the uncomfortable feeling that such twaddle probably causes a terrible credibility gap between Washington and the public. As you know, I believe in clear lines of communication. Therefore, I propose to do something to eliminate bureaucratese from our midst. Let's lay it away with Sanskrit, ancient Phoenician and other dead languages. The President stood up and paced around and around the table where his advisors sat. They had a time following him, and a couple got kinks in their necks.

  “While we’re on the subject of bureaucratese, I’d like o bring up another sore spot. The organizations that bred this esoteric jargon--the bureaus themselves. Let’s face it, many of them are obsolete, or ineffic
ient or worse. I think it’s time to clean house.”

  “That’s a heavy idea, Mr. President,” offered the Vice President.

  “Time for another fireside chat, George?” broke in Dr. Ivor Gustafson, Secretary of Education.

  “Good idea, Ivy!” replied the Chief Executive.

  ****

  The picture changed from a close-up of the President’s seal to a medium shot of George Potter, seated near a fireplace. He was dressed casually in shirt, slacks and pullover.

  “Hi folks! I’m glad you could join us this evening, “ he began. “Tonight I’d like to take up two subjects that are near and dear to my heart. Language and communications. This time, I’m not speaking about any foreign language, but one that is spoken here in Washington and in scattered pockets across the nation. I refer to Bureaucratese. I realize you have been bombarded by it most of your lives and have found it as puzzling as I have. To illustrate my point, I’m going to give an example. I had to learn this phonetically since there appears to be no rhyme or reason for its construction,”

  Then the President launched into a long tirade of rhetoric and political mumbo jumbo, liberally laced with numbers which supposedly referred to bills, government forms, etc., ad nauseum. Finally he finished and took a deep breath.

  “You see what I mean. Bureaucratese is completely unintelligible. Well, I think that’s wrong. It’s not only the language spoken in many circles in Washington, and even laid on you the listening public, but it is the jargon of billions of pieces of paper work which flow from one often inefficient and obsolete bureau to another.” Around and around it goes and what does it mean? Nobody knows,” rhymed the President.

  “I think it’s time to clear the air and get back to straight talk. Let’s eliminate bureaucratese, and while we’re at it, let’s get rid of the excess baggage of dozens of bureaus which no longer serve any useful purpose.

  “I realize this could put a lot of worthy folks out of jobs. Fear not. We are in the process of expanding new businesses, industries, world trade and such to take up the slack. In the meantime, let’s see what we can do about reducing the size and number of bureaus.

  “Please think about what I’ve said and then write to your Senator and Congressman about it. Thank you very much for being here tonight. So long for now.”

  Once again the viewing public, and they were the great majority, reached for pen and paper or went to their computers and wrote their legislators in Washington. The mail flowed into the capitol in a river, a torrent and then a flood. The legislators trembled, but held their ground.

  The battle lines were drawn, the enemy met, and the strategy planned, as the President of the United states set about conquering the canker of--Bureaucracy

  THIRTY-FIVE

  One dark and stormy night in an ancient,distinguished house on the outskirts of the city, a group of powerful politicians met in a dim library. Surrounded as they were by dusty books, the dusty-crusty old men leaned toward one another in close conversation.

  Then we all agree,” whispered one. “Regicide it is!”

  “He’s not exactly a king!” snorted another.

  “He’s not exactly a god either, but the people live under the delusion he’s a bit of both. That is why he must be eliminated!”

  “Gentlemen, enough of this quibbling. We are launched on a very serious course. One that could be our undoing. I have taken the liberty of inviting a hit-man to be with us tonight.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit premature and dangerous?”

  “I think delay is more dangerous. The President will speak to a joint session of Congress only three weeks from tonight. Two weeks after the National Convention. We must be ready. When he speaks to us and them, the great unwashed, he will outline his plan to cut back our bureaucracy, thereby derailing our big fat gravy train. We must think of our future and those who come after us. Potter is doing radical thing to the government and he must be stopped.”

  “Then I say we must do radical things to him,” said another. “But we must plan carefully. One false move could sink us all.”

  There was a heavy knock at the door and one of the old men motioned for the others to be quiet as he said gruffly:

  “Come in.”

  The door squeaked open and a swarthy man with a scar on his cheek entered the dark, dusty room. The host stepped toward the stranger and led him into the light.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like for you to meet Mr. Gino Giancano.”

  “Hi ya, gents,” said the hit man. He glanced around the table at the octet of conspirators and recognized famous faces of both Congressmen and Senators. Some nodded to him; other seemed to shrink back into the shadows as if they’d rather not be seen by this stranger.

  “Mr. Giancano, we’ve asked you here tonight to advise us on a project and to render us a service,” said the chairman of the conspirators.

