First Contact (26 page)

In the morning, Ralph woke early. The sunrise reminded him of the last bittersweet moments he and Jessica had spent together. On the eve of her departure, they celebrated in their favorite manner: by eating Chinese food off paper plates on the floor of the Oval Office. The following morning, over a breakfast of egg rolls, Jessica made one final effort at convincing Ralph to join her in Tibet.

“You have already done so much good as president,” she said. “If you leave, no one could undo what you have accomplished. And think of all the good we could do together in Tibet. The Tibetans are in such need. To have the former president of the United States take up residence would make the most dramatic statement on their behalf. Most important, we would be together. We could take hikes, learn to make prayer flags, and drink yak butter tea. Think of how romantic it would be to be young, in love, and literally on the top of the world.”

Jessica didn’t need to say anything to tempt Ralph. Their several months living together in the White House, while Jessica waited for her visa to come through, had solidified Ralph’s conviction in her. He found her more beautiful than ever, though he thought her the most beautiful woman in the world to begin with. He looked forward to their conversations. And he knew her to be the best human being he had ever met.

“Can’t you wait?” Ralph asked.

“My flight is in three hours. And you know I hate traffic.”

“I don’t just mean a few hours. I mean can’t you wait a long while, until after I’m finished being president. Then I can go with you without any sense of obligation.”

“There are always obligations,” she said. “I want to see the world and I want to see it now.”

“What’s the rush?” Ralph pleaded. “We’re young. Tibet will still be there in a few years. There will still be children who will need our help. There’s plenty of time.”

“I don’t think so,” Jessica said softly, caressing Ralph’s hair in the morning sun streaming in through the east-facing windows. “I love you. You have a heart the size of a Himalayan mountain. I shall think about you every day and write as often as I can. But I think it’s later than you think.”

Then, warmly and gently, she kissed him good-bye.

Now, on the dawn of his twenty-fifth birthday, Ralph wondered again why he had declined Jessica’s invitation, and why he could not accept it now. Why did he feel such a sense of obligation to the nation and to the work he had started? It was not as if the honeymoon would go on forever. Many congressmen already were showing signs of succumbing to irresistible temptations: sumptuous dinners, luxury automobiles, high-level meetings in the Champagne Room of the
Capital City Playhouse Club. Soon politics would return to business as usual. And then this sacrifice would have been for nothing.

On the floor of the Oval Office, Ralph quietly cried. Why, he wondered, could he not bring himself to do what he wanted to do?

A
LL IN ALL, PRESIDENTS
get a raw deal when it comes to birthdays. Everyone thinks otherwise because of JFK. During Kennedy’s forty-fifth birthday celebration, at Madison Square Garden, Marilyn Monroe sang him “Happy Birthday” wearing a flesh-colored dress with 2,500 rhinestones, so tight-fitting she literally had to be sewn into the dress. Afterward, JFK said, “I can now retire from politics.”

Most of the other presidents didn’t get it so good.

Truman’s sixty-first birthday came on V-E Day, which was nice enough, but in all the commotion no one remembered to tend to the cake, and Truman ended up celebrating with peanut butter and crackers.

Eisenhower had his sixty-third birthday party at the Hershey Sports Arena, home of the Hershey Bears of the American Hockey League. He listened to some local marching bands, ate a fried-chicken box lunch, and tried one of the eight hundred cakes baked by local women for the occasion. The cake was pretty good, so good Mamie later invited the chef to Washington for tea. But there were no gifts, sadly. The sole and saving grace was that after the celebration Eisenhower got to ride the Zamboni.

Nixon’s birthdays were even more low-key. He spent his last birthday in the White House, in 1973, alone with Pat, eating pot roast and listening to Engelbert Humperdinck records on the turn-table. For the occasion, Kissinger gave Nixon a paperweight. This is the sort of gift that really makes a statement.

R
ALPH DRAGGED THROUGH THE
rest of the morning. At noon, Ralph ritualistically took the mail from Mrs. Dundersinger. The routine used to be going for a sandwich, now it was leafing through the daily post. It was the only thing that anchored him to a normal existence.

In peacetime, mail is delivered to the White House, like any other office or residence, by a postman, the contents secured in a bundle by a thick rubber band. On summer days, the mailman stops to chat, and sometimes is invited in for a cool glass of lemonade. His
deliveries consist mostly of catalogs, which have been a guilty pleasure of every inhabitant of the Oval Office since Coolidge. After the stress of tending to the weightiest matters of state all day, nothing is better to help one unwind than the latest brochure from Hammacher Schlemmer. Ford once ordered, and really liked, those bead things that go over the back of a car seat.

