The Week Before Evanston: Short Fiction

By Susan Knier

The character-driven short fiction and poetry of Susan Knier are on full display in her fifth collection, “The Week Before Evanston.” In these pages, you will meet a U.S. president hilariously in touch with his inner child, a woman who fabricates her history in a desperate bid to win friends, a grandfather harboring a life-altering secret and many memorable others. These stories speak to the core of human motivation: Why do we behave as we do, especially if the results are unpredictable, disappointing or perhaps dangerous?
The engaged, open-minded reader will find much to ponder in the author’s dream accounts. These pieces crisscross genres and sometimes defy categorization. Dystopian scenarios, humor and social commentary stand next to encounters with rogue creatures and even a classic nightmare or two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781663259561

Susan Knier

Susan Knier lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her husband. She is a medical speech-language pathologist and the author of four previous collections of short fiction.

Book preview

Copyright © 2024 Susan Knier.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5955-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5956-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023924719

iUniverse rev. date: 12/29/2023

CONTENTS

Short Fiction

Billy

Missing Myself

The Seamstress

Free

Fallen

Behind The Substation

Living On

Keeping Time

Empty Hands

The January Widow

Catalog Order

The Chimney Oracle

Undertow

Obeisance

The Destiny Portal

Afternoon In Key West

The Empty Nest

All I Know

A Letter From Baby Q

Schizophrenic At A Wedding

The Why

Eidetic

Volume Control

Mrs. Turnbull

Field Trip

Boyfriend

Grandpa

The Two Faces

The Lost Soldier

The Teething Week

The Church Of The New Unification

Scattered

Gallery Night

The Week Before Evanston

Poetry

The Good

Ode To Detroit: Paris Again

The Reason For Winter

Leaving The Real: A Caveat

Curiosity And Fear

A Meditation On Learning

In Sleep

71 Years After The Final Piano Lesson…

Strawberry Garnish

The Battle Of Gravity

Solemn And Wonderful

Insular

The Deafening Crescendo Of An Echo

Prayer For A Curmudgeon

Unfinished Work

Dream Corridor

Disappointment

Quiet Courage

Old Snow: The Reprieve

On The Nature Of Peace

Apocrypha In A Haystack

Hard Life?

American Grit

Final Draft

The Lifetime

Slow Spring

Embodiment

Celebrity In A Nutshell

Through The Decades: From Dayglo To Incommunicado

The Infinity Of Lists

Two Minutes Before The End Of The World…

The Fondness Of Afar

Chalk Dust

The Book That Fell Into The Sea

July 20, Outside The Substation

Finding The Zebra

On Your Day Of Surrender

Island Of Ideas

A Meditation On Choices

Solitary Life And Times

The Might

A Land Beyond Time

Thoughts On Parting

The Loneliness Of Guilt

Weekend Acquaintance Or Soulmate?

Whole Life Soundtrack

Observations On Late Summer And The Eventual Return

Fading

Inhumanity

Temporary Life

The Flight Of Your Life

Pared-Down

Questions On The Human Condition

Witnessing Walls

The Finish Line

The New Normal: A Sorrowful 21St Century Update

A Reality Check, Courtesy Of Shakespeare

Almost Gone

Humility Insurance

The Borrowed City

Dream Accounts

Author’s Note

Distressed

Coffee Wars

Dark Outbursts And Unusual Coins

A Rainy Afternoon On The West End

The Landing

Rite Of Passage

Not To You

The Addition

Making A (Plateau) Point

Winding Rivers

Potato Chip Nation

The Deal

Deer On The Beach

Nolan: The Performance

Rogue Karaoke

Mosquitoes Of The Vanity

Made For Mischief

She Could, She Might

Scooby-Doo: What’s Wrong With You?

The Revamped Reading

The $5,000 Scam

Noshing

Supermarket Pickleball

The Firestorm

The Talent(Less) Show

What’s In The Bag?

Touche, Madam Conductor

Coffee Shop

Creative Symposium Of America: The Gaffe

Terror In The Parish Parking Lot

Perfect Application

Cue Up The People!

The Subscriber

Don’t Disturb The Wildlife

The Wedding Tribute

Exam Day

Her Pathetic Little Joke

The Bereavement Day Trippers

Puffin Stuff

Just Another Day At The Office

Westward Ho

Darts In The Darkness

The Rough Spot: Part I

The Rough Spot: Part II

The Dove Whisperers

To Mickie

and Sid

Two hearts of gold

SHORT FICTION

BILLY

A s I sat in the anteroom with the receptionist busily clicking away on her keyboard, I considered the shocking whirlwind my life had become since my recent hire. I had gone from a semi-recognizable New Yorker to a national figure in one sweep of the pen. I hugged my notepad to my chest, praying that I would do my new position justice and not be an infamous embarrassment.

