The Obama Identity

by Edward Klein

  Taitsie’s bellow to “Get out!” could have been heard all the way over in that strange, benighted land called New Jersey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  At nine o’clock on a blustery weekday night, the wood-paneled bar at the Metropolitan Club, the most exclusive club in Washington, D.C., was deserted. The only other person in sight was the club’s longtime bartender, Raul Famosa, a dapper Cuban American with one glass eye, who was closing up shop for the night.

  “Good evening, Raul,” I said.

  “Buenas tardes, Señor Hijinbudun.”

  I had a warm spot in my heart for Raul. His father had worked undercover in Havana for the CIA before the Bay of Pigs invasion, and afterward The Deuce managed to get the whole family out of Cuba and bring them to the States. That was in 1962, when Raul was a fifteen-year-old punk with a thick Cuban accent. The Deuce straightened him out, made sure he got a high school diploma, and then arranged a job for him as a bartender at the Metropolitan Club.

  In Raul’s first days behind the bar, when I was still in my early twenties, I had inflicted some pretty serious collateral damage on his liquor inventory. I drank everything I could get my hands on: beer, bourbon, scotch, rum, and tequila. Oh, how I loved that tequila!

  Then, after the club lifted its ban on women members in the late 1980s, Taitsie and I would enjoy drinking at the bar while we chatted with Raul, who passed along all the juiciest political gossip in Washington. Taitsie had introduced me to the subtle delights of sherry at the Metropolitan Club bar, as prelude to the more obvious pleasures of liquor-fueled Sie müssen aufhören!

  A whole year had passed since that mortifying scene with the Desert Girls in Taitsie’s bedroom. I had made several attempts to apologize for busting into their cozy trio. To no avail. She didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

  I sat down at the bar, and Raul Famosa pushed a paper coaster in my direction.

  “Da jusual, Señor Hijinbudun. Club soda.”

  “Raul,” I said, “screw the club soda. Give me a Hidalgo Manzanilla Pastrana sherry.”

  He arched an eyebrow over his glass eye, but didn’t say a thing. He set a stemmed sherry glass on top of the paper coaster and filled it with pale gold liquid. I stared at the glass for a long moment, and then picked it up. My hand began to shake, and I spilled half the contents.

  “Señor,” Raul said, “ju gotta a problen or sometin’ like dat?”

  I drank the rest of the sherry in the glass

  “Another!” I said.

  He wiped the counter with a towel and poured me a second sherry.

  “Leave the bottle,” I said.

  “Jais, Señor Hijinbudun.”

  “Raul, this country is going to hell,” I said.

  “So I unnerstan,” he said

  “Morality’s out the window.”

  “Ju said it.”

  “I just got off the phone with my son,” I said. “He told me something I’ve never heard before. Have you ever heard of a commitment ceremony among three people?”

  “Los trios!” he said. “Dats how I got dis glass eye. From a marido celoso. A jay-lus hubund. A loon-attic! Caught me wid his wife.”

  “Pour me another.”

  “Jais, señor.”

  “This has nothing to do with a jealous husband,” I said. “My boy tells me that his mother, who’s been shacking up with not one but two women—that his mother wants to marry them both!”

  Raul poured me a fourth sherry.

  “Jur wife—I think chee has some ‘splainin’ to do.”

  My metabolic system wasn’t used to alcohol, and my head was spinning.

  “How can she commit to two women, for chrissakes?”

  “In Cooba, we have a sayin’,” Raul said. “Mira que tiene cosa la mujer esta! Whadda thing dis woman is!”

  For a while, I sat there in silence, contemplating this nugget of wisdom, and Raul busied himself washing and drying glasses. Then, seeking an escape from my tortured thoughts, I looked over at Raul.

  “Please turn on the TV.”

  “Lo siento, señor. Sorry. Club policy. No TV when da bar she’s open.”

  “Fuck club policy!” I shouted. “Turn it on. Now!”

  “Si, señor.”

  He grabbed the remote and hit a button.

