Story #50 - Good Morning, Mr. President

Hello everyone! Wow, I can't believe I made it to fifty stories. Only two more to go, and I'll have fulfilled my challenge! That's pretty exciting. This week's story is a light, humorous sci-fi story. I hope you enjoy it!

Title: Good Morning, Mr. President
Warnings: mild bad language
Summary: Nineteen-year-old college student Kyle Turnpike and the President of the United States have much more in common than they thought.
Length: ~3,300 words
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. Genre is primarily sci-fi and humor. Also, a brief disclaimer:  I know next to nothing about how the White House works, so please excuse any plot holes.



Good Morning, Mr. President

                I wake up slowly, eventually becoming aware of a few things. My room just got a lot brighter. It’s kind of cold. And someone is saying something, but I’m still too sleepy to concentrate on their words. After a while, I decide to pay attention.

“Rise and shine, Mr. President, it’s time to get up now,” the person says.

Mr. President?

“Alright, I’m getting up,” I say, still refusing to open my eyes. My voice sounds weird – deeper and rougher and older. I hear the person leave the room, and I finally open my eyes and sit up. What I see confuses me.

This is not my room. I am not in my bed. There’s no Dungeons and Dragons poster on the wall across from me. The bedsheets don’t have the Millennium Falcon on them (though admittedly, they’re a lot nicer than mine). The room is bigger, and brighter, and frankly a hell of a lot better than my room. But why am I in someone else’s bedroom? Hastily, I glance at the other side of the bed and around the room, but there’s no one else here. Either my mystery one-night stand is somewhere else or I didn’t have a one-night stand (which, let’s be honest, is more likely). That still doesn’t explain why I’m here.

That’s when I see the U.S. seal etched on pretty much every available surface. Then I see legal papers lying all around. A foreboding starts to build up in me, but I ignore it. Maybe I’m in the bedroom of a lawyer or government official. I scoot out of the bed and get up. My bare feet look different and I’m not wearing my own clothes. And everything is either much shorter here, or I’m taller.

I can’t be… but that person (a staff member?) did call me “Mr. President”… but surely that was a joke…

Filled with trepidation, I locate the bathroom. The first thing I see are towels clearly marked with the White House seal. And the next thing I see is the mirror.

I can hardly hold back a scream. Because the person turning paler and paler in the mirror – that’s William Cogney, the President of the United States of America. And when I raise my hands to my mouth, so does he.

My God. Somehow I, geeky, nineteen-year-old college student Kyle Turnpike, have swapped bodies with the U.S. President.

Okay. This has to be a dream. I pitch myself, watching out of the corner of my eye as the President in the mirror pinches himself too. Nothing happens. Growing desperate, I splash some water on my face, but all that does is get my face wet. I stare into the mirror at the President’s face (he looks exhausted close up) for long minutes, until a knock at the door startles me.

“Everything okay, Mr. President?” the same man from before asks. I wonder if he is the Presidential Aide. Aren’t they supposed to follow the President everywhere they go and help him and stuff? In fact, what about the Secret Service? How will I ever be able to pull this off? They’ll know something is wrong right away, even if they won’t suspect what the truth is.

“Uh, yeah, just gimme – uh, give me a minute, please,” I say. I feel the urge to slap myself on the forehead. That didn’t sound very Presidential. And did Presidents thank their aides? Is this man even my aide? Am I supposed to call him by name? Damn, I wish I was more politically aware. I wouldn’t even recognize the Vice President if he walked up to me.

“Sure,” the man says. Before I can freak out over whether Presidents thank their maybe-aides, I hear footsteps walking away. Well, good. I guess I don’t have to worry about that.

I turn around and sit down on the closed toilet seat. It’s kind of pathetic, but for the moment this bathroom is my safe haven. In a minute I’m going to have to go out there and pretend like I know how to run a country. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve got plenty of experience playing Age of Empires. But that is not the same as playing Yeah Sure I’m The President Can’t You Tell I Know What I’m Doing.

But then again, my cynical, conspiracy theorist roommate Roger would claim that all Presidents play the I Know What I’m Doing game.

