Foray's Blog

The issue with all of this was that I didn’t have first-hand experience with the ins and outs of power, and this would be crucial later on. 

I was literally sitting in the house of the White House, having a cup of coffee that I held on my left hand. It was a privilege, as I realized that this was what my father envisioned me as—and also what I envision too. I wasn’t just being an altruistic douchebag by coming here. 

The vice-president was a fan of make-up. She seemed to be a diva of her own, but the public voted for this woman so it was obvious that she was favorable. I had on my classic suit and tie; I thought I was an actual congressman, a person who was born to do this for a living. The person who got me here in the first place was my father, without a doubt.  

The meeting with the President, or to put it more accurately, the Vice President of the United States was quite a thrill. Sitting on the brown, leathered couch was a privilege, especially for a guy of my creed and socioeconomic background. There was a blissful air to the environment around me, a state of pure tranquility that housed the ingenuity. There was a sense of honor when I was holding this little cup of coffee, a little, white plate saucer located on the table in-between the two brown, leathered couches. The Vice President, having her drawn out black hair and snazzy, pedicured fingernails, smiled, also having her pinky out with two fingers locked in the wrist of the cup. She probably took more time freshening herself up instead of working on talking to the other side. I didn’t want to make my personal ideas out in public though, and I didn’t want to get into assumptions. 

“So . . . when did you first get this idea?” I was about to answer the question, but there were my other ingenious groupmates who really nurtured me in whatever I do. Wendy and Toby were sitting on neighboring chairs that were adjacent to the brown couch, while Flow, my honey-boo, was sitting right next to me with her legs crossed. I swear, she baited me. 

“Well, I—”

“His brain.” Flow always got a crack out of the audience, and it was like she could carry on with the conversation like that if she so wishes. Still, it was back to the serious realm, and I had a hefty story that would knock the socks out of any news reporter who decided to barge in. 

“Well, that is one thing! But way back when I was a little kid, my dad got me into this program called Science Minds. My father was extremely serious about my own success, and he heard that this program allows young kid to get exposed to various different scientific ideas, so genetics, astrophysics, biology, etc. We got into these little discussion sections, where we talked about our research on a particular topic. What I was really curious about were the ideas of chemicals and how they affect the brain. I was really inspired by my dad, because he used to be an illicit drug dealer during his teenage life.” Used to. “It made me wonder, is there a way to actually negate this feeling of drug addiction altogether?” 

“Sounds very ambitious.” 

“It does! But that is what makes it so thrilling! During the course of nine years, I have been trying to research and gather data on certain chemicals, tinkering on how they work. I usually go to the laboratory, and sometimes I would actually sneak into them in the middle of the night in order to experiment with things that pops up in my head!” It was now just me and my ingenuity spoken at its work. 

“So . . . are you telling me that you actually break the law?” 

“Technically, yes—but it is for a good cause though!” The Vice President got a knack out of my comments, and it was splendid how impeccable her listening capabilities are. I didn’t usually get that very often with my little brother. “Y’know, I actually got discovered by a security guard at the laboratory of my university, and he wondered what I was even doing. I told him that I was going to change the world, and if he shoot me, he would be risking the lives of millions of people.” 

“Now, I have to tell you, Maron,” After a sip from her cup of coffee, she placed the empty, white cup on the little, white saucer, lightly placing it back on the square table before she continued on with her mantra, “I have never seen a person like you. I think it’s beneficial that you work with the Department of Drug Addiction to pursue your undertaking.” 

“That is what I was about to ask!” I was excited, jubilant in this endeavor. This was the perfect opportunity to showcase the amount of years of labor I put. She was my hustle, the getaway to expanding this to the rest of the nation, maybe even the entire nation. I was thinking moves ahead, but my thoughts were so jumbled and lit up that I was afraid my ears would omit the sound coming from her mouth. 

“Definitely. I’m really hoping that the department would approve of your invention.”

“I believe it will so.” 

“So . . . do you have any locations yet?”

“Yes. I already worked with realtors to make a designated location of our company. It will be called The Swan Company.” The Vice President giggled, having the air of a different woman who apparently thought that my name-customization was clever and whimsical. “Yeah, it is really, really smart.” 

“Definitely. This is more down the line though, because it does take a long time before they start renovating what the company actually looks like. Nonetheless, right now, I’m hoping to get assistance from donors to get this kickstarted. I already have the Governor of California in my back pocket, and he is rooting for me to succeed. I’m hoping that we will also have you on our side as well, although I believe that will happen for certainty.” She was nodding her head in affirmation. “Great! Now, I would love to meet the Department of Drug Addiction to help us as well. You can showcase us on your Youtube channel or what have you.” I kind of wished they actually opened the comment section though, because I got to say, I want to say congratulatory greetings from individuals in America, or maybe there was a reason why they closed the comment section—but I wasn’t going to go that far. 

“We could. I believe that you will possibly change the world, Maron. I will talk with the Chair of the Department of Drug Addiction, then we can all designate a meeting there to discuss the steps moving forward. I’m really hoping to get started, Maron.” She gave out her hand that used to hold the wrist in an awkward fashion, but she was assertive, earning my own respect. It was the most important type of occasion for me, and there was no way things were not going to be smooth-sailing, that is until the sudden intrusion of a white-haired man, walking with his bare hands on the floor, came from the West entrance of this building. He was sniffing around, looking for some kind of treat like a little dog. For one moment, he was just staring at me, looking like Cujo from Stephen King’s novel. 

He seemed grotesque, and even though he was wearing a blue suit with a red tie, he seemed paranormal, almost anamorphic. 

“Da ba dee ba da ba doo ba dee da.” The weird sounds coming from his mouth were intrusive; he was running around our couches, going in a motion with no tangible direction. He was barking, maybe trying to grab and eat a fly in the floor. Then, the Press Secretary, a woman with fluffy hair, was trying to go around us, scurrying around to handle this white-haired man as if he was an actual canine—because he was—he was running with all fours. 

All of our mouths gaped in pure astonishment, the Vice President, cringing with her teeth showing. 

Luckily, the Press Secretary held the end of a leash; the circle seemed small to constrict the man’s neck, but it turned out that she adjusted the width of it by loosening up the strand; her tongue was on the side of her mouth, contemplating, thinking how she was going to capture him. It took her ten times around the White House, walking above the bald-eagle icon on the floor. I thought it was a futile task, but the Vice-President acted as the linebacker blocking the President’s front position. Out of her coat pocket, she brought out a little whistle that seemed to be for a purpose unknown to my knowledge. She brought it out, but it turned out it was a dog whistle as when she blew into it, no recognizable sound came across—but the . . . human dog . . . reacted with a sudden abruption to his movement. 

Then, his hands were right in front of his legs, but they were in the form of a dog panting with his tongue out. “Very good, boy. Very good.” Out of her jean pocket, she brought out a tiny box of dog treats that had a bone icon on it. The President’s eyes became jubilant, having the air of confidence that he was being rewarded. She dropped it down on the floor, the President not even waiting to gobble it up by kneeling his head down and munching on it. 

Our mouths were still gaped. 

It was now no problem that the Press Secretary wrapped the leash around the President’s neck; his demeanor was obedient, now having a calm, stoic movement of his arms and legs as she escorted him out through the entrance that he entered beforehand. 

“Okay, let’s bring you down now. Be a good boy. Be a good boy,” I heard when she went out to give him a walk. The Vice-President placed the treat box and whistle back in their respective pockets, then she ventured back to the couch she was sitting on . . . as if nothing happened.

“Let’s not talk about that, alright?! Forget everything that you just saw!”