The receptionist stood to signal the end of my reverie. Ms. Adams? The President will see you now. Please follow me.

48706.png

I wanted to pinch myself at the surreal feeling of my first arrival in the Oval Office. My surroundings looked much like a movie set or a museum diorama rather than the real thing.

President William Thackeray Barnes placed the phone back on its cradle as I approached in a shy shuffle-step. I couldn’t help but wonder who had been on the other end. A senator? The Vice President? The King of England? The First Lady? His eyes focused on me. Good afternoon, Ms. Adams. Please have a seat. He gestured to an ornately upholstered wingback chair placed squarely before the seat of power that was his massive desk.

I nodded shakily and returned the greeting. I smoothed my skirt and sat. I realized I was still hugging my notepad like a life raft. I willed myself to relax.

The President of the United States sat with textbook perfect posture, hands folded primly before him on the desktop. He wore a powder blue suit with a white shirt and matching pocket square. President Barnes was still boyish in his facial features at age forty-five, his honey-brown hair combed back in curly waves, his blue eyes sharply focused and his skin tanned from his dual passions of golf and sailing. He nodded slowly at me and then reached for a packet of paper in a wire in-basket to his side that I immediately recognized as my curriculum vitae.

President Barnes cleared his throat. Victoria Adams. Bachelor of Arts from Vassar. Graduated Summa Cum Laude.

I nodded as his eyes remained on my CV.

The President gave me a taut but pleased smile as he pronounced the word Vassar. Then a Master’s Degree in Data Journalism from Columbia University.

Yes, Mr. President.

Followed by a year in the Peace Corps before returning to your native New York as a news writer for WCBS radio. You then made the jump to WCBS TV as weekend anchor and finally as nightly anchor. In your spare time, you’ve published two collections of political essays.

Yes, Mr. President. I lowered the notepad to sit across my knees.

The President met my eyes. You are very accomplished in all media for your age. This is an excellent pedigree.

Thank you, Mr. President.

President William Thackeray Barnes returned to clasping his hands neatly in front of him. On paper, you seem an excellent choice for White House Press Secretary.

I appreciate that, sir.

Ms. Adams, when you take the podium at a press briefing, you represent the entire White House – the administration and the historical institution.

Yes, Mr. President.

He narrowed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. You represent me out there.

Yes, sir.

It’s a grave responsibility, Ms. Adams.

I agree and acknowledge that, sir.

Make no mistake. Your position is an extremely important and strategic one, but also an infinitely difficult one.

I swallowed. I could feel my throat constricting and perspiration forming on my brow. Had I made a mistake in accepting this appointment? Was I in over my head?

President Barnes seemed to read my thoughts as he continued. The press will try to bait you and bully you at times. But you will rise above it and uphold the dignity of this administration in all of your interactions with them.

I nodded. As a fellow journalist, I thoroughly understood.

In past administrations, the position of White House Press Secretary became an object of ridicule because of capitulation to the sometimes rude, partisan machinations of the press…in other words, taking their bait…

Sir, I promise to maintain calm professionalism at all times. I will give 100% to be transparent, to uphold the dignity of this office and to be your truthful representative, I replied as a frog interrupted my voice.

Transparency delivered with respect, Ms. Adams. Good. We understand one another then?

Yes, Mr. President. All is crystal clear.

Ms. Adams, my goal is to know my press secretary as well as members of the immediate cabinet. To that end, we will be having a regular meeting for twenty minutes on a weekly basis. Of course, my phone is also always open to you.

I appreciate that, sir.

Gwendolyn Banks will arrange our meetings. Look for them on your Outlook calendar.

In shaky hand, I made a note of this, jotting the receptionist’s name, frequency and duration of the meetings.

Now, then. Do you have any questions, Ms. Adams?

Not at the moment, Mr. President, I said in an embarrassingly childlike, quavering voice.

Remember, composure and dignity at all times out there. Do not become ringmaster of a circus.

Yes, sir. I nodded like a bobblehead doll.

The president regarded me silently as he sat back in his chair. A grave responsibility, indeed, he murmured as he dialed the receptionist on the intercom to see me out.