This day it was the usual: Ralph’s cell phone bill, his student loan statement, an offer to consolidate his student loans for which he was in fact not eligible, a copy of
Men’s Health
magazine, an offer from a real-estate broker for a free appraisal of his property. He almost did not see it between the time-share invitation and the new Pottery Barn catalog: a birthday card that warmed his heart. The card depicted a sweet scene from
Peanuts
. Snoopy was asleep on his doghouse and Woodstock was asleep on Snoopy’s belly. Snoopy was dreaming of playing with Woodstock and Woodstock was dreaming of playing with Snoopy.

“Mr. President,” it said. “It’s time to catch up. The Ambassador and I miss you.”

Signed: “Your friend, Ned.”

T
HE FOLLOWING
S
UNDAY MORNING
,
a chilly winter day, Ralph donned a sweatshirt and jeans and enjoyed the long walk to Prospect Street in Georgetown. Without the suit and tie, and with his baseball cap turned backward, most people did not recognize the president of the United States. He looked more or less like every other college student in Washington.

On this walk, he went without Secret Service protection. Ralph understood, without Ned’s saying so, the meeting needed to be kept low-key. This took some doing. Ralph explained to the Secret Service that he would not require their protection at brunch. They could inspect the restaurant the evening before, but they were not to accompany him to the meal. The agents protested vigorously, but Ralph said the matter was not open for debate. Besides, he assured the agents, his safety could never be less in doubt.

At the Peacock Cafe, Ralph found that his friends had already arrived. Ned was casually dressed much as he had been on their first meeting, in an Arcade Fire T-shirt, an unbuttoned blue oxford shirt, and khaki pants. The Ambassador wore baggy jeans, a FUBU sweatshirt, a doo-rag, and a series of chains and necklaces, which could only be characterized as bling.

Ralph said, “Hello, Ned. Hello, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Hello, Ralph,” Ned said.

“Yo, yo, yo, Rigel-Rigel in da hizzy,” said the Ambassador. He placed his right fist upon his heart and tilted his right shoulder forward in an apparent effort to thump the chest of the president of the United States.

Ralph thumped then looked quizzically to Ned.

“The Ambassador has just discovered the wonders of Dave Chappelle,” Ned said. “He is also quite a fan of
The Ali G Show
.”

“Da Ali G Show
,” the Ambassador corrected. “Da brother is a genius, word.”

“So that’s where we are,” Ned said.

T
HE
A
MBASSADOR LIKES MANY
of the same things I like, a coincidence for which I offer no apologies. That the Ambassador finds humor in unlikely situations is integral to the themes of the book, though the people and things he finds funny are of no particular significance. Nevertheless, one cannot underestimate the significance of milieu to a story. Though it would have no bearing on the plot, I expect you would feel quite differently about this book if instead of favoring Woody Allen, Dave Chappelle, and Sasha Baron Cohen, the Ambassador admired Rita Rudner, Carrot Top, and Gallagher.

A
WAITRESS ARRIVED AT
the table. Ned ordered the multigrain waffle with fruit compote, the Ambassador ordered a bagel with cream cheese, and Ralph ordered the French toast, which he had heard was very good. All three ordered coffee. The waitress appeared nonplussed by the Ambassador’s outfit.

Ned said, “We came back because we wanted to see how you are and because we wanted to apologize.”

The Ambassador nodded. “My bad on the missile thang,” he said. “A’ight?”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” Ralph said. “My
country attacked your planet without any provocation. You reached out to us in friendship and we responded with violence. If anyone owes an apology it is we who owe one to you. On behalf of all of Earth, I am truly sorry. I hope you can accept this.”

“F’shizzle, my nizzle.”

“Can’t he speak normally?” Ralph asked Ned.

Ned shrugged.

“You see, that’s prejudice,” said the Ambassador. “There was nothing abnormal about the manner in which I was speaking. No
correct
way of speaking exists. People think because they do things in a particular manner this invests their approach with some cosmic significance. I hate to break the news to you, but it’s all arbitrary.”

“You’re right,” Ralph said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all cool, G,” said the Ambassador.

The waitress delivered the waffle, bagel, French toast, and three cups of coffee.

