part 1
The call comes in at approximately 3:30, a time he isn’t
accustomed to being humanly coherent, though his dreams are usually rolling full
bore. A gentle hand caresses his sleeping, relaxed shoulder, and Ivory’s
eclectic gears grind to a flickering halt. He wakes lying on his back staring
into the face of his door warden. “Billiam.
Bad timing, I was kissing an alligator.”
“Oh, sounds like perfect timing,” says William Blakely, the
president’s personal coffee cup holder and in extreme moments, bodyguard. “But
in a more lucid reality, there is a stegosaurus on the lawn, and Jupiter is
being bombed.” William turns to take a tray from kitchen staff that entered the
room and instructs the president to sit up. “Coffee first, and a Danish.”
“Joy.” He takes a bite of Danish and sips the hot coffee. “Last
time Steggy was out was, say, Easter? Ate all the fancy eggs. That was only one
of the low points of my tenure.”
“Most presidents have a dog.”
The reclining president sips longer and louder. The coffee
has cooled, and it’s really good. He says so, “It’s good. Now… Jupiter: is this
Florida, because that might explain the alligator dream, or that big gas giant
a billion, billion miles away?”
Blakely takes the tray while President Ivory Feldone swings
his legs over the bedside and finishes off his coffee. “It’s the planet, and a
fair distance, but only about a half billion. The team is assembling.”
“K,” says the president and unfolds in his customary morning
fashion, with a grunt. “Quick shower and I’ll be down. Thanks, Bill.” These
early morning meetings aren’t usual, but also not unheard of. He passes the window
and peeks through the drapes into the early morning gloom. The city is dimly
lit at 3:30, but enough to casts shadows, and the biggest shadow lumbers by
blocking out a street light. It halts under his window and lifts an enormous
head and bellows mournfully. “Quiet girl,” he says and taps the pane. "Quiet, Karina." She
blinks a cumbersome lid and pads by, leaving heavy prints in the dewy grass.
Inside the on suite, Ivory starts the shower and picks
through a drawer for some undergarments. Today he picks avocado themed socks and a
present from his late wife, Underdog briefs. “It’s an Underdog sort of day,” he
mutters, and leans onto the sink before picking up his toothbrush. The shower
is roaring behind him and the face in the glass isn’t his, but a woman who
looks uncannily like a mix-up of his mother and his older sister Gardenia. “More
surprises,” he muses, then reaches for a pack of cigarettes and bumps one out. “I
know I shouldn’t shmoke,” he says to the somewhat familiar woman. That’s, at
least, what his wife always told him.
“You should listen. Besides, no matches,” she replies,
taking a deep drag from her own. Ivory regrets the red glow that flares up in
the mirror. “Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” she says and flicks the spent fag at the
glass. It sprays his morphing image with sparks, that die as quickly as the fog
from the hot shower clouds his looking glass.
