President Solitude (or, E Pluribus Unum)

One

I sit in a large, circular room. Blue carpeting nestles my bare feet. I look disheveled and disorderly. I admire the layout of the room. It somehow feels simultaneously full and empty. A velvet chair sits in a corner. The chair has been vacant since the death of my wife. An American flag is hoisted up high near the back of the room—the Star-Spangled Banner. I hear the national anthem in my head. I remember the last time I heard a live band play the tune. That was many years ago. The only way I can hear it now is through a gramophone in the Lincoln Suite. As it happens, this is the Oval Office, and I am the sitting president. I am president of no one. Or, at least, no one that I know of. Everyone is dead. I am president of the land. I am president of the bears. I am president of the cats. I am president of the dogs. I am president of the rats. I am president of the atoms. But I am no longer president of man. I look to my left, at the presidential portrait—in it, I see a much happier, younger man. Unrecognizable. The painting is made in thick, heavy strokes. The painter was quite sick when he made it. Still, in gold-plating, it bares my name: Von Heimer Albatross II. It is a terrible name. I don’t know why it is German. I am not German. Nobody in my family is German. If my father was still alive, I could ask him. He is dead, however.

I am thirty-eight years old. I read in a book that it does the mind good, in these middle-ages, to use the word ‘young’ instead of ‘old’. So, I am thirty-eight years young. Something I’ve noticed, in all the free reading I’ve gotten from the White House Library, is the connection between happiness and the need to not die. Most advice I’ve read in the various lifestyle books on display boils down to this: 

Forget about death. 

It’s hard to forget about death when, anytime I walk out into the street, all I see is it. There are three exposed corpses per capita. When those who would’ve buried the dead had died. I’ve told myself I would bury them at some point, but it always escapes me, actually doing so. And every passing moment, as the corpses decompose all the more, it becomes a bit harder. Maybe I’m not ready to face it. It could be that I’m afraid of the disease, despite my surviving this long. I am thirty-eight years young. I am the youngest president ever elected. I was elected for my immaculate immune system. This was the campaign I ran on. The heart in his chest beats stronger than the rest. I am in need of company. A typewriter-like device is all that reminds me of the life that still exists. They call it the Ambassador. With it, I can reach the five other world leaders that haven’t yet kicked the bucket. All of their citizens are, to my knowledge, also dead. There is the prime minister of the United Kingdom, the supreme leader of North Korea, the tsar of Russia, the president of France, and the king of Denmark. Five buttons on my Ambassador signal each world leader. I press the uppermost button.

How are things looking? It’s boring out here.

I send this to the prime minister. I try to write in full sentences still. It keeps my mind occupied. It’ll take a solid day to transfer over. These things take time. I decide to fill this time with reading. I grasp the desk in front of me and exit my chair. I imagine each dull happening in my life as a stageplay. In old english, the word exeunt was used to denote a character leaving a scene. I quite like that word. Exeunt! My ass is sore. It isn’t a very statesman-like thing to say that. What does it matter? The carpet wraps around my toes. It massages them like the ladies at the parlor used to. They are dead now. Surely. 

I exit the Oval Office. Exeunt! 

There is an endless hall in front of me. It seems to engulf me on both sides. It reminds me of the hotel in The Shining. I haven’t seen that movie in about ten years. I under-appreciated that privilege back then. If I had known what I know now, maybe I would have watched it again—two times, three times, four. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. Exeunt! 

A quote runs through my head: “Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him Claudius. He was a fellow of infinite jest.”.

Where are the Yoricks of old? Dead. Naturally. My bare feet slap across a surface that isn’t quite brick or quartz. It’s smooth. Polished, like marble. It’s cold. Terribly, terribly cold. I’m unsure of which season it is, but I wager it to be winter. I trudge along the endless stretch of room. A hallway is still a room, though it doesn’t quite feel it. A hallway is a means to more important rooms. Rooms to do things in. Rooms that have meaning. But a hallway has meaning. Its meaning is to be a means to other rooms. Its meaning is to be parted with at the soonest moment possible. Exeunt! I am a hallway. I am a means to something greater. What that is I don’t know. There was a time, about three terms ago, when I had meaning. When I was a room. I was the president. I still am, but it matters less now. Nobody appreciates it.

I approach the large corridor of the library. The entrance had been recently remodeled, before the big dying. The library is, perhaps, one of the few refuges from death. It is the only room that still feels warm. A fireplace crackles and smolders. I am entranced by the flames. In some strange, mysterious way, I feel as a caveman must’ve felt, staring into a pit of fire. There was the commonality between all of man. Fire. The original refuge. I imagine a huddled group of hairy men under a luminescent, prehistoric sky. There are Wooly Mammoths still marching. All the men have to enjoy is the warmth of the small flame. I, now, am one of the few left to enjoy the flame. I feel maladapted for this purpose. I am a bad enjoyer: I lack the wondrous spirit, the human nature, the lovely touch. If I were to be the last seed of humanity, that would be a sorry thing. There is more carpet in the library. It feels as though I’m constantly walking over soft kitty-cats. I slide my finger across the horizontal spread of hardcovers. A line of dust builds over my finger. Dust bunnies. I lick it off. It has a sour taste, like a mix of dog hair and nail polish. It’s grainy in the throat, yet soft. It tickles like fiberglass. I am not well. Surely.