“You are kind to be forgiving, but we really are sorry,” said the Ambassador. “We don’t like to kill anything for any reason, and your attack was no threat to our planet at all. Unfortunately, the missile your ship launched activated an ancient and automatic defense system. Anytime someone uses violence on or against Rigel-Rigel, the system generates a proportional response. It enforces precisely the appropriate punishment.”

“You explained this,” said Ralph.

The Ambassador waved his hand. “It was just a bluff,” he said. “Our planet hasn’t been attacked in ages. The threat of retaliation has always been enough. We haven’t even had a crime on Rigel-Rigel in seven hundred years. I didn’t know the system was still operational. Unfortunately it was active, your ship triggered it, and the system calculated a proportionate response. After that, everything was automatic. There was nothing we could do to stop it.”

Ralph considered the Ambassador’s words. “What do you mean the system calculated a proportional response?” he asked.

“The computer determines the exact amount of punishment an offender deserves,” the Ambassador replied. “It then administers that precise penalty, no more and no less.”

“How could any computer do that?” Ralph asked. “Suppose three men each steal a loaf of bread. One steals the loaf to feed his family but the family is a bit on the chunky side and could stand to
lose a few pounds, the second steals it because he was orphaned as a child and no one taught him proper values, and the third steals it to send to starving people in Africa, but he’s a kleptomaniac and also gets a thrill from lifting the bread. How could a computer determine what each one of these people deserves?”

“This one could,” said the Ambassador. “The software is very advanced.”

N
ED CHANGED THE SUBJECT
.
“It appears you have been doing quite well as president,” he said to Ralph. “We have been keeping an eye on you.”

“I’m doing the best job I can.”

“Well, it is a superb job. Many of the things you have accomplished have lowered your planet’s risk profile substantially. The environmental initiatives are very significant.”

Ralph waved his hand. “Who knows whether they will last?” he said. “It could all be undone tomorrow.”

“You don’t seem very optimistic,” Ned said. “You should be happy. You’re the president of the United States, after all.”

“You da man,” said the Ambassador.

Ralph smiled but said nothing.

“We’re worried about you,” said Ned. “That’s the real reason we’re here. It’s obvious to us that something is wrong. What is it? Is it Jessica?”

Ralph sighed and took a bite of the French toast. It was conspicuously good French toast. He quickly took another bite and then a third. It occurred to Ralph that it might have been days since he last ate.

“It is Jessica,” Ralph said. “She has gone off to Tibet, and I am here in Washington. I miss her more than I can bear.”

“So why don’t you go and be with her?” asked the Ambassador.

Ralph considered the question as he devoured more of his breakfast. “The truth is I don’t know,” he said, looking up. “Sometimes I feel as if I am not in control. It’s as if I am a character in a play. Some writer has scripted out the course of my life and I am just being put through the motions.”

“And you find that depressing?” the Ambassador asked.

“Yes,” Ralph said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“One could find it depressing. Or one could enjoy the perfor
mance and find the humor and beauty in it. It’s really a matter of personal preference.”

“But how could you enjoy it if it had all been scripted, if even the fact of your enjoyment had been determined in advance?”

“I suppose it’s a question of how seriously one takes one’s own importance,” the Ambassador said. “Besides, why are you so convinced it has all been predetermined?”

“What’s the chance of all this happening?” Ralph asked. “What’s the chance everyone in the chain of succession would be killed except for two people, and one of these two would die of a peanut allergy and the other, a twenty-four-year-old, would become president of the United States? And what’s the chance that young man would be me? Seriously, what are the odds?”

“I suppose it depends how you look at it,” the Ambassador said. “Things often seem quite improbable when examined after the fact. But one must remember that
something
has to happen.”

Ralph nodded.

“Don’t make too much of the fact this something happened to you. Whatever the chance of a twenty-four-year-old becoming president of the United States may be, it is no greater or less because it turned out to be Ralph Bailey. You humans make this mistake all the time. You’re so invested in your individual and collective uniqueness. Imagine believing that in a universe of infinite proportions, life exists on Earth and nowhere else. No one should take themselves so seriously. I certainly don’t.”

W
HILE THE
A
MBASSADOR DISCOURSED
,
Ralph continued ravenously devouring his breakfast. He neither knew nor could have known that the Peacock Cafe chef got his start many years earlier cooking breakfast on Amtrak trains. Furthermore, while Ralph could have recognized it as the best French toast he had ever eaten, he neither knew nor could have known it was the best he would ever eat. He just knew it was excellent French toast.