Speaking (well, thinking) of Presidents, I wonder what happened to the real William Cogney? Has he taken over my body? I think that’s how these things usually work. I’ve read a lot of sci-fi books, but not too many had to do with body-swapping. But I think it’s usually both ways.

God, how embarrassing. My dorm room is a mess. And Roger? I hope he doesn’t do anything embarrassing. He is not going to believe me what I tell him this story.

There’s got to be a way out of this. In the body-swapping books I’ve read, something always starts the swap and something always undoes it. I just have to figure that out. In the meantime, I have a world of possibilities at my feet. I can read all the bills the President is supposed to look over… I could veto something I don’t like… I could introduce a policy for all college students to get better dorm food… or hell, better dorms in general.

The President of the United States really does have a lot of power. And for now, believe it or not, that President is me. All I have to do is play President well enough for people to believe me (and who would suspect the truth, anyway?) and then I can hopefully go back to normal. Maybe I can leave my mark on the world during it.

But on the other hand, maybe that’s not such a bright idea. It’s probably illegal to take advantage of swapping bodies with the President. Well, actually, I doubt there’s a law against it. But I don’t think the real President would be very happy when he gets back.

I decide not to do anything but play President and not decide stuff for the moment. Maybe I can say I’m not feeling well. I open the door and am walking out of the bathroom when I hear a ringing. Confused, I look around, but the fancy phone on the end table isn’t ringing. I follow my ears until I locate an iPhone lying in the suit pocket of one of the President’s jackets. Cogney has an iPhone? Nice!

I look at the number calling me and gulp. I recognize that number – it’s my own. The President must be calling me. Quickly, I answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” the voice replies. You know how it’s weird to hear yourself over the phone, like in a recorded message? Well, for the record, it’s even weirder to talk to yourself over the phone. “This is going to sound insane, but –”

“We swap bodies,” I say, accidentally interrupting the President. Bad idea. But hey, he sounds like me. I interrupt myself all the time.

“Yes,” Cogney says with a laugh that I recognize as my nervous laugh. “Well, you know who I am. And you are?”

“Kyle Turnpike,” I respond. “Nineteen-year-old college student. But today’s Saturday, so you don’t have to worry about going to classes. Actually, I didn’t have anything planned for today, sir.”

“Well, as you can imagine, I had quite a bit planned,” he says. “What has happened so far?”

I’m quiet for a while. It’s sinking in that I’m having a phone conversation with the President of the U.S., even if he does sound (and look, I’m guessing) like me. I’m not starstruck, exactly, but I’m a bit shocked.

“Hello?” Cogney says, his tone much politer than mine usually is.

“Sorry,” I say. “I spaced out. Um… so far, someone woke me up, and now they want me to come outside, but I told them to wait a minute.”

“Good. That was most likely Stephen, my personal aide.”

Hah! I guessed it.

“I have a lot to do today,” the President continues. “I think it is in our best interests – and the country’s – to rectify this as soon as we can. Do you have any idea what could have caused this?”

“Well, I’ve read a few books or seen a few movies where this happened,” I reply. “Usually it was to teach the people a lesson, because they said something, or they did something at the same time. Like ate the same dinner and then magically swapped bodies. What did you eat for dinner, Mr. President?”

“Filet mignon with asparagus.”

“Hmm. Nevermind, then. I ate mac ‘n cheese and then a five-hour energy drink. Besides, I’m a vegetarian. Let’s see… Another possibility is that we were both abducted by aliens and simply don’t remember.”

“…”

“No, you’re right, that’s unlikely. But then again, so is this entire situation. Did you wish to swap bodies with a college student? I didn’t wish that I wanted to be President.”

“No, Mr. Turnpike. I appreciate your enthusiasm in figuring this out, but I’m not sure if you’re approaching this the right way. Maybe you should consult with Dr. Leonard, my personal doctor. He of all people should be able to discern the cause of our transformation.”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “Um… and until you make it to the White House… what do I do?”

I listen patiently, trying not to appear overwhelmed, as the President tells me exactly what to do and how to behave in the White House, as well as how to let him, looking like a nineteen-year-old college student, into the White House. Basically, I have a meeting with the ambassador of South Africa that I’m to put on hold because I’m not feeling well, and I should contact Stephen and ask for the papers to review. Then I am not to do anything until Cogney gets here.