  “Yeah, I know dat. Ya wants me to rub out some poor jerk, but ya didn’t say who de lucky party wuz ta be. I’d like ta know dat.”

  “Da...ah...The President of the United States,” announced the chairman.

  The hit man froze where he stood. His face turned white. The scar on his cheek stood out red against the pallor. The assassin's head jerked from one to another of the men seated around the table as he looked In disbelief at each leader for confirmation.

  “Oh, No! Not ol’ George,” moaned the hit man. Youse wouldn’t want me to bump good ol’ George, the greatest guy in da whole woild?!”

  “Yes, Mr. Giancano, I’m afraid Ol’ George is just the man we have in mind.

  “But why? Why’d youse want to kill ’im? He’s one of da only decent Presidents we ever had!”

  The chairman leaned forward. “Mr. Giancano, let’s just say it’s in the national interest to eliminate George Potter.”

  “Lem’me sid’down,” moaned the hit man,sinking into a chair. “Jeeze, I can’t do dat for no fifty G’s. Not for a million. I just couldn’t do dat ta good ol’ George.”

  The shocked assassin held his head in his hands as the chairman looked around at the group at the table. Some of them stared at the hit man, shaking their heads.

  “Then perhaps you could suggest someone else for the...uh...job, Mr. Giancano?” asked the chairman.

  “Ain’t nobody I know’d do it. Most might want to kiss ol’ George, but none of ‘em would want ta give him da kiss of death!”

  “Look--we’ll pay you a hundred thousand!”

  “Sorry gents. I’ll bump off anybody ya say, ‘cept ol’ George.”

  “One hundred-fifty thousand,” volunteered the chairman.

  Some of the others groaned, yet this time there was no reaction from the assassin. He sat crumpled in his chair, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  “Two hundred thousand...and that’s our last offer.”

  The hit man turned and looked sharply at the chairman.

  “Dat’s an awful lott'a money. Me missus is sick and dat money’d come in handy. It’d take care of da brats too, if sumpin’ goes wrong wiff did deal. But...ol’ George!” The hit man groaned again. He threw up his hands and looked toward the cob-webbed ceiling. “Why Me, Lord?! Why me?” he cried.

  “But Mr. Giancano. Just think. This is your opportunity to change the course of history,” soothed the chairman.

  “Wit-out ol’ George dere might not be no hist’ry,” suffered the hit man. “But...but....”

  The chairman could see the assassin was wavering and hit him with a barrage of double talk about what a service he’d be doing for mankind to rid this country of a dictator who ran their lives, etc. The simple mind of the hit man was befuddled by the smokescreen and the offer of so much money for one hit.

  “You’d haf’ta pay me a hundred thou’ before da job and....”

  “Den...ah...harumph...Then do you want us to sign a contract, Mr. Giancano?” asked one of the conspirators.

  The hit man smiled sad
ly at the man’s ignorance. “Naw man. Puttin’ out a contract on somebody’s only a figure a’ speech. Jist gimme yer marker on it--dat yous’ll pay da balance in one easy one hundred smakola installment to me--or m’ missus, should da Fed’s ketch me.”

  “Then it’s a deal, Mr. Giancano?” asked the chairman, extending his hand.

  “Yeah, goddamit...poor ol’ George,” sighed the dejected assassin. “It’s a deal.”

  The committee released a sigh of relief as the chairman shook hands with the hit man.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The cheering, stomping pandemonium in the mammoth convention hall continued for what seem an eternity. George Potter’s name had just been unanimously tossed into the party’s ring as their candidate for reelection. No one was surprised; no one expected anything different. Fact is, the whole convention had been merely a token gesture; part of a tradition that no one wanted to break. Though the President planned to eventually make some changes in the laws governing conventions and delegates, he just hadn’t gotten around to them. Even now he was basking in the glorious worship that came from the convention. floor.

  George Potter stood with his First Lady, Lydia, on the high platform, waving and smiling at the exultant crowd of delegates below. Balloons were still descending from the huge nets in the rafters and the sound of their popping was lost in the uproar. Signs and banners proclaiming POTTER FOR PRESIDENT were waving and moving in small serpentine parades through the crowd.

  George and Lydia, their faces moist from the heat, were having just a bit of difficulty. Their arms were about to fall off from waving and their mouths were tired of smiling, but this was all part of the show, and the show must go on!

  Suddenly George looked around at the TV cameras and seeing they were pointed elsewhere for the moment; reached down behind Lydia and gave her a firm pinch on her shapely rump. She jumped slightly, but was used to her husband’s little quirks and quickly regained her composure. There was no one behind them, and though many were looking at them, they saw only the smiling faces, the waving arms. Lydia knew something they didn’t know. Their beloved President, the tried-and-true, perfect-and-pure, charming-and-brilliant was just a little bit wicked.