So concluded my first meeting with President William Thackeray Barnes. His palm was cool and dry in mine as we shook hands in parting. As I exited the Oval Office on trembling legs, I felt already overwhelmed in my new role. I was also startled at the president’s icy and almost stern formality. Perhaps this was his way of onboarding. Or was it a patrician form of a pep talk? Expectations were certainly clear enough, but were they attainable? I had no choice but to find out.

49163.png

I had just come from my first official press briefing as Gwendolyn Banks, the president’s receptionist, ushered me into the Oval Office for my weekly meeting with President Barnes.

As I approached the desk, he appeared to be signing a stack of documents. I hovered in polite silence as his pen scratched efficiently along the signature lines.

The president looked up at me calmly. Please have a seat, Ms. Adams, he directed.

I again anxiously hugged my notepad to my chest. My inaugural press briefing had gone surreally smoothly. I quickly overcame my nervousness with adept, articulate responses to the rapid-fire but non-controversial questions from the press corps. I believed they were as curious about me as I was about them. Decorum was maintained on their end and transparency on mine. However, I was under no illusions that this was the honeymoon period, both for my tenure as White House Press Secretary and for the Barnes administration itself. I felt energized and ready to speak to any details of the initial briefing.

The president completed his paperwork and leaned back in his chair. He smiled at me and then stretched contentedly. What’s Michelle Obama’s favorite vegetable? he asked.

I gulped. To say I was taken off guard was the ultimate understatement. Excuse me, Mr. President? I managed. Was this some sort of a test?

You heard me. What’s Michelle Obama’s favorite vegetable?

I pursed my lips. I have no idea, sir.

It’s Barack-oli! crowed the president.

I froze. Did the President of the United States just tell me a dad joke? I laughed in a way that sounded more like a gasp as the president snickered to the point of reddening his cheeks.

Pretty good, huh? he grinned as he recovered from his fit of snickering.

Yes, sir. It shows quite the pun sense of humor.

The president ran his hand lazily through his hair. You can drop the ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. President’ when we meet in here, okay?

I was once again floored. Uh…okay, sir, if you say so…

Just call me Billy, okay?

Billy? I blinked in disbelief. I was dumbfounded. Who was this character behind the ornate Oval Office desk? Clearly this was an impostor!

Yeah, call me Billy. I insist. Now what should I call you?

Um…well, you may call me Vicki, I suppose.

Vicki, you suppose? The president’s eyes were twinkling like little blue stars.

Yes, Vicki is okay.

All right, Vicki. The president again leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands idly in back of his head. You know what I really hate being called in the press?

I shook my head in the shock of disbelief.

’POTUS.’ I think it’s one of the worst acronyms ever! I hate the sound and looks of it. ‘POTUS’ sounds like a cheap brand of toilet paper, doesn’t it? Or maybe some kind of laxative?

My eyes widened. First a dad joke, now borderline bathroom humor! If you say so, sir.

Billy.

Right. Billy.

Hey, Vicki, what was the most embarrassing moment of your childhood?

Excuse me, Mr. Pres- Billy?

You heard me. Okay, I’ll go first, Vicki. I was in the fifth grade eating lunch in the school cafeteria. I was a hot lunch kid. I got done eating a dry pile of mystery meat and a side of canned corn. I was still hungry. The kid next to me didn’t want his corn so I ate it. Then we went back to class. The room was pin-drop quiet because we were taking a test. Billy’s eyes crinkled into a mischievous smile. All of a sudden, a thunderous belch escaped me!

I clapped my hand over my mouth in shock as my notepad clattered to the floor.

I mean, this was no polite burp! This baby rattled the windows! The whole class was howling with laughter! I was really digging it, so I reared back and cued up a follow-up belch! This one was so long I started reciting the alphabet on it! My voice sounded like a dog growling. The teacher wasn’t happy.

I bet not, sir – I mean, Billy.

Sister Myalgia gave the entire class an automatic ‘F’ on the test.

Sister ‘Myalgia,’ Mr. President? I’m sorry. Billy?

The president frowned. Something like that. Maybe it was Sister Myopathy. Wait, was it Sister Myasthenia? Sister Myopia? I don’t know. Anyway, that’s mine. What’s yours, Vicki?

I sighed. This was really happening. I was going to share one of the most embarrassing moments of my childhood with the leader of the free world. Well, Mr. – I mean, Billy. I was eight years old. At the time, I was a super picky eater.

Billy leaned forward on his elbows and grinned encouragingly.

My parents insisted on zero food waste. That meant cleaning your plate at every meal or you remained at the table until that was achieved. Anyway, at dinner my mom made chicken in a mushroom sauce. I couldn’t stand chicken in any form at that age. I was down to two pieces of the stuff and I just couldn’t eat it. It was now 7:30 in the evening. Dinner had been served at 5:00.