To which I say… boring! But I guess it is better for the sake of the country. Especially because, even in Age of Empires, I usually lost.

Hey, running a country, virtual or not, can be pretty difficult.

I walk out of the door and am immediately surrounded by some dudes that are probably Secret Service and Stephen. They seem to be heading left, so I walk with them, trying to hold my head up high and look regal until I realize that the Presidency isn’t supposed to be a monarchy.

“You know my meeting with the ambassador from South Africa?” I say to Stephen. I wish I remembered the name of the ambassador, but the President threw a lot of information at me and I’m no good with names.

“Yes, we’re heading towards that right now, Mr. President,” Stephen replies.

We’re going there now? Damn! I stop in my tracks. “Actually, I’d rather not go,” I say.

Stephen looks at me, surprised. “Why not, sir?”

Will the under-the-weather excuse work? I don’t have any other card to play. “Truthfully, I feel like hell – uh, I mean, I don’t feel very well. It might be a better idea to reschedule the meeting and just give me the papers to look over. I’m not at my best or my most clear-minded right now…”

Which would hopefully be an excuse for anything out-of-character I do, because judging by everyone’s looks of surprise, Cogney doesn’t swear much. I try to look sad and sick, but it’s hard to contort a face that is not my own. What would look sad and sick on my face could look manic or bored on Cogney’s.

Still, it seems to do the trick. After a miniscule study, Stephen says, “Of course, Mr. President,” and we head straight back to my (well, Cogney’s) bedroom.

Cool. No international incidents. Now I just get to look at all the top-secret legal documents the President is trusting me with. I wonder if I could add any cool ideas – I wouldn’t have to change anything, but it’d be a really great and easy way to get my voice heard. I wonder how Cogney would feel about making Klingon or Elvish a national language or teaching it in high schools.

Nah, it’s best not to say anything. When I run for President myself, I’ll have Cogney vouch for me instead. Assuming I end up running for President (unlikely) and that people still like Cogney by then (possible) and he’s still alive (who knows).

A few hours later, I’m both content and not. Being the President and living the high life is pretty nice. I have servants to give me food and medicine for my “fever” (Dr. Leonard has not come by, but in the phone call Cogney had decided not to tell him quite yet after all). But on the other hand, I understand why the President gave me these files to go over. They don’t involve any signing or any laws or anything and they’re boring as hell. Cogney probably looked at them already, but his staff doesn’t know that so they’re letting me waste my time on them. Playing Sick President isn’t nearly as fun as potentially playing Take Charge And Save The World President.

After a while, Stephen comes in again. He looks confused and slightly annoyed. “There’s some kid that wants to see you, sir,” he says. “Apparently he’s very insistent. I told him not to bother you, but he insisted that you wanted to hear from him and had a meeting for him. His name’s Kyle Turnpike.”

I try not to feel insulted by Stephen’s obvious annoyance at me (well, Cogney – if only he knew). I also try not to let my relief show. The President is here! We can figure something out. “Yes, I asked for him,” I say.

Stephen looks dubious. “He’s very young.”

“Yes, well, he’s actually not as young as he looks. He’s nineteen. But he’s like Frodo.”

At Stephen’s blank look, I elaborate. “You know, Frodo the hobbit from The Lord of the Rings? He looks really young but he’s actually fifty-something and quite wise. His name even means wise. Granted, Kyle only means narrow, but the point is that he’s wise, too, despite being so young.”

Stephen stands blinking at me and I realize that I’ve taken it too far. In the history books, they will probably refer to this as “President Cogney’s Crazy Day.” God, I hope it’s only one day. I don’t want to save the country by doing nothing forever, but I don’t want to actually have to be the President.

“Please, send Mr. Turnpike in,” I say.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Stephen says, still looking baffled. He leaves. I wait a little while, and then I walk in. Well, I know it’s not me, but it’s still a shock – it’s like looking in a mirror, but one that doesn’t follow your actions. An identical twin, maybe. But hell, is my acne really that bad? How embarrassing.