I pick out a collection of stories by Charles Dickens. Charles Dickens was a lonely man, prone to many infatuations. I am a lonely man as well, though I lack a vessel for infatuation, other than that horrid group of world leaders who have yet to kick the bucket. Sitting in the rocking chair that faces the roaring fire, I thumb through to A Christmas Carol. The protagonist, Ebeneezer Scrooge, is a pitiful, old capitalist. His heart is filled with coal. He uses this phrase many times: “Bah, humbug!”. He uses it to express contempt toward the world. That phrase resonates with me somehow. These words will run through my mind quite frequently. It seems the only thing to say. The bastard Scrooge is visited by three friendly ghosts who, with pure and innocent intention, guide his fate toward good. I wish to be visited by a friendly ghost or two. Or hope to. I’m a lonely man. I have no bills to veto, or press conferences to attend, or private meetings, or State of the Unions. Boredom takes over. 

Bah, humbug. 

About twice yearly I take a tour of the country. This isn’t necessarily a role of the president, but it seems appropriate. To be a president of everything but man seems to entrust me in nature’s maintenance. I’ve done my fair share of cleaning work, though it always tires me. This country is, at large, a total dump. An ever-growing pile of garbage and decay that no one bothers to pick up. I have, at least, taken decent care of Washington. The White House itself is pristine—I’ve had much time to clean it. When extreme boredom strikes, I’ll oft remodel the place in some particular style. Currently, I’ve based the arrangement on its layout during Lincoln’s tenure. There are, of course, many inaccuracies and new additions from men after Lincoln. The East Wing is no longer intact. This is my greatest sorrow. More death. 

My current bedroom sits in the Lincoln Suite. The room is meant to preserve the layout that Abraham Lincoln had. There hangs a portrait of the man himself, in tremendous condition. There are many other relics of his, including a fireplace and a telegraph. The telegraph is non-functional. It reminds me of the Ambassador, though it is, of course, far more archaic. I eye the mantel that hangs over the fireplace of the library: a plaque that reads “E Pluribus Unum”. The phrase is in a language more archaic than Lincoln’s telegraph. It means this: Out of Many, One. I’ve always thought it to be an allusion to the Pledge of Allegiance. The Pledge of Allegiance, incidentally, goes something like this:

We pledge allegiance

To the flag 

of the United States of America—

And to the republic, 

of which we stand, 

one nation 

under God, 

indivisible, 

with liberty 

and justice for all.

The pledge is written like a song, though it is not at all musical. It does, however, hold a strange rhythmic quality which I’ve tried to replicate here. It’s a bit like beat poetry, or a reverse soliloquy—spoken by many, to one: the Star-Spangled Banner. Out of Many, One. E Pluribus Unum. This same Latin phrase is inscribed on the money we used to print. The U.S. Mint does not mint new money, and I can’t figure out how to use the machinery. There is no use for money, and it seems another litter in the endless piles of littered garbage. The countenances of dead men litter obsolete bills. The five-dollar bill, in particular, features on it Abraham Lincoln. That is how much his life was valued at. No more, no less. If I were to have been put on a bill of currency, I’d hope it to be one of high value (a thousand, ten-thousand, a hundred-thousand, a million, a billion, so on and so forth). My self-esteem, however, is fairly low. I would value myself at about fifty-five cents. A fifty-five cent bill. It serves as much purpose as anything else the mint has produced. The paper is good for warmth. In desperate moments during my late year touring of the country, I’ll set ablaze a stack of dough. This is the new purpose of money. During the reign of Dictator Limzenhouer, all currency was replaced with his countenance. The man was angry, and German. More German than I. His mustache curled around the corners of his mouth like two devilish grins, mirrored back-to-back like siamese twins. His lips always coalesced into a disagreeable pout that seemed to say: “I don’t much like you, and I don’t particularly wish to rule you.”. Despite this, he did rule me, and did so for a solid five years before they killed him. I’ve noticed they is often used pejoratively. An othering of them from us. I do not intend to use the word this way. I miss them, and I miss us. I miss people, generally. Plurals.

There will be a point, later in this writing, where I will detail to you my childhood with Limzenhouer. I will also tell you about my campaign, and the big dying. These things take time. Patience is a virtue. 