T
AKING A BREATHER
, R
ALPH
looked up from his breakfast toward the Ambassador.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” the Ambassador said. “Shoot.”

“Do you have some more of that Bundt cake?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m not sure how to put this,” Ralph said, massaging his chin. “After eating that cake, I experienced what I can only call a moment of clarity. All of these things that used to be so important suddenly seemed trivial. Career. Money. In that moment, I had no regard for what other people thought about me. I didn’t even see ‘me’ as having any special significance. I just felt like part of the universe—totally at peace. It was wonderful.

“And then we drank the punch and everything went back to normal. Politics mattered again, as did acting responsibly toward others. Now I feel completely removed from that clear-minded state. The woman I love is in Tibet working in an orphanage, and all I want to do is be there with her. But I feel compelled to stay here in Washington and fulfill the duties of my office. So do you have any more of that cake?”

The Ambassador appeared rather sheepish at this point. He fidgeted in his seat and swiped the cream cheese back and forth across his bagel. He turned to Ned to offer an answer to Ralph’s question.

“It’s funny you should ask,” Ned said. “As it turns out, we had a bit of a mix-up with the cake and the punch. By mistake, I took the wrong punch mix. The altered substance ended up being served at my wife’s PTA meeting.”

“So we drank what?”

“Regular fruit punch. And we’re pretty sure you got the wrong cake too. My wife baked two, one for the presidential dinner and one for her Mah-Jongg game. The night before I left for Earth she set them both out on the kitchen counter. The one for the President had a big sign on it that said in capital letters:

“But we’ve been having trouble with lockernobbles in the house. One of them got into the kitchen at night and knocked the sign off. It’s fifty-fifty whether I took the right one.”

“What’s a lockernobble?” Ralph asked.

“It’s a cute but pesky creature,” Ned said. “More or less like a raccoon.”

“They’re almost impossible to get rid of,” the Ambassador added.
“Once you get one in your house, it’s there for life. One time my neighbor got one in his attic. He didn’t want to kill it, so he trapped it and flew it by spaceship to a planet more than fifty light-years away. Darn thing was back in his attic three days later.”

“I
DON’T UNDERSTAND
,” R
ALPH
said. “More than thirty people were at that dinner. Everyone I spoke with reported a similar experience to mine. They ate the cake and experienced a moment of lucidity. Then they drank the punch and everything went back to normal.”

“That’s remarkable,” said the Ambassador.

“Surely it means we ate the altered cake and drank the right punch.”

“Perhaps, though not necessarily.”

“You mean to tell me thirty people ate the same thing and had the same exact experience and it was nothing more than a coincidence?”

“Maybe,” the Ambassador said. “Coincidences happen all the time. I told you before, Ralph, lots of things happen in the universe. Coincidences are inevitable.”

“But this—”

“Would be extraordinary, which is why we’re discussing it, but that doesn’t prove it is anything more than a coincidence. Let me give you an example. You’re wearing blue jeans, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So am I,” the Ambassador said. “That’s a coincidence and it has now been duly noted. What has not been noted is the many differences in our appearances. You, for example, Mr. President, are not wearing a doo-rag or any bling, so we are not similar in these regards. But these facts have not been commented upon.”

“I suppose,” Ralph said.

“Besides,” the Ambassador said, “the cake didn’t seem to have much of an impact on the President.”

“That’s true,” Ralph said. “But suppose you’re wrong and this wasn’t all a series of coincidences. Suppose it wasn’t just random luck that thirty people experienced the same exact transformation at the same exact moment. And suppose it isn’t chance that not just any twenty-four-year-old became president, but me in particular. You make this whole big deal about disbelieving in God. Wouldn’t this force you to reexamine your own beliefs? Wouldn’t it compel you to believe?”

The Ambassador smiled. “I never said we disbelieved the existence of God.”

“But at the state dinner you told the president you didn’t believe.”

“Not believing and disbelieving are two different things,” the Ambassador said. “What I tried to convey to the President is that an excess of conviction can be detrimental to the long-term welfare of a species. We don’t happen to be religious, but we are respectful of all beliefs. More important, we are open to the infinite array of possibilities. Depending upon how one defines god, there may be many gods with many different powers. The universe is a big place. For all we know someone really is scripting the entire story. We just don’t worry about it.”