  As usual, the TV was tuned to the Fox News Channel, and the screen filled with the face of Sean Hannity. The volume was on mute, so I couldn’t hear what Hannity was saying. Only the facts chosen with the greatest discrimination, I was certain. Then, the screen cut to the Reverend Jeremiah A. Wright.

  “Raul,” I said, “turn on the volume!”

  “Okai.”

  The Reverend Wright was standing at his church podium, dressed in a powder blue dashiki, and screaming at the top of his lungs.

  We have supported state terrorism against the Palestinians and black South Africans, and now we are indignant because the stuff we have done overseas is now brought right back to our own front yards. …America’s chickens are coming home to roost!

  The scene on the television screen was chaotic. Congregants were rushing up to Reverend Wright and shaking his hand.

  The Reverend Wright was all revved up.

  Racism is how this country was founded and how this country is still run!… We in the U.S. believe in white supremacy and black inferiority and believe it more than we believe in God.

  Sean Hannity was back on the screen.

  “Senator Obama’s friend, the Reverend Wright, is saying these things,” Hannity said, shaking his head. “We have to ask: How is this going to affect his campaign?”

  I knew damn well how this was going to affect Barack Obama’s campaign. If I wasn’t too drunk to think straight—and I felt instantly sobered by what I had just seen—the anti-white, anti-American tirade by the Reverend Jeremiah Wright could write finis to Obama’s presidential aspirations.

  Barack Obama had some ‘splainin’ to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Late the next afternoon, I assembled the members of the Tchaikovsky Circle in the conference room of MITT, the Midwestern Institute for Traditional Thinking.

  “Folks,” I began, “we’ve been handed a golden opportunity. These Reverend Wright video recordings with their attacks on the United States have created a firestorm. Obama’s been a member of that church for twenty years. How can he wriggle out of this one? Those video recordings have the potential to turn the presidential campaign on its head.”

  “Higgy,” Russ Slanover said, “the Trinity United Church has a website called www.g-damnAmerica.com. They’re selling DVDs of the Reverend Wright’s sermons.”

  “Oh great,” I said. “I just can’t wait to get the Reverend Wright’s Greatest Hits Album with all-time faves like ‘Jews Done Bitch-Slapped Us,’ ‘Lying Honky Motherfuckah’, and—”

  “One Sunday,” said Vangie Roll, interrupting me, “the Reverend Wright showed Mom and me all his videotaping and editing equipment down in the vestry basement.”

  “If we can prove that Obama sat there in a church pew while the Reverend was spouting off at the mouth…” Russ Slanover said.

  “I’ll go Russ one better,” Vangie said. “Mom heard from a neighbor—a longtime congregant at Trinity United—who was there one Sunday morning about two years ago when the Reverend really went off like a rocket and said that the American government owed every black man, woman and child $100,000 in reparations—per year.

  “And,” Vangie continued, “Mom says that this neighbor swore to her that Barack Obama was sitting in his usual seat in the front pew when the Reverend Wright made this statement. He personally saw Barack Obama stand up, walk to the podium, and high-five the Reverend Wright.”

  “Jesus!” said Sydney Michael Green. “Do they have that on tape?”

  No one said a word for a moment.

  “Folks,” I said, slapping the conference table for emphasis, “we have to assume that every minute of every church service has been recorded, and that
a DVD of Obama high-fiving the Reverend Wright after that sermon is somewhere down in the basement of the church vestry office.”

  “Somewhere,” said Sydney Michael Green. “But where?”

  “And,” added Russ Slanover, “who can we send down there to get it?”

  “I think I know the perfect person,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Less than a week later, I found myself wedged into the back of a van along with Russ Slanover and a ton of high-tech surveillance equipment. The van was parked one hundred yards from the entrance of the Trinity United Church, and Russ was doing a last-minute check of the TV and audio signals coming from the Tchaikovsky Circle’s secret operative, who was, at this very moment, descending in a church elevator on her way to the basement.

  “Can you hear me now?”

  It was the breathless voice of Elvira Roll speaking to us wirelessly from inside the elevator.

  “You’re coming through loud and clear, Elvira,” I said.

