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24 TUSCARORA REVIEW 2016 2016 TUSCARORA REVIEW 25
Organic Magnetism
Paul Stark
Damnit! Late again. This will be the third time this month. I’m not sure bringing
breakfast to the morning meeting will save my ass this time. And this asshole in
front of me going 35 in a 40 isn’t helping, either! DAMNIT! Passing that jackass
spilled my coffee. It’s all over my leg! Do I still have my spare suit in my office?
Why did I have to buy a house out here in the boonies? Even the commute
to this job was more stress than I could tires screech as I stop at an
intersection by the black graveyard; that’s when I notice him. He is dressed in
some thin layers, a clean brown coat over a faded plaid shirt. He is reading a small
hardback book, sitting on a dent in the metal guard rail. It is a nasty dent, like
someone had been run off the road, but there isn’t a car nearby. Curiosity gets
the better of me, and I roll down my window to ask, “Hey! You alright, Mister?”
The man hurries over to my car to respond.
“Yeah, I’m alright.” I expect his voice to be rough and graveled—he looks like
the kind of man who enjoys cheap liquor and cheaper cigarettes. But his voice is
clean, just like the rest of him.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I ask.
“No. I just need a ride.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Bethesda.” He smiles at me, his white teeth as straight and neat as the
tombstones a hundred feet ahead.
“Well I can’t take you to Bethesda.” Part of me wants to drive away, right then
and there, but something keeps my foot on the brake. I’m still curious. “I’m only
headed thirty minutes up the road.”
“I’ll take what I can get, man.” Still smiling. Still clean. I unlock the car door. He
climbs in, taking care to dust off the seat of his faded jeans, and says, “Thanks a lot,
man! Name’s Sam.”
“John,” I say. I’m not dumb enough to say my actual first name, but telling him
my middle name isn’t the smartest move, either. I put the car in gas and head on
down the road. As we pass the graveyard, Sam watches the tombstones go by
with mild interest. “So Sam,” I say, “have you eaten anything today? I have some
bagels here, if you want one later.”
He turns to me with a grin, baring all of his teeth, and says, “I sure would love a
bagel! You know what goes good with bagels?”
The burning pain flares at the thought of answering “coffee.” I grind my teeth
a bit before answering, “Milk?”
Sam’s smile grows ear to ear, all tombstones on display. “That’s right,” he says.
“A nice tall glass of milk—chocolate milk! Get some cream cheese on that bagel,
too? That’s a little slice of heaven!”
The graveyard fades in my rearview. I am now truly alone with this man. “So,
Sam, what takes you down to Bethesda?”
He turns away from the grey stone monuments and says, “I’m the President of
the United States, and I need to get to Washington.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Someone says something like that, you have to think
he is pulling your leg. But Sam goes on. “I was separated from the Secret Service
when my motorcade was attacked. I was on my way to the National Cathedral on
All Saint’s Day when they hit.”
Holy shit, I picked up a crazy man! “Wow,” I say. “That’s, uhh. . . that must
have been pretty intense.”
“It was a group of Russians that did it. They spoke Arabic, but I know a Russian
accent in any language!” He’s gesturing now, getting his hands and feet in to the
conversation. “I need to get back to Washington before Veteran’s Day—that’s
when they’ll try and take out the other leaders of the military.”
The countryside we are driving through is slowly becoming more and more
gentrified. Fields are fading into suburbs. The tops of steel buildings peek over the
horizon.
“This is some pretty high-level stuff, Sam,” I say. “How did you wind up here
from D.C. in the first place? Hey, HEY! Get out of my shit!” Sam is rummaging
through my glove box. It has only some paperwork in it but I didn’t want him
getting my real name. He doesn’t look at any of the papers, though; he just takes
some paperclips and starts fiddling with them. He just can’t keep still.
“See, the Russians are using a technique called ‘prologuing’ to infiltrate different
branches of the government. They abduct you, and then they break you until
they can just plant suggestions in your head to say whatever’s on your mind.” His
fingers nimbly bend and twist the metal clips into different shapes. “That’s when
they have you! They can implant ideas and make you say anything they want!
They use the power of suggestion to make it seem like it was your idea the whole
time.”
There is a dead deer on the side of the road, a crow picking at the carcass.
I roll up the windows. The smell of coffee and bagels fill the sedan as we drive
past the crow eating breakfast. Sam just keeps rambling. About how the Russians
hijacked the satellite signals to “prologue” everyone in the country. How they
controlled the media and were using it to brainwash everyone in to ignoring their
activities, that they weren’t planting spies in our government, and that he isn’t
really president. The paperclips start to take shape. One is a tiny man, another a
little car. The figures are so small and the curves are smooth—if I wasn’t seeing it,
I would never guess that Sam is managing to bend them by hand. He must have
done this a lot.
“Say,” Sam says. “You seem like a trustworthy guy, John.”
I’m flattered, Mr. Crazy Man, I think.
“How would you like a position in my cabinet? I can get you instated when
we get to D.C.”
“I can’t take you to D.C.,” I snap. I’m starting to get irritated. My leg is still
burning and I’m going to be even more late because of this guy and he asks me
to just run off on his crazy adventure to run into the White House and call it his.
“Besides,” I say, “I don’t think I’m qualified for politics.”
“Well, what are you qualified for?” If my outburst offended him, he didn’t
show it.