Eeew, Billy breathed.

I was alone at the table. My brother was up in his room doing homework. My mom and dad were in the den watching TV. I just couldn’t stand it any longer, so I scooped up the chicken with my hands and put it in my pants pocket!

Way to go, Vicki! The president clapped as he said this. Nothing stood between you and a clean plate award!

Or, in my case, regaining my freedom! I replied as the president descended into peals of laughter. But that’s not all. After announcing to my parents that I was finally done, I went into the bathroom. Then I flushed the chicken down the toilet!

The president was now breathless in his laughter.

Within moments, the toilet overflowed. I watched in horror as the water on the bathroom floor quickly became ankle deep!

Billy held up a finger. Question, Vicki. The chicken. Was it bone-in?

No. Boneless slices, sir. I mean, Billy. The next thing I knew, my dad was splashing through the bathroom hollering up a storm as he wielded the toilet plunger! I lit on out of there and hid in my room!

The president slapped the desktop with his palms as he roared in laughter.

Later, I heard my mom and dad talking outside the bathroom. I pressed my ear to my closed bedroom door like any good eavesdropper would do. They were talking about the reason for the clogged toilet. My dad said, ‘Honey, you’re not gonna believe this, but the clog looks a lot like your chicken marsala!

At that, we both barked with laughter.

When Billy could finally speak, he said, Good thing it wasn’t bone-in chicken. It could have been a lot worse from a plumbing standpoint!

Yeah, I would have been grounded for at least a year instead of a week. My shock at the reveal of the Billy side of POTUS was momentarily overcome by an equally surprising feeling of enjoyment at having shared my chicken fiasco with him.

The remainder of the meeting passed in swapping several further accounts of childhood embarrassments, including Billy’s hilarious account of splitting his uniform pants while playing tight end in a varsity football game in high school.

I glanced at my watch. Mr. President, we’re at twenty minutes.

Billy, remember?

Yes, forgive me. Billy. Our time is up.

As the president walked me to the door, our cheeks were still rosy with mirth. I was about to exit the Oval Office when I turned to him.

Billy, sir, did we accomplish the objectives of today’s meeting? I asked him earnestly.

He responded with a question. How do you feel, Vicki?

I sighed. I felt energized. The typical tension in my shoulders was completely gone. My abdominal muscles were loose and relaxed from prolonged and boisterous laughter. I was more than ready to take on the complexities of the remainder of the day. I had no choice but to reply I feel great.

Well, then, grinned Billy. Mission accomplished. Oh, by the way, Vicki. Nice job at the press briefing today.

On my way out, Gwendolyn Banks called out to me from behind the reception desk. Ms. Adams? she said in a stage whisper, beckoning me back to her.

Yes? I replied as I approached her desk.

Gwendolyn Banks smiled impishly as she gestured with her head toward the Oval Office door. I heard lots of laughing in there when you were with POTUS!

I shrugged and winked at her with a shy smile. Please call me Vicki, I finally said.

Call me Gwynie, she chuckled in return.

49161.png

Billy, Billy, Billy, Billy, I whispered to myself a week later as Gwynie brought me into the Oval Office. As soon as she exited, the president called out Hey, Vicki! from behind the desk.

I approached. Hey there, Billy! The greeting still sounded exquisitely odd to my ears, despite the president’s permissions and uber casual predilections. I was about to take my place on the wingback chair opposite his desk when he waved me off. Let’s mix it up today. Why don’t we sit over there? The president gestured to a conversation area consisting of intricately patterned but plush couches and chairs. I sat on a couch across from him, thinking of video footage of the Israel prime minister in my exact spot two days earlier.

How goes it? Billy began.

Great! I replied in all honesty.

Sweet! he fired back. Hey, Vicki. What’s the weirdest movie you ever saw? I’ll go first. It’s ‘Beetlejuice’ with Michael Keaton. Actually, there’s nothing that’s not weird about that entire role.

I moved my notepad, loaded with bullet points from my latest press briefing, off my lap and onto the coffee table between us. For me, anything starring Jim Carrey is ultra weird!

Jim Carrey! the president roared, slapping his thigh in reaction. What a mug that guy has! I always thought he’d get premature wrinkles doing all of those facial contortions!

Plenty of money to spare for Botox! I quipped.

Right on, sister!

Mr. President – Billy – ‘Blue Velvet’ is another very weird movie in my opinion.

Oh, yeah! I forgot all about that one, Vicki! Anything with David Lynch in the director’s chair is bound to be weird!

