The Two Worlds of Billy Callahan

by Richard Friedman

  “I didn’t hear it. I slept like a baby.”

  “I turned the ringer off. I had to get some sleep. We got calls from CNN, ABC, heck, all the major networks wants to send a team over here to talk to you. You came off as quite believable last night. You have to understand that for the last hundred years, people have been saying aliens kidnapped them. They say aliens were in a deserted town out in the boonies, or aliens did weird sexual experiments to them, and of course, nobody ever believed them because, well, they never had any proof. For some reason, and I can’t explain it, people believe you.”

  Billy sat on the recliner and tipped it back by holding down the controller and raised his legs, “I give credit to the teacher for giving me the right words to say. Being up there last night was cool. I was nervous at first, but I could feel the teacher inside me, and after I spotted your orange shirt, I calmed down and said my piece.”

  Greg turned the volume up on the monitor. The national election correspondents were discussing the upcoming election. The Green Party’s conventions, and Billy, in particular, were key discussion points.

  D’Wayne Sturdivant was the host of the group and he was saying that the election was not a slam dunk for President Dodge.

  “The President better not get too complacent. Callahan performed admirably. He’s nutty, fine, we can all agree on that, but he had a coolness about him that made the folks in the crowd want to run through a wall for him. Some may call it crazy; I call it inspirational and leadership. Bonsoi is either the smartest man in the country, or the luckiest, but either way, I don’t think we’ve heard the last of Callahan.”

  Billy bounced up off the chair with a spryness of a younger man, “Greg, make those calls. We can save the world!”

  A knock on the door interrupted them.

  Greg peered out the window. “Jesus Christ.” Paparazzi covered every inch of the lawn. “What the hell!”

  “This is perfect!” exclaimed Billy. ‘They’re coming here instead of making us drive to their offices. Let’em in!”

  Greg wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I can’t have fifty members of the press in here. They’ll be taking pictures, snooping around where they don’t belong. I know you had a blast last night, but this is different. The media is a cold-hearted killer. Remember the blonde?”

  Billy smiled at Greg, and before he began to talk, Greg interrupted.

  “You’re not going to take no for an answer are you?

  Groups of reporters, cameramen, videographers, and internet newshounds kept arriving at the house. Once word filtered out that Billy was willing to talk, the street was jammed with remote television news trucks clogged the small street. Neighbors called the police to ask for help with traffic control. It was a mob scene, and residents came out of their homes and confronted the not-so-patient reporters waiting for their crack at the “oldest man in the world”, as Billy had become in the recent hours.

  The Green Party headquarters caught wind of the event happening in Greg’s house and were overjoyed. That same feeling failed to register at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW in Washington D.C.

  President Dodge was in the middle of a budget meeting when a staffer whispered in his ear.

  “Go ahead, turn it on,” said a disgusted President Dodge.

  The staffer grabbed the remote control off the table and clicked on the National News Network. Every television in the White House was set to NNN, known better to viewers as 3N. 3N’s board of directors consisted of die- hard Republicans, determined to keep their party in the White House at all costs. Rumors circulated during the last election that 3N had manipulated exit interviews shown on their network. The FCC fined 3N twenty million dollars for projecting the winner of the presidential race two hours prior to the west coast polls official closing time.

  Dodge held up his right hand as a sign for everyone in the room to stay silent. 3N was now inside Greg Miller’s house in Colorado and broadcasting live to the country. The reporter was John Blade, a young man sent from the local 3N affiliate in Denver to get his camera in Billy’s face.

  “Tell me more about the teacher. You said he was your guide through your journey. What was his purpose?”

  “The teacher wanted me to see the destruction of the planet as a warning for all of mankind.”

  Someone in the White House shouted at the television, “Who is that idiot?”

  A voice came from the back of the room. “That’s Callahan, sir.”

  Chief of Staff Nick Demonde shouted, “Not that idiot! I know who the hell he is! Who is that clown asking dumb-ass questions? I’ll tell you what we need. We need to get that Callahan tucked away somewhere. A place where we can keep him out of the news until after the election. I can sense trouble, and trust me, this “oldest man in the world” made-for-TV-drama is exactly what we don’t need right now. The Green Party is going shoot right past the Democrats and be riding up our asses in two weeks if we don’t shut this guy up. I’m asking you Mr. President, are you willing to do that?”

  Dodge snarled at his right hand man. “Clear the room. Nick, stay here. I want to talk to you alone.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The staff fled to the door. Half consumed coffee cups sat on the table. The cleaning crew entered the room unaware of the President’s request of privacy.

  “Not now!” bellowed the President. The staff vanished in a blink. “Get Callahan. I want him kept on ice until after the election. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Crystal clear, Mr. President.” