Desperate Student, Episode 7: Presidential Body Double

It's hard out here for a Desperate Student.

After my last efforts at employment ended in a minor catastrophe, I went home and plopped myself into an old easy chair. I clicked on the TV and tuned it to the completely unbiased Cable News Network. There were reports of oil spills, plane crashes, and epidemics, but the news bulletin getting all the attention was a terrorist network that seemed to be headquartered - by an astonishing coincidence - in the very city I called home. Their latest attack had destroyed two gas stations and wiped out more than thirty passing cars. Hamas had taken responsibility for the attack.

I watched the screen, entranced, as political commentators speculated about the significance of a terrorist attack on a gas station. The Secretary of Homeland Bureaucracy made a short statement about how the safety of the American people was paramount (which is a fancy word for expensive). I was interrupted by a knock on the front door. I opened it, half-expecting to see a repentant Suzy asking me to give her another chance. Alas, it was not to be. Instead, I found two men in black suits, white shirts, thin white ties, floppy fedoras, non-reflective sunglasses, and earpieces. Their coats bulged ominously.

"Come in," I croaked. "Lemonade?"

"No thank you," Said the taller one. "This will only take a moment."

I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "What can I do for you?" I asked.

"Your friends from the FDA recommended you for duty. We're told you're desperate for a job."

I nodded. "I'm desperate, but I don't have any friends in the FDA."

"In any case," Said the man, looking irritated, "The US government wants to hire you."

"What for this time?" I asked. "Being doused in acid, ignited, and dissected perhaps?"

"Nothing that dramatic."

"When do we start?"

As it turns out, the men were from the President's Secret Service detail. The President's latest body double had retired to the nearest hospice, leaving America's Number One shorthanded. Apparently I was the man for the job, and with modern technology, I didn't even have to look anything like the president. At least to begin with.

I was helped into an unmarked black sedan with tinted windows. It accelerated quickly and smoothly and headed for the interstate.

"Scalpel, this is Fisher," Said the driver. "We have the package."

"Copy that, Fisher. Standing by for arrival," Said the radio.

"Excuse me," I asked from the back. "Did you just refer to me as a package?"

"Shut up," The man said. I shut up.

We drove for many, many hours, all through the night. Just at sunrise, we pulled through some barbed wire fences into a well-defended compound in the middle of a desert. Men in white lab coats came out wheeling a gurney. The door to the back opened; I was helped out and a mask was clamped onto my face.

"Breathe," Said a voice in my ear. "That's it ... breathe ... breeeeeeathe."

I awoke in a hospital bed to the sound of my own heart rate, which sounded like the mating song of a male chickadee. I was surrounded by medical personnel, who were studying clipboards and monitors and completely ignoring me.

I cleared my throat. "Excuse me? Where am I?" The tall man who had recruited me, now wearing a white lab coat and dust mask over his usual outfit, extended a hand mirror.

"Take a look," He said.

I looked. I suppose I should not have been surprised to see the spitting image of George W Bush looking back at me. I did not react well.

"Creepy!" I screamed, throwing the mirror against the wall. It shattered, and bits of shiny glass tinkled down to the floor.

In unison, the medical personnel shouted: "Seven year's bad luck!" Then they all filed out quietly, except for the tall guy.

"I'm Jake," He said. "In a few hours, we'll be shipping out. The President is scheduled to give the keynote at the annual Radical Muslim Fundamentalists who Hate America convention in New York. You'll be giving the speech instead for safety reasons. In the mean time, you will be completely isolated from the outside world. When the speech is over, depending on how you did, you may be in for more jobs. Questions?"

"Yeah," I said. "Don't I get my one phone call?"

"Of course," Jake answered. He handed me a cell phone.

Naturally, I called a fellow FCN contributor and dictated this post to him. In a few hours, I'm headed for New York. I'll keep you posted, provided of course that I survive to tell the story.