The Dangerous Dream

"You're going to be the next president of the United States," Skipper York told Duffy Artois, who sneezed.

"One of us is dreaming." Duffy dropped a book onto the porch of the rustic cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains of southern California, and blew his nose.

"You can't lose," said Skipper, "with my help."

"You are the last person on earth I expected to be knocking on my door." Duffy's tawny mane flowed out of a blue woolen watchcap. His matching beard was untrimmed. He wore a lumberjack shirt-jacket. In contrast, Skipper sported a gray London Fog overcoat over a brown business suit, complete with power necktie. Not a hair in his coif was out of place. Nevertheless he ran a comb through it, complaining,

"You just waited for me to go away." After knocking repeatedly on the front door, Skipper had, avoiding snow patches in his Florsheim wingtips, stepped carefully around back where he found Duffy sitting in a chair. "You're going insane up here," Skipper said, exhaling puffs of vapor. "You need civilization. Civilization needs you."

"Need is the fundamental illusion of the human race, Mr. York."

"Okay," said Skipper, "civilization deserves you, then." "Lectures on Ancient Philosophy" was the title of the book. Duffy picked it up and leafed through it, trying to find his place. "And you look like a man without a purpose," added Skipper.

"I have a purpose," Duffy said. "I just don't know what it is."

"That's the same as not having one, isn't it?"

"Do not take it upon yourself to assign me a purpose." Duffy's chest puffed noticeably when Skipper said,

"Brutal honor: you have what the country needs, I mean deserves, right now. And you're a famous orator."

"I'm no Jack Kennedy," Duffy said, "even though I look like him. I don't have his ambition."

"You don't look anything like Jack Kennedy," Skipper said impatiently. "We've got to get to work preparing you for next year's primaries."

"I'm a millimeter shorter than he was."

"You're five-feet-seven inches tall," Skipper asserted.

"I'm five-nine," Duffy argued.

"Jack Kennedy was over six feet tall," said Skipper, "and you're the same height as my dad. He was five-feet-seven."

"Where did you get your height?" Duffy asked Skipper.

"From my mother, of course. The California primary is probably going to be moved to February next year."

"I've always wanted to ask how tall you were."

"I was six feet one inch," said Skipper, "and, as far as I know, I still am. You're going to be on the presidential primary ballot in California next February."

"Without the beard I look like JFK," Duffy argued.

"You look more like The Cat In The Hat," said Skipper. Duffy looked thoughtfully down at the cat in his lap, saying,

"I can't get elected cow county assessor. I'm honest."

"Except when discussing your stature," Skipper pointed out. "Have you been paying attention to what is going on in this nation?"

"What's the latest symptom of moral decay?" Duffy asked.

"This country is going to hell in a handcar."

"Did your stock portfolio blow up or something?" Duffy asked. Skipper raised his eyebrows. "I guessed it, didn't I?"

"That's not the half of it," Skipper growled.

"It's your kids, isn't it?" Duffy said. Skipper dropped his head. "What did they do this time?"

"Never mind about that," said Skipper. "Are you going to heed the call of your country?"

"The country isn't calling," said Duffy. "The country thinks it's fine."

"Well, you tell 'em, Duffy." Skipper rested a foot on the porch and polished his shoe with a handkerchief. "Wake the country up."

"I tried, remember? I couldn't be heard over the rap."

"Some of us heard you," said Skipper. "By God I think you're bitter."

"The turning point came 43 years ago," Duffy said bitterly, "back on November 22, 1963."

"To think that an opportunist handshaker," said Skipper, "has disturbed the guru's mountainous serenity."

"I apologize for calling you an opportunist," said Duffy, "whenever it was. Actually, I think you'd probably make a fair executive."

"I'm a realist," Skipper said ruefully, polishing the other shoe. "The electorate has me typecast, stereotyped, pigeonholed."

"I'm not diving back into the cesspool, Skipper."

"Thanks for not calling me Mr. York. So you're going to let the country go to hell?"

"It has already arrived."

"And you're going to let it stay there? Don't you love America?"

"I'm a realist," Duffy said, "like you."

"You can be an idealist and a realist both," said Skipper. "I'm both."

"Gee, I never realized you were an idealist."

"Are you one?"

"I've placed my hopes with the invisible world," said Duffy, "with the world to come. The material world is insufficient." Skipper carefully folded his handkerchief and reinserted it into his breast pocket.

"But you're still here in the material world, Duffy. Are you saying there is no point in trying to improve the material world?"

"I'm saying I have better things to do."

"Listening to the wind in the pines? Tasting the crisp mountain air?"

"Being at peace with myself," said Duffy. "Ambitious fellows like you may scoff at the idea of being at peace with oneself, but the fact is, if one is not at peace with oneself, one is at war with oneself, and war is hell."

"Too bad you can't be at peace with yourself and run for president at the same time, for your country's sake, for your fellow man." Duffy thought it over, replying,

"Maintaining one's dignity and peace of mind while being shot must be difficult." Skipper opened his mouth as if to answer, but only fog came out. "The challenge is taking the bullet gracefully," Duffy continued pensively, "in such a way as to inspire and encourage anyone daring enough to follow me." Duffy Artois rose up from his seat, holding the yawning tabby in one arm, and pulled himself to his full five-and-a-half feet, saying, "By god, for once in your life I think you're onto something, you crazy aristocrat. I have been feeling a bit useless lately." He stretched his legs and free arm and took a deep breath, exhaling a fog of his own. "I could use a challenge!"