You know what else I find weird, Billy?

What?

Musicals. I mean, you’re going along with a good, sometimes quite credible story and then someone suddenly bursts into song. I find that weird.

The president looked puzzled. Gimme an example, Vic.

Okay. ‘Dear Evan Hansen.’ It’s a great, quasi-tragic coming-of-age story with a credible plot. The actors in the movie version are quite natural and real until they erupt into song!

Hmm. Interesting view, Vicki. But I love the music in that show. Very touching and inspiring at turns. My teenage daughter loves that movie.

Point taken. Another weird one for me is ‘Grease.’ Here you have another cool, retro coming-of-age story with appealing, interesting characters. Then they bust out singing and it just weirds me out!

Billy assumed a thoughtful pose as he slowly nodded his head. Point also taken. But I still love Travolta belting it out with his fellow grease monkeys in ‘Greased Lightnin’.’ And what about the apparition of Frankie Avalon singing ‘Beauty School Dropout’ to a dispirited Frenchy? Hmm?

Weird, Billy. Just plain weird.

Suddenly the president dropped to his knees on the immaculate carpeting and spread his arms wide. He began singing Beauty School Dropout in a skillful croon that Frankie Avalon would have envied.

I blushed. I was grateful that Billy stopped after two verses.

As he settled back onto the couch facing me, he became reflective again. You realize you’re discounting an entire genre of American film and stage, the musical.

Not my thing. I love music but I prefer to keep it separate from a movie narrative.

You are full of surprises, Vicki. Hey, what about ‘The Sound of Music’?

Sorry, Billy. My answer’s the same. When I watch it, I keep getting jolted out of a great story when people repeatedly break into song.

Oh, come now. ‘The Sound of Music’ is a perfect movie. It has beautiful Alpine scenery, romance, suspense, wartime intrigue…

Mr. Pres – Billy – I see your point. But come on, ‘Climb Ev’ry Mountain’? As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized the error of my ways. Billy dropped to his knees, hands clasped in front of him reverently and proceeded to sing every verse. At that moment, I wondered how soundproof the walls of the Oval Office were. Who could hear us? Could Gwynie?

At the end, he collapsed supine and covered his eyes, his chest shaking in laughter.

I was soon laughing in tandem, tears squeezing out of my eyes.

49157.png

The evening of President William Thackeray Barnes’ first State of the Union Address arrived amidst towering approval ratings. I couldn’t have been more proud in my role as White House Press Secretary. My briefings had settled into a smooth, amiable rhythm. Even the prickliest of reporters rolled right off my back. It was difficult to let anyone get under your skin when you thought of Billy discussing childhood embarrassments or singing like Frankie Avalon.

I watched as he slowly made his way to the rostrum as both sides of the aisle grinned at, shook hands with, clapped the shoulder of and whispered into the ear of President Barnes. After wading through the crowd and an enthusiastic introduction by the Speaker, he waited out the thunderous applause.

My fellow Americans, he began after acknowledging the Speaker, Vice President, Joint Chiefs and key cabinet members. We stand on the precipice of boundless freedom and opportunity, whether that precipice overlooks the sun-dappled, blue chop of the Pacific or a lighthouse on a rocky outcrop on the shores of Maine. We stand in grateful solidarity on the shoulders of our forefathers, their principled approach to government and life echoing soundly in the lives of Americans today…

49155.png

A foosball table stood in a corner of the Oval Office, furtively masked by the folds of the American flag on its stand.

Wanna play? Billy grinned.

Why not? I placed the notepad I always brought (but never seemed to need) on a chair and began to play a game I hadn’t experienced since a sticky-floored tavern in my graduate school days.

As we played, the president floated an agenda topic. What’s your pet peeve?

Well, I’m only five feet, three inches tall. I hate it when some big, strapping guy plants himself right in front of me at a movie theater. It’s usually at the very last minute, too!

Billy stopped the game briefly to cup his hands over his mouth in a faux megaphone. Two words: stadium seating!

Point taken. What’s your pet peeve, Billy?

I hate it when the driver ahead of me goes along with a perpetual directional signal on. You’re sort of trapped because you don’t know what they’re gonna do! I’d like to make these drivers clean all of the toilets in the White House for a month!

Whew! You’re a hard man, Billy! I teased. You know what else I hate?

What?

If people text each other when they’re literally in the same room together. It makes no sense. I mean, just get up and talk to one another!

Billy nodded in agreement. Kids are notorious for this. You know I have teenagers. My son and daughter will sit next to one another in the back seat of the car texting each other and giggling.

