First Contact (2 page)

Ralph sometimes wondered whether this might be an elaborate test of his loyalty, some kind of bizarre hazing ritual, because nobody who had a history with the President, including several people who went back years with him, all the way to his days as commissioner of sanitation, recalled him taking any interest in his underwear. And still, despite the extraordinary efforts undertaken on his behalf, the President insisted he was not difficult to accommodate.

“You know, Ralph, I bet I could walk into the Wal-Mart and get this thing taken care of in two seconds.”

“Yes, sir,” Ralph said, even though it was most emphatically not true because the President had tried on every kind of underwear Wal-Mart sold by the first April of his presidency. The President failed to recall this because he had since tried some 250 other varieties of underwear, none of which, of course, had been to his satisfaction.

“Wouldn’t that be something if I just walked into the Arlington Wal-Mart? That would cause quite a stir. Get those liberals all up in arms.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get them talking about raising the minimum wage and the plight of workers in America and all that crap.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, back when I was an alderman, I used to hit the Wal-Mart all the time. I’d always go in there around Christmas and do my shopping. Always made for a good picture in the town paper. Don’t suppose I could do that anymore.”

“No, sir.”

The President changed clothes, first removing the problematic underwear in favor of his familiar boxers, several pairs of which had been with him since his early days in state government and which had become, through repeated wearing and washing over the years, tattered and threadbare.

A
T THE SAME TIME
the President complained to Ralph about the bunching in his underwear or, more accurately, at the same time I wrote that the President complained of the bunching in his underwear, I began to notice bunching in my own underwear. This could be an example of the peculiar manner in which life imitates art. The same could also be said of my experience with the orange, although I ate oranges in this manner long before I began writing this book. On the other hand, I have never had a significant problem with bunching other than during a, pardon the pun, brief experiment with boxer shorts in college.

U
PON DONNING HIS UNDERWEAR
and the remainder of the standard uniform of the American politician—a starched white shirt, blue suit, and red necktie, knotted in the President’s preferred half-Windsor—the conversation finally turned to the matter that Ralph had come to discuss.

“So what was it you wanted to tell me, Ralph?”

“Sir, the Secretary of State has asked me to inform you that aliens have contacted the American government.”

The President fixed his knot in the mirror. He had high knotting standards.

“Well, tell him to handle it. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

“Sir, the Secretary believes this matter requires your urgent attention.”

The President flashed a look at Ralph off the mirror. His ire was up. “Does the Secretary really expect me to drop everything every time some Mexicans try to get across the border?”

“These aren’t Mexicans, sir.”

“Who are they then? Cubans? I’ll be pissed if it’s the Cubans again. What did they do this time? Try to make it to Miami in a shoe box? Those damned Cubans can’t even build themselves a proper boat.”

“Sir, it’s not illegal aliens. It’s real aliens, from outer space.”

The President turned away from the mirror to face Ralph directly. “You mean Martians?”

“I don’t think they are actually Martians, sir. NASA has found no evidence of life on Mars. These people appear to have come from several hundred light-years away.”

“I’ll be damned,” the President said. “Martians in my White House.” He shook his head and said to himself, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Then he asked, “What was the message, Ralph? What did they say?”

Ralph replied without editorializing. “It said, ‘Mr. President, would you like to have brunch?’”

T
HAT SAME DAY, AT
precisely 11:30
A.M
., Lois Dundersinger, secretary to the President, entered Ralph’s cubicle. Mrs. Dundersinger had worked for the President for thirty-seven years, since his earliest days in politics, and fifteen years longer than there had been a Mr. Dundersinger. Ralph thought she bore a striking resemblance to Andy Rooney.

“The President has asked for his lunch,” she said.

“I wondered whether today might be different,” Ralph said.

“Mr. Bailey, why should this day be different from all other days?” Mrs. Dundersinger asked this rhetorically, with no evidence of irony.

“Well—” Ralph said, starting to explain the obvious reason, but Dundersinger cut him off with a wave.

“The President has asked for his lunch,” she said.

Mrs. Dundersinger was a traditionalist. She wore dresses that
extended to her knees, sensible shoes, and addressed every member of the White House staff by their surname, except of course the President, whom she referred to as “Mr. President.” Mrs. Dundersinger’s conservatism could be endearing and presented no problem for Ralph, except for her insistence on making the President’s calls from a rotary phone. Mrs. Dundersinger liked to count the clicks in order to make sure she did not dial a wrong number on the President’s behalf.

Supervising the installation of a rotary phone became Ralph’s second major project after the President took office, only succeeding in time consumed and importance the vexing underwear initiative. Though the White House had a highly competent technical staff, the rotary phone was simply incompatible with the modern wiring in the West Wing. Ralph attempted one day to explain to Dundersinger the difficulty of employing 1970s technology in the twenty-first century. He analogized it to the difficulty of causing the dimmer switch in the Oval Office to regulate a candle as opposed to an electric light. Mrs. Dundersinger either did not understand or did not care to understand the problem, and nonverbally insisted that it was imperative that she place the President’s calls on a rotary phone. She did this by making the most disturbing acerbic face, a puss so sour it could have wrinkled the skin of an olive or a baby or something else uncommonly smooth.

