The First Ghost

          Josh Bolten was leaning over the president, gently tapping his fingers against the president’s face and saying, “Mr. President, Mr. President.” 

          But the face the president beheld was not that of his faithful assistant Josh Bolten.  It was the face of a Latino roustabout from the Texas oil fields, a short, swarthy man with cold black hair falling over his face and collar, and thick, fat lips that lay like Cupid’s bows between equally fat cheeks.  A heavy stubble of black beard covered his jaws and chin. 

          The man was clad in filthy blue jeans, one leg of which bore a ripped place about four inches long, and over which draped a faded red-and-black checkered shirt smudged with oil, the same way his face and hands and jeans were also smudged with oil.  On his feet were the thick-toed boots of a rigger, which were reinforced with steel and, when they were new three years before, had cost him the price of half a week’s wages.

          “Hola!” said the man in a cheerful, matter-of-fact way.  “I have the honor to be the ghost of Christmas Past, Señor Presidente.”

          “You’re kiddin’ me.”

          “Oh no, Señor Presidente.  I never kid.  I have spent too much of my life working to be a kidder, the way some people are.”

          “But if I was gonna see a ghost about the past, I’d a thought it would have been someone from Yale—one of my ol’ drinkin’ buddies—or maybe somebody from my days as governor of Texas.  You know, one of those guys from Austin.  Or even Anne Richards.  I wouldn’t mind seein’ ol’ Anne again, even if she couldn’t stand my guts.”

          “Maybe you’d have preferred someone from your old ball club, Señor Presidente.  But I’m afraid you are stuck with me.  My name is Juan La Fuente Gonzales, like your friend Alberto, but you can call me José.”

          The president looked at him intently, as if trying to recognize him.  “Don’t I know you from somewhere, José?  Did you work for me once?”

          The ghost shook his head.  “No, Señor Presidente, although I can understand your mistake.  We all looked alike to you.  I think you once joked about that.”

          “Sorry, José.  Just exactly what kind of business do we have to transact between us?”

          “You will see, Señor Presidente.  Come with me.”  He reached out for Screwdge to take his hand, but Screwdge shrank back.

          “Uh— I don’t exactly like to touch people, José.”

          “I have noticed that, Señor Presidente.  But this time I’m afraid you will have to make an exception.”

          He reached out and took Screwdge’s hand.  Suddenly they shot away into the frosty atmosphere like a couple of balloons releasing air at a high rate of speed.  When they came to a stop, it was in a large, old-fashioned drawing room where people were opening Christmas presents.

          “Why— ,” the president stammered.  “How’d you do that, José?  There are my grandparents, up at Kennebunkport.  And my parents too.  And my uncle and aunt.  And there I am, and my brothers.  I remember that sled my grandfather, old Webenezer, gave me.  He said Santa had brought it, but I knew better, even then.  Not that I didn’t believe in Santa Claus.  But I thought my grandpa was bigger’n Santa himself.  And, besides, I’d seen him carryin’ in a big package on Christmas Eve, and knew it had to be a sled.”

          José nodded, and continued to watch the scene as it unfolded.

          Barbara Bush, the president’s mother, had just opened a small present, revealing a lovely necklace.  She leaned over to her husband George and gave him a peck on the cheek.  Then she solicited his help in fastening the clasp behind her neck.

          “It’s beautiful, George,” she cooed.  “I really love it.”

          “It becomes you, Barb,” he said softly.

          “My folks really did love each other,” said the president, admiringly.  “They played a big part in my life.”

          “I know,” said José.  “A big part.  Maybe that’s why some people wondered why you didn’t consult your father more before going to war in Iraq.  Your dad had a chance to do the same, after the Gulf War, but he didn’t want to destabilize the country by taking out Saddam Hussein.”

          “Whoa, José!” said Screwdge.  “Who are you to be lecturing me on what I’ve done in the presidency?  I said my parents really loved each other.  I didn’t say my dad was always right about the decisions he made.”

          “Suit yourself,” said José noncommittally.  “But come on, Señor Presidente, we’re running late.”

          He reached out and took Screwdge’s hand, triggering the whooshing balloon effect again, and this time they ended up in a graduation ceremony.

          “Hey!” exclaimed Screwdge.  “I know where we are.  This is Yale!  I’m graduating from college.  There’s ol’ Dean Whatzizname—and Billy Bob Wheeler.  I couldn’t believe Billy Bob accumulated enough points to graduate.  He was drunk so much that half the time he forgot to go to class.”

          “What about yourself?”

          “Well, I guess that was sort of a miracle too.  Look, there I am, just walking across the stage to get my diploma now.  That’s the president of Yale—I forget his name—he’s about to shake my hand and present me with my diploma.”

          Suddenly the figure walking across the stage lurched and fell into the university president, who awkwardly bore him up until he could regain his feet.

          “Man,” said the spirit, “it looks like you were three sheets to the wind, Señor Presidente.  Listen to those guys on the third row, your fraternity buddies.”

          First fraternity brother: “Did you see that?  Ol’ Georgy-Porgy just took a tumble and almost knocked the president down!”

          Second fraternity brother: “He’s tanked.”

          Third fraternity brother: “I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t.”

          Fourth fraternity brother: “He didn’t have to worry.  With his connections, there was no way they were gonna fail him.”

          Second fraternity brother: “Yeah, his ol’ man was a legend here.”

          First fraternity brother: “And his granddad before that.”

