A Simple Rebellion Page 2

  Amy appeared onscreen, jet black hair with a streak of white at the left temple. Bob never found out whether that was from some shock or merely an affectation,

  but it worked for Amy Brooks. Onscreen, her sharp features leaned forward intently as usual, bright blue eyes crackling with intelligence, small mouth almost always pulled slightly to the right in a smartass smirk even while forming the direst of words. Also as usual, she was elaborately explaining background information designed to underscore her main point. Amy Brooks would set up the imminent arrival of an apocalypse with extensive historical context.

  “… each of them presented their own challenges to the American public. Kennedy. Johnson. Nixon. Ford. Carter. Reagan. Bush I. Clinton. Bush II. Obama. Trump. Pence. Ritchie. Each pushed us a little further down the road to the government we now find ourselves living under. Democrat and Republican, Conservative and Liberal, each added to what we are today. Each was complicit, as are we all. We cannot ignore that we all contributed to forming our current government.

  “Our ongoing mistake was that we merely survived the calamities of these presidencies; we weathered the changes and betrayals and tightening of our freedoms and liberties, and we each must live with choosing to ignore the dark clouds as they gathered. Now we must ask whether we can endure the perfect storm that is President Beauregard “Bo” Statler.”

  A picture appeared onscreen behind and to the right of Amy; that of the same broad shouldered, jock- handsome man from the news report Bob watched at Pop’s. The square jaw underscored a smile that had been described as either reassuring or carnivorous depending on political allegiance.

  “Charismatic. Erratic. Beloved. Feared. Transformative visionary. Radical reductionist. Bold

  leader. Alienating isolationist. Bo Statler has been called all of these things. Whatever your view, it is clear he has pushed this country further than any of his predecessors. The results have been interpreted in wildly different ways, as has become the way of all things in this fractured Republic.

  “His former colleagues in the Democratic party demonize him as a traitor and a deranged, reckless conman.

  “His current Republican colleagues profess a strong working relationship but are never seen with him.

  “Conservatives doubt his motives. Liberals warn he will bring about Armageddon.

  “The media confirms a dozen versions of these positions depending on their specialty audiences.

  “And we each must wade through this morass of spin and politicking and gibberish searching for the truth, which has long been on the endangered-species list.

  “The questions we must ask ourselves in the face of all that has happened these past few decades is, ‘Are we the Americans we dreamed we would be?’ And I would add, do we understand what it really means if our answer is ‘yes’ – especially as our former allies burn?”

  She stared silently out of his television for a moment, as if waiting for Bob to answer, and then said, “We’ll be right back.”

  Steve lay down in a way that looked like he had fainted.

  “Amy girl, sometimes you are just too intense for Steve,” Bob spoke to the screen, raising one of his battered remotes. He clicked away from Amy to William Truth, another DVR mainstay. Old Will had an

  equally pronounced viewpoint, and a primetime show on National News. The lined face smirked ruefully over a blue pinstriped suit, sharp eyes glaring a challenge.

  “Any fool who dares doubt the dignity and diligence of our President is not a True American, and should be treated accordingly,” he said, managing to sound insistent, demanding, and dismissive at the same time. Bob knew his fans loved that about him.

  “We re-elected our President as an expression of where we want our country to go and we should celebrate his patriotic repurposing of our resources and rewriting of our national mission statement.”

  “After hacking election rolls, of course,” Bob murmured.

  “Anyone who does not support our President… well, the door’s right past Lady Liberty,” Will sneered. And then he leaned forward just as Amy had. “Start swimming.”

  As if in response, Steve leapt off the couch and strutted into the kitchen.

  “Don’t be so close minded, ya snob,” Bob called after him. “We need to be open to all sides of the conversation or where will we be?”

  The only response was the sound of Steve lapping water from his dish.

  “Drinking’s never the answer, Steve.”

  Bob clicked around the vast wasteland of cable stations approved to broadcast anything but news or political discussion. He did this for a while without registering anything that flashed before his eyes, until he landed on a familiar sight: the marble statue of Lincoln thundering down the steps of his own memorial, using one of its columns to swat at tourists.

  A much younger Bob stumbled onscreen, one of the stars of Monster Cops.

  Younger Bob looked up in awe and murmured, “Well, that wasn’t in the brochure.”

  Lincoln was followed by a swarm of power-suited werewolves. Shambling after them was a pack of zombies with cameras and microphones.

  “And I thought it was too on the nose back then,” Older Bob said.

  Younger Bob shot an alarmed look at Lionel Jackson, his costar. “Who the hell are the suits?”

  Jackson gave his signature scowl. “Can’t you recognize Congress?”

  “Explains the press.”

  Older Bob picked up the freshly hydrated dog, placed him on the couch, “Who knew we were making a documentary, Steve?”

  Steve rolled over, facing away from the TV.

  “Point made,” Bob sighed, condemning Young Bob to cable oblivion as he clicked on into the night.