I write as I think, with little polish added. I am a man of many thoughts, but little mind. I feel my mind deteriorate over time, but I am healthy. I am healthier mentally and physically than most men in my same predicament would be. I read, and I write, and I jog often. I jog through Washington, D.C., and ignore the smell of the corpses. It is easiest to ignore that lingering smell of rot on a rainy day, when dew still freshly lines the overgrown weeds on those unkempt lawns that, at one time, held the presence of life. In a way, they still do. The grass still grows, the flowers still bloom, the mushrooms still poke out from the soil. And I am president of it all. It is all there is left to be president of. To jog in the rain is a pleasant excursion. The splish-splash under my feet feels refreshing, and the air is just cool enough to help combat the sweat that drips from my brow. I like to bike, as well. Biking is great for the quads. Many people like to (or liked to—they are all dead now) walk uphill with their bike. I prefer to pedal onward. As I see it, the purpose of life is to take the uphill with the downhill. The uphill burns like hell, and makes that downhill slope all the more rewarding. Those little bits of ecstasy are all that I have left. I remember I once took a biking excursion to the market. This was, perhaps, a year or two ago. Time is not of the essence. That is a good thing. I dislike the pressure of time. Anyhow, I grew up in D.C., and used to bike to this little market from my house. It was named something like Lee’s Goods, or Lee’s Produce, the exact title slips from my grasp now. My mother would ask me to buy a bundle of bananas and a box of instant rice. She’d slip me a ten-dollar bill, and I’d be on my way. I still remember the route. From my neighborhood, I’d go straight for a quarter of a mile, turn left near a great big roundabout, head off the first exit, and go down, toward the Lincoln Memorial, until I saw that corner store. I’d walk in, greet the man whom I called Lee (thinking of it now, I don’t believe the man was truly named Lee), grab the ripest bunch of bananas I could find, that box of instant rice with the cheerful white man on it, and a tiny pack of chewing gum. I would slam this on the counter, presenting the man whom I called Lee with the ten-dollar bill. The man would say something like: “Same old, same old.”. He would give me back about $2.50 in change, and I’d be on my way home. Exeunt! 

Of course, I hadn’t been to this corner shop since the day I turned fifteen. Something inside me that day, one or two years back, wished to see what had become of the place, though I knew it could not have been pleasant. So I made the journey, on bicycle, pedaling to high heavens. The brand of bicycle was, I believe, Huffy, though it’s been a minute since I’ve taken the thing out. It’s parked away somewhere in that area that used to be a rose garden. I imagined the name Huffy was supposed to be an onomatopoeia—the sound a person makes when pedaling upward:

Huffy, puffy… huffy, puffy…

I’m sure this was not the intent behind the name, though I like this explanation more than whatever the ‘true’ one may be. Whatever it is, the men who named it are long dead now. All that is left is me, and what I think of the name. I am lonely. I am truly alone. Staring into the visage of the old supermarket that day reinforced this feeling stronger, and more harshly, than anything else could have. What struck me first was, I believe, the smell. It wafted from a block or two away. The smell was of pure rot, filth, and decay. It was the most potent thing I had ever experienced up to that point. It was that sort of scent that permeates as a sour taste in your mouth, a tingling on the tip of your tongue, an uncontrollable salivation, the feeling in the back of your throat when you’ve given up on fighting nausea, accepting the vomit that creeps slowly from your esophagus. It was the smell of death itself. This smell, naturally, increased as I grew nearer. And I grew farther and farther into disbelief. The scent crescendoed at the front facade, when my nostrils felt as though they may turn topsy-turvy. My eyes recoiled in similar fashion to my nose. The sign had rotted away. This was all that was left of the sign:

Lee … O …

I imagine Lee saying this, grasping at his chest, victimized by the great dying. I always enjoyed the one-letter spelling of ‘oh’. That dramatized spelling that folks like Shakespeare once used in their writing. It’s a great beginning to a deep lamentation. Perhaps that is how I should start my sentences from now on.

O, I walked into the decrepit market that bore only the loosest of resemblances to that of my memory.

O, I’m unsure of why I entered the store. My face and body were immediately assailed by a gang of starved flies. The flies had eaten through the cadaverized produce, mummifying it in the process. God, that smell. I still can’t get over that smell. I left, immediately. I biked back home. I slept for three days. I didn’t want to think about that wretched place any longer.

O, pity, pity, pity.

Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio. He was a fellow of infinite jest.

There is much dying to be seen. Valleys of it, for those with eyes. I don’t go outside much anymore. The sight of the market soured my appetite, maybe. That isn’t to say I don’t go outside, but I can’t say that the outdoors much entice me now. Maybe I should go out again. Exeunt! Fresh air, as I’ve heard, does the mind and body well. There’s another piece of bologna you’ll find in most self-help books. Fresh air, and a flippant disregard to death. These are the key to a joy-filled life. An existence of infinite jest. If it was that easy, I’d be the happiest man alive. Perhaps I am. There are few left. Only me. President of everything. Everything but man.

Bah, humbug.