The problem was whereupon resolved by the White House employing—at a salary of $57,000 a year—a full-time employee, one Edna Peachpit of Wichita, Kansas, with the sole responsibility of translating Mrs. Dundersinger’s rotary calls into touch-tone data. Mrs. Dundersinger’s phone was not connected to a phone line. It was connected to a small machine in Ms. Peachpit’s office, which displayed the number to be dialed. Ms. Peachpit then placed the call in the normal, modern fashion.

Mrs. Dundersinger was not informed of the arrangement.

“T
HE USUAL
?” R
ALPH ASKED
.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dundersinger. “The usual sandwich.”

The usual, as mentioned, was a ham and Swiss sandwich from Blimpway. It was necessary to procure the sandwich at Blimpway because the White House chef had been unable to produce an effort that met with the President’s approval. One early effort—a sumptu
ous
croque monsieur
—had nearly led to the head chef’s dismissal. The President did not like the French. Other subsequent efforts fared no better.

With a sense of resignation, Ralph put on his blazer, passed security, and walked to the Blimpway on L and Fourteenth. There was a Subbie three blocks closer to the White House, but the President did not like their mayonnaise. Sometimes Ralph resented the inconvenience, but that day he did not mind the walk. He played Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” on his iPod. The song seemed to have special meaning now. Ralph watched with interest and wonder as the people of Washington went about their business: a woman contentedly walked down the sidewalk brandishing an overstuffed Lord & Taylor shopping bag, a man in a suit sprinted down the street perhaps late for a meeting, another man cleaned up after his beagle. Each was oblivious to the change in their reality. Ralph wondered whether the tardy man would still be running if he were aware aliens had contacted Earth.

When Ralph arrived at the sandwich shop, it was already crowded. The lunch rush, which Ralph knew all too well, starts early at Blimpway. But things were moving even more slowly than usual. At the head of the line, a gentleman was exercising the strictest of scrutiny over the production of his sandwich, with the apparent agenda of getting a little bit more of everything.

“A few more,” the customer said, his nose pressed to the sneeze guard as the sandwich artist applied the tomatoes.

“A few more,” he said, as the onions were dispensed.

“A little more,” he said, with respect to the hot peppers and olives.

The counter boy obliged, until they got to the meat. At the request to add another slice of ham, he balked.

“I’m only allowed to put on four slices,” he said.

“Just one more slice,” the customer implored.

“Those are the rules.”

“You have nerve. The sandwich is so thin.”

Presently, the manager was summoned. He explained that four slices of meat per sandwich was store policy. If the gentleman wanted more meat he could pay for an extra-thick sandwich. The customer repeated his charge that the owner had gall serving such a meager sandwich—“flimsy” was his word—and said he could easily
take his business elsewhere. The customer became further enraged, the manager more indignant, and for a moment, just a moment, that ham sandwich became the most important thing in the universe.

The two men argued the question whether the sandwich was too thin or just right with passion and aplomb. But since it was not a question to which any objective answer existed, neither side could get the better of it, and soon, inevitably in some ways, the matter deteriorated into name-calling. The customer said something about the manager’s Muslim heritage—he was, in fact, Muslim—the manager replied that he did not need the patronage of the homeless—the customer was, in fact, homeless—and soon the customer threw a napkin dispenser at the beverage refrigerator and stormed out of the store.

The napkin dispenser made a sickening thud against the cooler but, since the door was constructed of plastic, did not break anything. So the lasting damage of this dramatic conflict was only a displaced napkin dispenser and the unpaid-for and unclaimed one-slice-too-thin sandwich, which sat upon the counter looking rather pathetic.

The manager stared at it, apparently unsure of how to dispose of it.

“I
THINK HE’S THINKING
of selling the sandwich.”

The comment came from a woman standing behind Ralph on line. Absorbed in the drama at the counter, Ralph had not noticed her before. She was pretty.

“He must know he can’t get away with selling it,” she continued, “but I think he’s wondering whether he can put back the meat. After all, it hasn’t been eaten.”

Ralph smiled. He stepped forward and placed his order for the President’s sandwich and his own. He received each without event or controversy. He decided to sit down and eat his own tuna sandwich before returning to the White House. Moments later, the woman appeared at his table.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

Ralph saw now that “pretty” did not do her justice. Her beauty was radiant.

“Please,” he said, and removed his earphones as she sat down and unwrapped her veggie sub.

“You must be really hungry,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“You bought two sandwiches.”

“One is for my boss,” Ralph said.

“That’s nice of you to pick up lunch for your boss.”

“It’s kind of part of my job.”

“Your boss makes you buy him his lunch?”

“Sort of. His secretary usually asks.”

“How often?”

“Every day.”

She seemed quite bothered by this. She pursed her lips and scrunched her eyebrows. Somehow, impossibly, this made her even more attractive.

“Does he at least pay for your lunch? Since he makes you go out for him every day, the least he could do is spring for your sandwich.”

