Bounden Duty

I got a call from the White House, from the

President himself, asking me if I’d do him a personal

favor. I like the President, so I said, “Sure, Mr.

President, anything you like.” He said, “Just act

like nothing’s going on. Act normal. That would

mean the world to me. Can you do that, Leon?” “Why,

sure, Mr. President, you’ve got it. Normal, that’s

how I’m going to act. I won’t let on, even if I’m

tortured,” I said, immediately regretting that “tortured”

bit. He thanked me several times and hung up. I was

dying to tell someone that the President himself called

me, but I knew I couldn’t. The sudden pressure to

act normal was killing me. And what was going on

anyway. I didn’t know anything was going on. I

saw the President on TV yesterday. He was shaking

hands with a farmer. What if it wasn’t really a

farmer? I needed to buy some milk, but suddenly

I was afraid to go out. I checked what I had on.

I looked “normal” to me, but maybe I looked more

like I was trying to be normal. That’s pretty

suspicious. I opened the door and looked around.

What was going on? There was a car parked in front

of my car that I had never seen before, a car that

was trying to look normal, but I wasn’t fooled.

If you need milk, you have to get milk, otherwise

people will think something’s going on. I got into

my car and sped down the road. I could feel those

little radar guns popping behind every tree and bush,

but, apparently, they were under orders not to stop

me. I ran into Kirsten in the store. “Hey, what’s

going on, Leon?” she said. She had a very nice smile.

I hated to lie to her. “Nothing’s going on. Just

getting milk for my cat,” I said. “I didn’t know

you had a cat,” she said. “I meant to say coffee.

You’re right, I don’t have a cat. Sometimes I

refer to my coffee as my cat. It’s just a private

joke. Sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?” she

asked. “Nothing’s going on, Kirsten. I promise

you. Everything is normal. The President shook

hands with a farmer, a real farmer. Is that such

a big deal?” I said. “I saw that,” she said, “and

that man was definitely not a farmer.” “Yeah, I

know,” I said, feeling better.

Source: Return to the City of White Donkeys (HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 2004)