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The
prime minister parked her minivan on the street. The perfect
space was open--in front of the café, two blocks from
the subway. Parallel parking never gave her any trouble so the
car fit easily into the spot. She slammed her door and with
a quick flick of the keychain the car doors locked simultaneously
with a beep. The prime minister looked a bit lost. Her long
black coat flapped in the unusually warm breeze that December
day. I was sitting on the apartment steps reading the mail and
taking advantage of the weather.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you live in this building?” she
said. I replied affirmatively. She asked me how much the rent
was, and her face fell when I told her the (very reasonable)
price. “That’s too much,” she said.
She continued: “Allow me to introduce myself—I am
prime minister of my nation. I am looking for a location to
launch my campaign in America. My country is trying to gain
awareness for its suffering. What do you do? Oh, sales? You
have contacts in the media, no?” Her long coat caught in
the wind again. Underneath the coat she was wearing pink sweatpants,
her feet in what looked like furry bedroom slippers.
I replied: “Sorry, my contact is really limited to what
I sell—only photographs to magazines.”
Her face fell again. “So you don’t have pictures taken
at events to place, no? That’s no good. What I really need
for my campaign is a writer and a psychiatrist. Do you write?”
“No, not really. A friend of mine is a publicist…”
“That’s no good either. My country needs me to get
my face and name into the media. I need a writer and a psychiatrist.
The writer will write articles about me. The psychiatrist is
more important--he will project me into the minds of the people.”
“I’m afraid I can’t really help you with those
jobs. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir. Please keep me in mind—you’ll
see me around.”
The prime minister slowly walked away down the street; she was
looking at the buildings like four walls and a roof were a novel
idea. After she had turned the corner I realized she never told
me the name of her country nor had I asked. A new governing
body was being set up in Afghanistan; she could have been a
tribal bureaucrat in her furry slippers. Or an emissary from
distant lands petitioning for independence like Quebec, Texas,
or Staten Island. She had hints of each of those lands. Perhaps
she was beginning her own country for herself. The wandering
diplomat’s minivan was replaced by another car when I returned
home that evening. Her face never did appear in any newspapers
or magazines I read. Perhaps her country of one had had a referendum
and voted her out of office. Stranger things have happened.
| Matthew
Patrick, February 2002 |
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