  Chapter 5

  WINSTON MILLER, HOST AND executive producer of Miller Time, the up-and-coming late night talk show threatening to overtake both The Tonight Show and The Late Show’s ratings, was not pleased. His trademark grin was replaced with a carnivorous scowl. Standing in front of his famed writers’ table, Miller snarled at the mounted screen, “What do you mean you can’t get your client for us, Jeremy?” He turned to his writers, “What do you think happened to Jeremy,

  guys?”

  Onscreen, Jeremy visibly gulped.

  “I think an old guy just took his manhood.” “Castrated him.”

  “His office door should read Emasculated Jeremy.” Miller held up a hand and the comments stopped. He stepped forward so his entire face filled Jeremy’s monitor. “Get Bob Murphy on my show or I’ll spend a year burying you in every night’s monologue. You’ll be famous in the very worst way possible. Understand me,

  Eunich?”

  As Jeremy began answering, Miller cut the feed, turned to his staff. “We need Bob Murphy,” he said. After a moment’s thought, he snapped his fingers. “Get Sanderson! I want full hackage!”

  The writers looked worried. “Boss, we only hack on

  celebrity criminals….”

  “He’s being criminally negligent to his fans,” Miller smiled darkly. “We’re gonna find us a way to reel in this Great White Whale.” He spread his arms wide. “Call me Ishmael for this beloved Comedy Icon right here! Boys, we are going fishing!”

  Chapter 6

  BOB WAS STANDING IN the kitchen eating Cheerios when his phone jumped to life, bebopping a bouncy tune. He placed the bowl in the sink, chewed and swallowed quickly, wiping milk off his mouth with the back of his hand as he opened up FaceTime.

  “POP-POP!” His grandkids screamed from their end of the connection.

  “Suzie-Kalloozie and RobbaDobba!” The kids laughed. Bob joined them.

  “I’m so glad you two called! What’s going on? Tell me everything!”

  Both of them launched into updates simultaneously, neither stopping nor caring that the other was talking. Bob nodded his head, entirely focused on following both of them. When they finished, he gushed, “Great achievements, both of you. Spelling Bees are tough and so are intramural sports. Suzie-Kalloo
zie Rules! RobbaDoobba is King! You two are my heroes!”

  They shrieked in delight, drowning out the voice behind them. It repeated itself. “Okay, okay, can I speak to my dad, please?”

  The kids protested, then blew kisses, their little faces still full of laughter, and then the view blurred with motion before coming to rest on his son’s face.

  God, he looks so much like Mary Angeline.

  “Hey, Pop,” Jackson said.

  “Hey,” Bob smiled. “Suzie and Rob are getting so big.”

  “You saw them just two weekends ago, Pop.” “Which is why I must suspect steroids,” Bob shot

  back, smirking. “Son, parenting is not a competition.” Jackson laughed. “I’ll remind Veronica,” he said.

  “How you doing? Eating all right? You aren’t standing in the kitchen scarfing down bowls of Cheerios every night are you?”

  Bob wiped his mouth and chin as casually as possible, trying his best to be subtle. “It was steak tonight,” he said. “Grilled it up with sautéed onions, a baked potato, and some steamed asparagus.”

  “You hate asparagus.” “That was for Steve.”

  “You can’t live on cereal and pizza, Pop.”

  Bob deflected, “Who eats that combination? Dear God, what are you feeding my grandchildren?”

  Robbie, off camera, screamed, “Poop!”

  Jackson looked down and to his left in full dad mode. “Robert!”

  Offscreen, Robbie mumbled. “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Don’t apologize, RobbaDobba. Your dad should not be serving you poop!”

  The kids giggled wildly, stopping short when their dad scowled. Finally, Jackson cracked a smile for them. Everybody laughed.

  “Life is good,” he said into the phone, “even if my son feeds my grandkids poop.” Beautiful kids’ laughter exploded again. A cheap milking of the punchline, he knew, but anything for his grandkids.

  Chapter 7

  PRESIDENT STATLER STEWED IN the White House

  movie theater where he watched the illegal news shows and kicked custom-made chairs every time a statement pissed him off. Two incurred expensive damage during tonight’s viewing of The Amy Brooks Update.

  “How does she get to go on every night and spout such pure hate?” Bo boomed. “Didn’t we declare her kind enemies of the state?”

  “We did, sir,” said his Chief of Staff, Simon Wentworth. “She and her cohorts broadcast from secure locations.”

  Onscreen, Amy leaned forward. “Charismatic. Erratic. Beloved. Feared. Transformative visionary. Radical reductionist. Bold leader. Alienating isolationist. President Beauregard ‘Bo’ Statler has been called all of these for decades….”

  Wentworth, who watched with him every evening to keep Bo from making angered proclamations on social media, reached for the President’s gleaming remote. “Perhaps a comedy would be more enjoyable, Mr. President,” he offered. “They are running Bob Murphy movies on HBO all this month. You always enjoy his films.”

  Statler swatted his hand away, never taking his eyes off the screen. Slouched in his seat, POTUS seethed,

  “Can’t we arrest her for treason?” “Only if we can find her, sir.”

  “Find her then! Find her, shoot her, make it look like suicide, with a note apologizing for being so wrong about me,” Bo demanded. “Hey! I should tweet that.”