It’s a good workaround for communicating about stuff they don’t want parents to hear, I countered.

Yeah, one time I found out that they were making fun of my ears in a text volley.

Kids! I rolled my eyes generously as Billy laughed.

Later we sat in the conversation area on the couch.

Billy, can I ask you a question?

I would never say no. You’re my press secretary, after all.

Okay. Billy, is the First Lady as big a goofball as you are?

He considered this for a rare silent moment. No, he finally said. She’s even worse. A way bigger goofball than I am!

I thought of my image of the First Lady, Maxine Mayhew Barnes, in her tasteful pastel suits adorned with elegant strings of pearls, her ever-decorous bearing and her perfect parade wave. I could hardly reconcile this picture with a goofball of any kind.

In fact, I’ll prove it to you. I’m going to invite Maxine to our next meeting. She’ll show you how to fold and throw a mean paper airplane!

49153.png

Billy took his shoes off and gently crossed his legs atop the coffee table in the conversation area of the Oval Office. If you could eat any way you wanted to without weight gain or health consequences, what would the menu be?

I choked on my own saliva in response. You go first, Billy.

Okay. Well, breakfast would be a big old hunk of blood sausage.

Blood sausage? Yeech, Billy.

Wait, I’m not done yet. Okay, next to the blood sausage would be a six-egg cheese omelet with an ultra greasy mound of hashbrowns or American fries. I would need a stack of flapjacks doused with chocolate sauce and half a can of Reddi-Wip.

I held my stomach as he continued.

On to lunch. That would be either four Big Macs or three Double Whoppers with cheese. Sides would include both onion rings and fries slathered in catsup. A large chocolate shake would be standing by to wash it all down. Ready for dinner?

Queasy but ready, I confirmed.

Billy rubbed his palms vigorously together. Okay. Here goes. My repast would feature two to three good-sized porterhouse steaks, fat not trimmed and heaping with whole mushrooms. The steaks will be accompanied by two twice-baked potatoes steeped in butter, fried shrimp in Cajun seasoning and five dinner rolls. Crème brulee, double chocolate cheesecake and a quart of Neapolitan ice cream will round out dessert.

Good golly, Billy.

I know, right? It’s a gutbuster. But a man can certainly dream, right? Okay, Vicki. Your turn.

I shrugged. I’m not as gastronomically adventurous and imaginative as you are. Instead, I would repeat something I periodically do in my real life. It’s called the ‘junk food buffet.’

What’s in the ‘junk food buffet’?

It can be served in lieu of any meal, but preferably dinner. It starts with a pastry course of Ho Hos, Twinkies and donuts. The appetizer is Doritos – a full bag – in any flavor. The main course is old-school potato chips with a dip of choice. Dessert is a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, washed down with a two-liter bottle of Pepsi.

Yeech. And you found the idea of blood sausage sickening! You really eat this kind of a buffet in real life?

Very periodically, Billy.

Hmm. Good to know…

49150.png

By the time of the midterm elections, my blessed honeymoon period as press secretary was well over. The more partisan and irritable members of the press corps were becoming increasingly blunt, vocal and snide in their questions to me.

I had a particularly brutal press briefing in which two reporters all but accused President Barnes of being derelict of duty. A critical summit had been arranged for the president to fly to Seoul to meet with the South Korean president due to increasing concerns regarding North Korea’s nuclear armamentarium and mounting instability in the region. On the day that our president was slated to fly out for the summit, Barnes’ mother suffered a severe heart attack and was placed on a ventilator at Bethesda. President Barnes elected to stay in Washington to be at his mother’s bedside. He sent the Vice President and the Secretary of State to the summit instead. The media condemnation of this decision was bountifully evident in the tone of the reporters’ questions.

My response was simple: President Barnes is a human being. Human beings take care of their mothers. The elder Mrs. Barnes has since made a complete recovery.

I felt bruised inside after that briefing. How dare anyone imply that President Barnes neglected his duties. He knew that delaying or rescheduling the summit wasn’t prudent given escalating tensions in the region. Furthermore, Vice President Tamika McPherson and Secretary of State Henry Blake were eminently qualified to attend the summit. They were well-briefed on the rapidly developing situation and had finely tuned diplomatic skills.

49148.png

Immediately after the briefing, I was scheduled for my weekly meeting with the president. I entered the Oval Office with a heavy heart.

President William Thackeray Barnes stood solemnly in front of his desk, hands at his sides. Just to let you know, he began. Our meeting is blocked for thirty minutes instead of the usual twenty. We’re going to need the extra time.