          Fourth fraternity brother: “I heard they’re giving him a new car for his graduation.”

          Third fraternity brother: “Yeah?  What kind?”

          Fourth fraternity brother: “Probably a Porsche.”

          First fraternity brother laughed, then said: “Don’t worry.  He’ll drive it into a telephone pole in a week.”

          Second fraternity brother: “They’ll just buy him another.”

          Fourth fraternity brother: “You’re right.  Ah, what the hell.  It’s the free enterprise system, you know.  The more cars ol’ Georgy-Porgy wrecks, the more cars Detroit sells.  What goes around, comes around.”

          The president watched this scene with a growing mistiness in his countenance.

          “God,” he said, “those were good days.  No responsibilities.  Just boozin’ my way through college.  I’d love to have ‘em back again.”

          José looked at him reprimandingly.  “No way, Señor Presidente.  Life always goes forward, not backward.  And we have to go forward too, or I’ll get chewed out for making everybody else late.”

          At this, he took Screwdge’s hand once more, and the two of them whooshed away to another scene.  This time it was to a domestic exchange in a small house.

          “That’s Laura and me,” Screwdge said as he watched two young people arguing with one another over a kitchen table.  “Hey, Laura, honey, you looked pretty good back then!”

          “Yeah, but you looked a mess,” said José.  “Let’s listen in.”

          Laura: “You have promised me a thousand times that you wouldn’t drink so much!”

          George, obviously half-smashed: “Honey, why shouldn’t I drink?  A man’s got to drink a few beers in his lifetime, or he’s not much of a man.”

          Laura: “Whoever told you you’re a man, George Webenezer Screwdge?  A man would know when to stop drinking.  A man would take care of his family.  A man wouldn’t always depend on his parents and grandparents to bail him out of trouble.  A man would have respect for his wife and children.”

          George, trying to grope his wife: “Aw, honey.”

          Laura, pushing him away: “Don’t ‘Aw, honey’ me, George Webenezer Screwdge!  This is the last time you and I are going through this scene.  If you come home drunk one more time, it’s over.  I mean it, buddy—finished, kaput, gone forever.”

          “We argued a lot back then,” the president confessed to the ghost.  “It was the drink.  I shouldn’t have done it.”

          José looked at him indifferently and shrugged his shoulders.

          “No, seriously, I mean it.  I was wrong to do it.  And Laura was right.  Bless her heart, she stopped me from doing it.  I knew she meant it.  I was going to lose her and the girls if I didn’t straighten up.  So I was going to this little Bible study, you know—bunch of guys out there in Midland who got together and talked about the scriptures and how Jesus had saved them from this and that.  I figured if he could save ol’ Barney Hargrove after Barney tricked his dad outa nearly four hundred thousand dollars, he could probably save me too.  So I prayed, and the rest of them prayed, and Jesus did his thing.  I mean, he really did it.  He took away my appetite for liquor and I straightened up.  I’ve been a born-again Christian ever since!”

          Again the spirit regarded him with half-interest, as if he might not be telling the truth.

          “No, man,” Screwdge said loudly, realizing the spirit was challenging him.  “I mean it!  I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since.”

          The spirit smiled.  “Not a single one?”

          The president backed down a little.  Sheepishly, he admitted, “Well, a time or two.  But there was always a good reason.  Like that week after the big hurricane hit New Orleans.  I was down at the ranch, you know, and I kept getting all this bad news about the levees breaking and the water flooding everything, and—well, I remembered how comfortin’ a glass of Jack Daniels could be at a time like that, and I promised myself I’d only take a little.”

          “Yeah?” asked the spirit, dubious.  “And you did?  Only a little?”

          Screwdge hung his head in shame.  “Well, it was a terrible time, José.  I didn’t know what to do.  Only the cleaners and me knew how scared I was.  The whole country was lookin’ to me to do somethin’, and there was nothin’ I could do.  I wanted to be a leader, but, hell, José, you can’t lead if you ain’t got any troops willin’ to follow.  And my troops were useless right then, man.  Friggin’ useless.  I had to have a drink—and another—and another.  And, before I realized what was happenin’, I’d had too many.  I had a hangover for two, three days.  It was awful!  I was s’posed to be runnin’ the country, an’ I couldn’t a run a rural post office if nobody lived within a hundred miles and there was never any mail.”

          The spirit regarded him with what appeared to be a modicum of sympathy, and said: “You know, Señor Presidente, a little humility doesn’t go amiss on you.  Have you ever thought about showing it more often?”

          Screwdge looked at the spirit thoughtfully for a moment, as if he had just proposed the most radical idea in the world.  Then, slowly, he began to shake his head in the negative.

          “Naw, José, it wouldn’t work.  People like their leaders to be strong—you know, never back down, never admit they’re wrong, never admit they’ve done anything they shouldn’t’ve.”

          The spirit studied him carefully for a minute, then made a little clacking noise with his mouth and said, “You’re a harder case than I expected, Señor Presidente.  Too hard for me.  I think you need somebody with a little more finesse than I have, and a lot more smarts.”

          Then the spirit took out a cell phone, dialed, and spoke into it: “Sorry, boss, I didn’t do so good.  He’s a tough nut to crack.  You’d better send in the next team.  Besides, I think my tortillas are gettin’ cold.”

          The spirit clapped his cell phone shut, took one more look at Screwdge, and suddenly whooshed away by himself, leaving the president standing alone in bewilderment.

THE SECOND GHOST