  “Better I just forward your orders to the TASE, sir.” “Good job, Wentworth,” Bo said, sated for the moment. He stared at Amy onscreen, growing calmer. “Find her,” he murmured. “End her.” Bo smiled. “Then I’ll eulogize her misguided but admirable American spirit to demonstrate the benevolence of True

  Americans.”

  Chapter 8

  THE MEADOWS.

  Again.

  Soft breeze. Blue skies. Sunshine. Tall grass. Her favorite blue picnic blanket. Those crackers from Pop’s that she likes so much, with Monterey Jack cheese cut small enough to sit neatly on top. Some chilled prosecco, her favorite, in champagne flutes. Mary Angeline looking up with those intoxicating brown eyes — the only eyes ever to look at him that way — a little embarrassed because she knows he’s staring.

  How breathtaking she is, even at their age.

  Once again, he needs to kiss that impossibly tiny mouth, to once more experience all that is right in his world.

  They move toward each other —

  Bob awoke in their bed, the moon’s placid glow turning their boudoir a soft, empty blue.

  He sighed. Like he did every night. Because he dreamed of her every night.

  He sat up and saw Steve. Usually, the dog slept on Mary Angeline’s pillow until the wee hours when Bob woke up and the ritual began. Tonight, he was already there, curled up in a little bed Bob had placed on his late wife’s dresser right under the nearly life size wedding portrait, directly below Mary Angeline.

  It was as close as Steve could get to her now.

  Bob stared at it as had become his ritual, the portrait somehow offering both dog and man comfort in this desolate time of night.

  It was as close as Bob could get to her now.

  At first he had resisted the portrait. He thought that hanging a huge picture of them in their home seemed vain. When she sensed his resistance, she grew quiet, never one to argue. But when Mary Angeline became quiet Bob’s world trembled. So huge portrait it was.

  He ignored it for years, walking by the pretentious thing day after day. If he saw her admiring the photograph, he was happy to gush over how gorgeous she was in it, but for Bob, Mary Angeline defined beauty wherever she was, so why did he need an imitation of that splendor hanging over the living room couch?

  To Bob, the portrait was hers. And then, it wasn’t.

  Nothing was.

  He had opened his entire world to her and Mary Angeline had immeasurably improved all of it, until the vicious Fates decided such blessings no longer amused them.

  But before they cursed him, it had all been glory.

  As Bob’s career reached dizzying heights, he experienced guilt over their obscene wealth. Mary Angeline suggested a charity to fund relief efforts to countries hit by natural disasters.

  And so Gratitude Unlimited was born. They launched it using 40 percent of their wealth. His accountant was apoplectic.

  When Bob was home, they’d organize huge televised comedy specials to raise even more funds for the

  charity. When he was away, Mary Angeline would travel

  to heartbreaking locations and without fanfare pitch in to help the efforts she was financing. Sometimes it was delivering medicine to fight an outbreak of some disease. Increasingly, it was recovery efforts after the latest hurricane, earthquake, or tsunami. Always reported as “once in a century” these devastating events hit every few months. National News might refuse to report it as the result of escalating climate change, but the dead and the newly homeless knew better.

  And then president Bo decided no one should help foreign countries “until they pay their fair share,” whateverthehellthatmeant. Inherquietlyindependent way, Mary Angeline continued to fund and participate in relief efforts anyway, speaking about “putting people over politics” whenever National News demanded an explanation.

  Stupidly, Bob was proud instead of worried.

  He had underestimated the president, a mistake that would be his undoing.

  It was what Gratitude Unlimited staff called “a deliver and run trip” to a disease-ravaged part of the Third World. Mary Angeline and her team were forbidden to go, but their plane was private, the flight plan could be faked, so what would be the harm in saving thousands against some politician’s wishes? Further, medical experts assured them they could be on the ground for up to four hours before the plane’s self-contained atmosphere would get infected, and the plan was for them to be in country no more than 90 minutes. It would be easier to apologize than ask permission.

  Or so they thought.

  The president weaponized that private plane against Gratitude Unlimited, and with
a small bribe to the government of that country, stranded them for five days.

  Five days.

  The entire relief team was declared a national health risk and barred from re-entering The States.

  “They were warned,” National News reported, “but Hollywood egos won’t listen to the wisdom of our leaders.”

  The Red Cross, now a Canadian organization after it was banned for violating similar national policies, eventually airlifted the Gratitude Unlimited team out of that hellhole. Bob flew to France where they were taken for treatment.

  It was too late. Bo’s plan had worked perfectly. Another of his perceived enemies had been dealt with. Bob sat by Mary Angeline’s side imprisoned in a contamination suit, unable to touch his beloved as she used all of her fading energy to call medical experts around the globe trying to save her team. By the time the last of them died, Bob had been forced to witness every aspect of his stunning wife wither to barely more

  than a skeleton.

  And then it was only Bob and Mary Angeline, her bedridden, him in that damned suit.

  The fragrance of the flowers piled high outside the hospital window couldn’t reach them. Headlines couldn’t reach them. Presidential orders for Bob to return couldn’t reach them. French officials misdirected True American ambassadors away from Murphy’s location, sending them to all parts of the country.