I swallowed and nodded my head. I was ready for whatever dressing down from the Chief Executive awaited me. I had simply blown it at the briefing today. I bowed my head like a guilty dog.

Yes, Vicki, we’re going to need the extra time to chow down on the JUNK FOOD BUFFET! Ta-da! At that, Billy gestured to a serving cart with several silver platters. He whisked off the covers magician-style to reveal a generous assortment of Twinkies, donuts and other sweets – my so-called pastry course. My eyes started to fill with tears as he revealed a platter of Doritos (Cool Ranch variety) and the main course of Jay’s Potato Chips with a bountiful side of ranch dressing. An ice bucket on a stand to the president’s opposite side held a box of mint chocolate chip ice cream and the requisite Pepsi.

Ta-da! Billy repeated, throwing his arms up into the air.

Oh, Mr. President. I don’t know what to say, I choked out as I surrendered to a torrent of tears.

Those rascals in the kitchen couldn’t get their hands on your Ho Ho’s in time, so we substituted Hostess cupcakes. I hope that’s okay, Billy continued.

Same difference, I sobbed. Oh, thank you, Billy.

"No, thank you, Vicki. You did a great job out there today. You emphasized my humanity in that briefing, the one thing I value the most and never, ever want to lose."

I could only hiccough through thick tears in reply.

Well, time’s a-wastin’, sister! crowed the president. We’ve only got twenty eight minutes left. Let’s dig in! He held a Twinkie high in the air and then finished it in two glorious bites.

49146.png

In the end, the president overcame the Koreagate scandal and remained wildly popular, especially among moderates, for the remainder of his administration. Ultimately, and to the disappointment of many, President Barnes decided not to run for a second term. He wanted to write a memoir and spend more time with family. I learned this during a combination trivia contest/ping-pong tournament in the Oval Office.

After Billy’s administration ended, I was offered a position as an instructor in the journalism program at Columbia University. I was all too glad to return to both my alma mater and my hometown in short order.

The year after President Barnes left office, I received a Christmas card from him. At the bottom, in his inimitable hand, he wrote the following: Thank you for helping me to stay sane during my administration. Love and regards, Billy.

MISSING MYSELF

2022

E llie Fennig winced at the doctor’s words: morbidly obese. He continued to talk but she couldn’t move past the odious description of her current body morphology.

You weighed in at 317 pounds today, rasped Dr. Warner, looking at his laptop in disbelief. At last year’s physical, you were 251 pounds. Two years ago, you were at 203. He removed his cheaters and placed them in his lab coat pocket. Ellie, this weight gain has got to stop.

Ellie’s head hung on her chest. She swiped at the curtain of greasy gray hair covering her face.

Ellie, you’re fifty-eight years old. Do you want to live another ten to twenty years?

She remained silent, concealed underneath her matted, disheveled locks.

Ellie, look at me.

Ellie reluctantly tucked a lank strand of hair behind her ear so she could see Dr. Warner out of one eye.

Ellie, if you don’t lose weight in the very near future and instead continue on this upward trajectory, you could die. At the very least, you are at risk for many other serious and potential disabling medical conditions such as heart attack and stroke. As it is, your blood pressure is through the roof and you have developed borderline diabetes. Do you understand?

Ellie’s eyes loomed large behind the smudged wire rim glasses that sat crookedly on her bloated, blotched face. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

You’ve crossed the line into morbid obesity.

She put her chin back down on her chest and curled her beefy shoulders inwardly as tightly as she could. She wanted nothing more than to disappear at this point – to vacate the exam room in a little puff of smoke.

Dr. Warner tapped on the laptop as he spoke. I’ll renew the prescription for your Zestril. Be sure to take it exactly as directed. I’m also referring you to a dietician and a psychologist. You need to lose at least fifty to eighty pounds as soon as safely possible. Weight loss of this magnitude takes a team. It can’t be done alone.

Ellie remained still as her massive legs dangled from the exam table.

Do you have any questions for me? Dr. Warner asked as he pulled up a stool to sit beside her.

Ellie shrugged. A psychologist? Really?

Ellie, do you want to die?

She paused. That was the question, wasn’t it? I don’t know yet was all she could manage in reply.

49144.png

Louisa Contreras sat on a sofa in Dr. Warner’s waiting room. The raw-boned, dark-haired woman with the anxious eyes had been housekeeper for Ellie and her husband Eric for the past twenty years. Lately, she had become more of a personal assistant as Ellie’s weight increased.

