“Watson, I Need You”

In the Spirit of the Gracious and Compassionate
Creator of the Heavens and the Earth

The President sat at his large desk in his spacious office, working on his regular Monday afternoon speech.

He pressed the intercom button on his phone and said, “Watson, I need you,” mimicking (inaccurately) Alexander Graham Bell’s famous first words over his newly invented telephone. He loved saying that, and if Watson found it annoying he never showed it. He continued working on his speech, expecting Watson to appear momentarily. But he didn’t. The President pressed the button again. “Watson, please come. I need you.”

Suddenly, the door burst open and several burly men rushed in. Wearing neat business suits and earwigs, he recognized them. They were his own guards.

They grabbed him from behind his desk and pushed him toward the door. He decided not to resist. They ushered him down the hall to the elevator and, just as the elevator arrived, put a black bag over his head.

The elevator went down several levels, to the basement, apparently. He was ushered down a hallway and into a small room. They removed his suit jacket, pushed him down on a small bed, and undressed him. When they removed the bag, he was sitting in his underwear, watching the guards walk out and close the door. He heard the door lock. Next to him on the bed were a white shirt and pants. He put them on. A simple pair of sandals were on the floor.

The room was bare, except for the bed. Looking out the single high window along the wall opposite the door, he noticed that the usual afternoon rain-shower was imminent. The room was cool, though not air-conditioned. There was a single light in the middle of the ceiling and a light-switch by the door. He could turn the light off, if he wished.

Is this a coup? Am I going to be executed?

He prayed for dignity.

Let me not make a fool of myself.

My wife? My children — so young, so innocent — how are they?

He had asked the guards, but they ignored him.

He sat on the bed, calming himself and composing his thoughts. Quietly, he recited some Bible verses he had memorized at missionary school. He recited passages from the Qur’an which the elders of his family had insisted he learn. He sang a few traditional songs in the seven languages most common among his people. He was fluent in all of them, and, of course, in English. He tried to remember some of the popular songs, but couldn’t, and regretted not having paid more attention to popular culture. (“Americanized trash!” his father had called it.)

Several days passed, comfortable days. Meals were regular, adequate, nourishing and tasty. Not his wife’s cooking, nor his regular chef. Bathroom breaks were regular, if brief, and available on demand. No one spoke to him, and the world outside his window was quiet. The life of his country seemed undisturbed by the absence of its President. Or maybe someone else is President now.

He’d kept track of the days, and it was a week later — the following Monday — when the Guards returned. They ushered him to a shower room and allowed him to shower. A freshly pressed suit was available, including fresh underwear, a white shirt, a tie, socks, and dress shoes. He showered. No shaving equipment was available.

Looking in the mirror, he was surprised to see his grandfather’s face looking back at him. He had ruled “with a firm hand” it was said. Whenever there were protests, he would say, “You cannot please everybody.” Perhaps I should have been like him. Too late now!

When he had finished dressing, the guards ushered him to the elevator. Please God, let me die with dignity! And protect my wife and my children! The elevator rose and continued rising past the ground floor. An involuntary “uh …” issued from his mouth. The elevator continued up and up. He almost laughed. Would they suit me up to throw me off the roof?

The elevator doors opened onto the top floor and the guards ushered him down the hall and into his office. They motioned him to sit down at his desk — as if graciously offering a seat to a guest. He sat down, and the guards left.

His appointment book lay open, with the time for his speech neatly penciled in. His speech — completed, neatly typed, double-spaced, apparently prepared by his usual writers, a good speech, written as well as he could have written it himself — was also there.

A knock on the door. It opened. Watson looked in. “If you need me, just call.” He left without waiting for a reply.

Hearing Watson’s confident, dignified steps fade away down the hall, the President’s mind reeled.

Suddenly, gales of laughter erupted from his mouth and his head flung back violently. Tears flowed uncontrollably from his eyes. He gripped the desk to keep from falling backwards, then threw himself forward with one long loud cry. Pounding, pounding, pounding on the desk. Then he slumped over, sobbing. Tears drenched the appointment book and the speech. Occasional mild but hysterical chuckles escaped from his mouth. Slowly, he composed himself, took out a handkerchief, dried his eyes, blew his nose. Then he sat quietly.

“I am the President, and I have no idea who is running the country.”

A knock on the door. Watson again. “You need me, sir?”

19 Rabee`-ul-Awwal
December 31, 2015