  Over the objections of Vangie Roll, I had dispatched her mother on this dangerous clandestine mission. Despite her age and advanced emphysema, Elvira was the natural candidate to steal the incriminating video recordings of Barack Obama congratulating the Reverend Wright on his anti-American rant. Because of her warm relationship with the Reverend Wright, Elvira’s presence in the vestry basement wouldn’t raise any suspicions. And she knew exactly where the video recordings were stored—in an unlocked cabinet next to the handicapped restroom.

  What’s more, Elvira was eager to go. As she put it: “I didn’t work my ass off with Thurgood Marshall on Brown v. Board of Education and a dozen other Supreme Court civil-rights cases just to see some cheap and worthless clown undo all the advancement blacks have made in this country. Unlike some others, I am always proud of my country.”

  Russ Slanover nudged me with an elbow and pointed to the TV screen. We could see the elevator doors open.

  “How about now?” Elvira said into the microphone that was embedded in the headrest of her motorized wheelchair. “Can you hear me now?”

  “Elvira,” I said, exasperated, “this isn’t a Verizon commercial. You don’t have to keep asking if I can hear you now. Your equipment is state-of-the-art National Security Agency hardware, and it’s working perfectly. Russ and I can hear and see everything that you can hear and see. We can even hear your lungs wheezing.”

  As the mechanized wheelchair left the elevator, the miniature TV camera adapted to the change in light and transmitted a picture from about two feet above the floor. Elvira turned left along a long corridor and approached several people—or several sets of legs and feet. The electronically controlled camera adjusted silently until it moved in on the faces in front of Elvira. The faces belonged to a bevy of the Reverend Wright’s attractive young female assistants.

  Elvira continued to cruise down the hallway. We heard the voice of a woman say, “Good morning, Elvira. Good to see you.”

  “Good morning to you, too, dear,” Elvira replied.

  Up ahead, the hallway split into a T, and Elvira made a right-hand turn. She passed the conference room where, four years earlier, I had attended the Reverend Wright’s organizational Obama-for-president meeting. Elvira continued on at a rapid clip until she reached the handicapped restroom.

  Russ and I could hear new voices in the distance. As Elvira moved closer to the source of the sounds, I recognized the voice of the Reverend Wright.

  “Now…watch this video! It’s a real beaut!”

  Elvira inched nearer, and I heard the Reverend Wright’s recorded voice.

  “No, no, no!” he screamed. “Not God bless America—Goddamn America! That’s in the Bible for killing innocent people. Goddamn America for treating our citizens as less than human. Goddamn America for as long as she acts like she is God and she is supreme….”

  Then, all at once, I heard a different man’s voice.

  “Goddamn America,” said this man. “Now that is indeed a sentiment I can drink to!”

  The hidden camera picked up the figure of a woman approaching Elvira. I recognized her as the Reverend Wright’s personal secretary.

  “Oh, it’s you, Elvira. The pastor was hoping you would drop by. He’d love for you to come into his office and meet a new visitor to Trinity United. They’ve been viewing video clips of some of the Reverend’s old sermons.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Elvira said.

  As she rolled into the Reverend’s large, well-appointed office, Russ and I could see a male visitor sitting in one of the comfortable armchairs across from the Reverend’s desk. His back was to the camera.

  “What’s that?” Russ said, pointing to something on the floor next to this visitor’s feet.

  “It looks like a dog,” I said.

  We could see the Reverend Wright get out of his chair and come over to greet Elvira. He bent over and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Good morning, my lady! I’m surely glad you dropped by. I want you to meet a new friend of Trinity United.”

  Just then the dog sprang to its feet and looked straight into the wheelchair camera. Then, from behind the dog, a second dog appeared, identical to the first. Neither was leashed. They both came toward Elvira and began to smell her.

  Elvira’s wheezing grew worse.

  “Saditius!” the visitor commanded his dogs.

  I recognized the Russian command for “Sit!” I started to get an uneasy feeling.

  Both dogs immediately sat down.

  “This is my number one congregant,” the Reverend said, introducing Elvira Roll. “She represents CLIT, the Chicago Low Income Trust.”

  The man shook hands with Elvira.