Louisa watched as Ellie stood at the receptionist’s window to make a follow-up appointment, clad in gigantic, tent-like pink sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt with a smiley face logo. Louisa recalled how difficult it was to find sizes to fit Ellie for both items. She had exhausted every Target and Walmart in the metro area before finding the mismatched pieces in a dark corner of a Salvation Army store. Louisa felt a brief wave of grief as she remembered her employer at the start of her tenure as housekeeper – stylish (no – a fashion icon, really), one of the most beautiful and recognizable women on the planet and a willowy 118 pounds at five feet, eight inches tall. She stood and forced a smile as Ellie waddled and shuffled up to her.

How did it go? Louisa asked with a slight quaver in her voice.

Ellie rubbed a weary, dimpled hand over her perspiring brow as she sank onto the sofa which seemed to protest her bulk with a squeak.

Not good, murmured Ellie.

I’m sorry to hear that, dear. Louisa resumed sitting to face Ellie.

I’m so tired, Louisa.

We’ll go home and I’ll turn down the bed so you can have a nice nap before dinner. How does that sound?

Ellie pursed her lips as if heavily preoccupied. After several seconds, she raised her eyes to look at Louisa’s compassionate face. Sounds good, she whispered.

Louisa began to help Ellie to her feet when her employer grunted out a question.

Can we go for ice cream first, Louisa?

49142.png

1991

The girl fidgets with her purse as she sits in Steve Price’s office on Melrose Avenue. She is freezing in a short, spaghetti strap dress that could easily double as a piece of lingerie. She has been sitting in front of his desk for almost fifteen minutes since the receptionist ushered her in but still no sign of her agent.

The girl sighs and applies another layer of lip gloss, more out of boredom than any actual cosmetic need. She looks at her face in her compact mirror, her auburn tresses falling in gentle waves to just above her shoulder. Her complexion is flawless and milk white against emerald green eyes. She frowns at her bony shoulders and prominent clavicles. She feels like a jockey or a wrestler in the scrupulous monitoring of her weight. It seems that some director or agent is always warning her to stay pin-thin.

She shivers. Where is Steve and why is his office always as cold as a meat locker? Then she sees the crystal jar of mints on the edge of his desk. They are nothing special, just chalky-looking buttermints. A shaft of sunlight comes from the window behind Steve’s desk to illuminate the jar, revealing pastel pinks and greens.

The girl is hungry. She is interminably weary of starving herself. (After all, the camera adds ten pounds!) She wants nothing more than to grab the jar and stuff her mouth with buttermints – every last one! She imagines her teeth mashing a delightful, sugary poultice of buttermints. She stands partially and reaches for the jar as Steve Price walks in.

Sorry to keep you waiting! he booms, a nervous ball of energy in his natty pin-striped suit and frizzy blond afro. Steve frowns as he sees the girl’s hand near the buttermints. He picks up the jar and places it in a desk drawer.

She sits back down with a smirk at being busted by the food police once again. That is, if you could call buttermints food.

Steve sits behind his desk and leans back in the massive leather chair, his head a halo in the noonday sunlight. I wanted to make sure that everything is a ‘go’ before I told you.

She throws up her hands and lets them fall languidly into her bony lap. What’s a ‘go,’ Steve?

A wolfish smile slowly spreads across his face to showcase several glistening fillings. McMaster! he says as he expansively throws his hands into the air in a victory pose.

Victor McMaster? the girl clarifies in a tone of undisguised incredulity.

Yes! What other McMaster matters in Hollywood?

What does he want with me? The girl feels her heart accelerating at the thought of working with the most successful director of action films in Hollywood.

He would like to see you for a screen test. He’s considering you for the lead in his latest, a project called ‘Steel Resolve.’

The girl considers this. She is currently one of the most bankable movie stars in America. Her previous films include two romantic comedies, a police procedural drama, three historical dramas, a courtroom thriller and several indie productions featuring well-intentioned, dreamy slackers. To date, she has not done the type of high octane action thriller for which Victor McMaster is the master! Tell me more, she says, still thinking about the buttermints secured in Steve’s drawer as her stomach gurgles.

Well, your role would be sort of a female James Bond – exotic locations, sexy wardrobes, lots of firepower…

Got it.

Excited?

Heck, yeah!

Okay, the screen test is at Paramount at 8:30 tomorrow morning. I’ll send a car for you.

She stands to leave. She feels the beginnings of a headache. Thanks, Steve, she says weakly. I’ll be there! She is so famished she hopes to make it to a cab without fainting.

A pout is visible on Steve’s lips. "Is that all you’re going to say after