Barkley Bohner, Celebrity Philosopher

Chapter 30

The call of the eastern whip-poor-will is rather problematic to identify in a dream, as they are prone to start making stuff up. In a dream-wake state at the crack of dawn, however, their call resolves with great clarity:

"You are in a strange bed in a cabin in a forest. You are in a strange bed in a cabin in the forest."

I waited for the fog to clear from my head. I was having more trouble than usual. I vaguely recalled Dan Akroyd from the Blues Brothers handing me three Valium the evening before, some four minutes into our ride out of New York City. His manner had been very persuasive. 

Sometime later, we pulled up to a military encampment deep in the woods. A Marine sentry at the gate inspected our documents and waved us through to another checkpoint. I was too far gone to take in the details. I do recollect that Dan Akroyd, plus two others that greatly resembled him, had considerable difficulty in coaxing me out of the car and keeping me on my feet.

Then I had to be coaxed back into a different vehicle, then back out, though it didn't take any coaxing to get me into bed. That was the last thing I remembered.

Now I was flat on my back, looking up past exposed ceiling joists and rafters to rustic wooden slats. I looked across. The morning light cast leafy shadows on the opposite wall of my room. The air was scented, clean and crisp. I took several deliberate breaths, attempting to get my bearings.

I was breathing. Always a good sign. 

And there was the whip-poor-will. I was definitely not in Harlem. The bedside clock radio indicated that it was 6:00 in the morning, though which particular morning I could not be certain. An ashtray by the clock bore the seal of the President of the United States.

What the fuck!

The phone went off. A land line phone on the bedside table. Should I answer it? I picked up the receiver, and said hello in a very groggy voice. 

"Is that you, Harvey?"

Harvey? Definitely a wrong number.

"Take a look at the packet on the nearest chair," said the voice. "Harvey is your new identity."

Suddenly, I recognized the voice. "Moosh! Where am I?"

"Take a peek outside your door. Don't worry. You're safe"

I got out of bed and poked my head out. Not far over stood a much larger structure. The recognition dawned. Suddenly, I was wide awake. I was in Camp David, the Presidential retreat in the Maryland woods.

"Moosh," I said, "this is crazy. Very powerful people want me dead, and here I am, right next door to the most visible man on earth."

"The President is in Washington," Moosh informed me. "In the meantime, you are on a US Naval facility, patrolled by Marines, surrounded by a maximum security wall, every inch of ground under constant surveillance, not to mention the airspace for miles and miles."

I stood there, in my boxer shorts (yet again), trying to take this all in.

"You sound like you could use some coffee," Moosh said. "Why don't you get dressed? There's some decent white man clothes in your closet."

I checked the closet. All my old stuff was there, plus some new clothes – baggy tan slacks, golf shirts, really awful looking shoes. "Moosh," I said, "these are clothes I wouldn't be caught dead in."

"Exactly," he said.

He did have a point. "There's an ID hanging on your bathroom door," he let me know. "Make sure you're wearing it. All you need to do is step out the door. Someone is bound to instantly materialize."

That's all I needed. "What do I tell them?" I asked. 

"Nothing. You're the President's guest. You don't have to tell anybody anything."

I wasn't even going to ask how Moosh arranged all this. Moosh was still talking:  "Someone will direct you to Laurel Lodge. There, you can grab a decent breakfast."

"What building am I in right now?"

"Witch Hazel Cabin. Next door is Aspen Lodge, where the President stays. I'm sure they'll let you use the pool if you ask nicely."

"I probably have to supply my own towels." This conversation was making absolutely no sense. "Look, Moosh. The people who want me dead – a few minor details like I'm in a very closely watched maximum security compound – is not exactly about to deter them."

Silence from Moosh. Then: "Can you see the pool? Directly underneath is a bunker hewn out of rock. In case of nuclear war, this is where the President and his top advisers evacuate. Is that secure enough for you?" 

Okay, now I was starting to be impressed. But something in me still resisted. "But suppose the President decides to come here on the spur of the moment?"

"Don't worry. We can stuff you down the bunker, in a pinch."

Yes, fine, but: "And what if they forget and leave me there?"

But I didn't ask it. A voice in my head told me first things first. I needed coffee, along with bacon and scrambled eggs and hot buttered cinnamon toast. If I die, let me die on a full stomach and an alert brain, fully satiated, with my neurons fully operational. 

Moosh seemed to be reading my mind. "You're safe," he said. "Your laptop is sitting on the table in the living room, on top of your faux Ruthegonian doily. Internet is super-secure. Feel free to use it, but don't be stupid about it. Get dressed. Have breakfast. Take a walk. Get settled in. Give me a call on the land line when you're ready. And remember, Harvey is what you go by."

Harvey Manne, said the name on my new driver's license and passport. Harvey Manne from Belvedere, Ohio. Oh shit! That's where Wendy of Wendy and Joe from Belvedere, Ohio were from. Wait – that's rather redundant. Wendy and Joe – you know, the ones from Belvedere, Ohio – who were my next-door neighbors in Costa Rica.

Just my luck, I thought. Next thing, I'll be running into them here at Camp David. Worse, we'll find ourselves sharing the same bomb shelter, along with her stupid parrot. The way the improbabilities were stacking up in my life, something like this was bound to happen.