  “I am Yurik Maligin,” he said. “And these are my Russian wolfhounds—Molotov and Cocktail.”

  “Elvira,” the Reverend said, “Mr. Maligin just made a most generous contribution to our church.”

  Elvira grunted.

  “I don’t believe this,” Russ Slanover whispered into my ear. “Maligin is donating money to the Reverend Wright?”

  “And you can bet that the price for that donation was the Obama high-five DVD,” I said.

  “You’re right, Higgy,” Russ said. “Look—Maligin is carrying a box of DVDs.”

  “Reverend,” Maligin said, preparing to depart. “It’s been a great pleasure to meet you. I commend you and your ministry. I will now leave you and Miss Roll to your business.”

  With that, he barked another one-word command—“Piata!”—and Molotov and Cocktail heeled on each side of Maligin as he exited the room.

  The Reverend Wright sat down and faced Elvira. He had a big grin on his face. He held up a check and showed it to Elvira. The hidden camera zoomed in and picked up the image: it was a Bank of Monaco cashier’s check made out to “Trinity United/Reverend J.A. Wright Jr. Private Account.”

  I stared in stunned disbelief at the astronomical figure on the check: a cool half a million dollars.

  Before I had a chance to recover from the shock, there was a sudden loud knock at the door of our van. I stood up and pushed open the door. Standing there was Yurik Maligin, flanked by his two Russian wolfhounds.

  “Comrade Higgy!” he said, looking up at me with a mock smile. “Excuse me for interrupting your pathetic surveillance operation. But you may recall that many, many years ago, back in London, I promised that I’d outfox you. Well, that day has come. I have outfoxed you. I’ve got it all. I’ve got Mombasa and Honolulu and the real truth about Barack Obama’s birth. I’ve got Indonesia and the foreskin. And now, to cap it all off, I’ve got the tapes from Trinity United.

  “Comrade Higgy,” he went on, “pardon me if I savor the moment of my greatest triumph. But now we must face facts. I’ve got the Obama file and you don’t! And as my favorite American comedian, Jackie Gleason, used to say, ‘How sweet it is!’ “

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  On a cool November election night, I made my way to Chicago’s Grant Park to witness Barack Oba
ma’s victory rally. I felt unhinged and demented. Why had I come to Grant Park? Was it a masochistic streak in my personality that carried me here to join a throng of more than one hundred thousand delirious people celebrating the triumph of The Chosen One?

  The jumbotron showed the soon-to-be First Family sitting in the holding room. I also recognized David Axelrod talking to Imam Selatin, Barack Obama’s Muslim teacher, and Grandma Bibi Obama and Malik Obama, Barack‘s half brother. Grandma Bibi was decked out in a diamond necklace with matching earrings and bracelets. Her gold teeth had diamonds encrusted in them, too. I wonder who paid for all of that ice?

  I soon found the answer to my own question when the jumbotron zoomed in on an odd-looking couple: a short man with a strikingly beautiful young blonde woman carrying a Chinese Crested hairless accessory dog. Countess Gladys of Thurn und Taxis was accompanied by Yurik Maligin. He had a huge shiteating grin on his face.

  Next, the jumbotron scanned the crowd, settling on a group of women in front of a large sign: MARRIAGE FOR ALL WHO WANT IT

  “Let’s ask one of these women what the election of Barack Obama means for them?” said the TV reporter.

  “Tonight means my two girlfriends and I can legally have a civil union and get married. The three of us are ecstatic. We love Obama!”

  It was Taitsie—with a triumphant smile on her face—and the Desert Girls. The three of them had their arms wrapped around each other. My stomach turned.

  Suddenly, a hand came out of nowhere and grabbed my shoulder. I turned to see George Soros, the billionaire currency speculator.

  “Good to run into you tonight,” he said. “I told you I’d arrange for things to work out my way! Just like I predicted, I created the greatest financial collapse since the Great Depression in order to make sure that George W. Bush would get the blame and Obama would be the champion of hope and change….”

  In the middle of this swaggering speech, Obama and his family appeared on the stage, and the crowd began chanting, “Yes we can!… Yes we can!… Yes we can!”