Cogney doesn’t have any Secret Service tailing him. I wonder how he managed to arrange that. Or maybe I did. I’m the one with the power here.

“Hello,” Cogney says. My voice sounds really high even when it’s not on the phone. Everyone’s been lying to me when the assure me that I don’t sound like that.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Yes.” Cogney takes a seat at one of the fancy wooden tables. He moves around comfortably in this room, because he knows it, but he isn’t comfortable in my body. I don’t blame him. I still think I’m shorter than I am, and I stumbled over my larger feet once. (Actually, it should be President Cogney’s Crazy And Now Also Clumsy Day.)

“So…” I say. “What do we do?”

“Ideally, we wait here until we change back into our true bodies, and then we leave as if we just had a meeting.”

“Well, how do you know we’ll switch?”

Cogney looks at his wrist (well, it’s really my wrist) as if he’s checking a watch, but I don’t wear one. “What time is it?” he asks.

I look at my wrist (really Cogney’s), and sure enough, it’s got a watch. “Seven p.m.,” I answer. It’s later than I thought.

“Excellent,” the President says. “Hopefully, we’ll find out if my theory is correct soon.”

I perk up. “You have a theory? What is it?”

“The evidence is very circumstantial,” Cogney warns. “But I was thinking about what you said – that maybe the body-swapping has to do with eating similar food. You mentioned that you had a five-hour energy drink… well, so did I.”

“Oh, great!” I say. “Maybe we’ve got something. But I actually had three five-hour energy drinks.”

“So did I.”

I stare at the President, surprised. I know five-hour energy drinks are bad for you, but as a college student, I figure they’re better than meth. I guess the U.S. President feels the same way.

“That would be fifteen hours of energy,” Cogney continues. “And I woke up at six. Assuming that we swapped bodies soon after our energy drinks, we should swap back at about nine, if not sooner.”

I frown. “You really think we swapped bodies just because we both had three five-hour energy drinks at the same time?”

The President shrugs. “Those drinks are weird,” he says. “No one really knows what’s in them. And how often do two people drink three in a row at the same time?”

“Good point,” I concede. “So, in the meantime… what do we do?”

“The President and Kyle Turnpike are going to have a rather length meeting,” Cogney says.

I grin. This is too weird, but might as well take advantage of it. What a crazy way to get a chance to speak to the President!

“In that case…” I begin, “How do you feel about teaching Klingon in public schools?”

It happens at about 8:30. I’m going through the merits of using Star Wars military strategy with Cogney when suddenly everything goes black. I can only guess that I passed out. When I come to, I find myself slumped at the table Cogney was at, staring at Cogney waking up on the bed. He looks like himself again. I raise my hands. They look like mine. I’m wearing my clothes. Quickly, I run to the bathroom. The familiar image of Kyle Turnpike, acne and all, stares back.

“Oh, thank God,” I whisper, relieved to hear the sound of my own slightly high-pitched voice.

“Wow,” I hear the President mutter from behind me. “It really was the energy drinks.”

I quickly turn to him, becoming slightly starstruck now that he looks and sounds like the President. “Thank you, sir,” I say.

He looks at me quizzically. “For what?”

I shrug. “For listening to me. For not freaking out. For making sure I didn’t screw up the country.”

The President laughs. “Of course, Mr. Turnpike. And thank you for your knowledge of body-swapping books and for taking a sick day. Now, I think it’s time that you and I end our meeting. People will be curious to know what young Kyle Turnpike had to say that kept the President enamored for so long.”

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I muster up the courage. “What are you going to say?” Will I have a legacy from this crazy adventure?

Cogney actually winks at me. “You’ll see.”

And the next day, back in my small dorm room with the Dungeons and Dragons poster and the Millennium Falcon bedspread, I see a few interesting articles in the paper.

“President pushes for law banning five-hour energy drinks!” one says.

“President inquires about value of Star Trek and Tolkien linguistics!” proclaims another.

“President honors nineteen-year-old Kyle Turnpike for ‘giving me new ideas!’” says yet another.

I smile. My roommate Roger is going to have a field day when he sees this.

The End! J