“No, he doesn’t do that.”

She scrunched again.

“Actually, he doesn’t even pay for his own lunch,” Ralph said.

She said, “I don’t think I would like your boss very much.”

Ralph thought of protesting, but took a bite of his sandwich instead. “What do you do?” he asked, after he finished chewing.

“I’m a law student at Georgetown.”

“What type of lawyer do you want to be?”

“I want to help the poor,” she said. “I mean, I guess I’ll have to work in a firm for a few years, but afterward I’d like to go to Legal Aid or some other kind of legal services agency. I really just want to help people somehow.”

Ralph shook his head. “No,” he said, “you definitely wouldn’t like my boss.”

The woman smiled and extended her hand.

“I’m Jessica,” she said.

He said, “Ralph,” and took her hand. She had soft skin and long, elegant fingers. They sent a charge of electricity through Ralph’s body.

“What were you listening to?” Jessica asked.

“Green Day.”

“Let me see your iPod,” she said. “I like to imagine the iPod as the soundtrack to people’s lives. It makes ordinary life a bit more like the movies. You can tell a lot about someone from the songs she or he chooses.”

Ralph nodded and handed over the iPod. She inserted the earphones and began nodding to the music.

“Green Day is cool,” she said. “I didn’t know they covered ‘Cracklin’ Rosie.’”

Ralph reached to take back the device.

“I must have had it on shuffle. That’s embarrassing.”

She held on to the iPod.

“It’s okay. Green Day and Neil Diamond. I like that.”

She scrolled through his playlist, reading as she went along.

“The Beatles, solo Lennon, Dire Straits, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Rush. You have eclectic taste in music.” Then she stopped and looked up.

“The Police,” she said. “I believe the Police may be the greatest rock band of all time.”

“I agree.”

“Are you really a fan?”

“I am,” Ralph said.

“Then let me ask you this: What principle did they use to order the Synchronicity songs? Why was
Synchronicity I
number one and
Synchronicity II
number two?”

“Because one came first,” Ralph guessed, playing along. He found the banter engaging.

“You mean it was written first?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember which one is which?”

“I think the one about lemmings and the Loch Ness monster is number two.”

“Do you remember what the other one is about?”

“No.”

“Is it even about synchronicity?”

“I don’t know,” Ralph said. “Right now, I am feeling uncertain about everything I have ever known.”

“And thus,” Jessica said, with a wave of her elegant hand, “right now, somewhere else in the universe, someone is experiencing the exact same feeling.”

T
HE ACCURACY OF THIS
claim depends on what is meant by “exact.” It is certainly not the case that somewhere else in the universe a man named Ralph Bailey and a woman named Jessica Love were
falling for each other over subs and Dr Pepper. If one demands this level of precision in the quest to find meaning, disappointment is inevitable. At a slightly greater level of abstraction, however, seemingly meaningful coincidences abound. There were, for example, many people in the universe falling in love at that very moment. On the planet Tukaloose, a young male and female
crigler
, a species that looks more or less like giant squid, made snappy repartee about popular music while enjoying sandwiches of
politzcar
, which tastes more or less like tuna, in a restaurant called Grestline, which is the Tukaloose word for a dirigible. Dirigibles are an important and popular mode of transportation on Tukaloose. Grestline operates in direct competition with Matzater, a similar chain of restaurants that offers virtually the same menu and the same quality food.
Matzater
is the Tukaloose term for an underground rail system. These sadly, fell into disfavor following the advent of the zeppelin but continue to evoke a romantic nostalgia and a hearty appetite.

I
DON’T EAT MUCH
meat or fish, but I think the tuna at Subbie is better than at Blimpway. I could be wrong. My best friend, Ard, swears by the tuna at Subbie and thinks Blimpway is crap.

F
ULL DISCLOSURE
: I
HAVE
changed the names of Subbie and Blimpway. To be safe, I also changed the names of Grestline and Matzater from their Tukaloose analogs. Tastes can be subjective, especially when it comes to tuna salad, and I am accordingly reticent to disparage the good names of the sandwich shops here at issue. To be safe, I have also changed the name of my aforementioned best friend. His real name is Ira J. Kaufman.

Ard and I have been friends for twenty-five years. The plurality of that time has been spent debating the moistness of various snack products. We also like to play instant lottery scratch games, drink cream soda, and say funny names like “Bunny Glamazon.” Ard is very good at rationing beverages. He always has some soda left at the end of a meal. If you ever want to see him in action, try the MacKing on 71st and Broadway. On Sundays he likes to go there for coffee and a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit.

T
HE NAME
M
AC
K
ING HAS
been changed.

B
ACK AT THE
B
LIMPWAY
on L and Fourteenth, Jessica discoursed further on synchronicity.

“It’s such an awesome idea,” she said. “We all think whatever we’re doing is so crucial that our problems are the most important in the world. But no matter what we are doing, somewhere else someone is doing the exact same thing at the exact same time. If you think about that, all of a sudden a sandwich doesn’t seem as if it could ever be significant to anyone.”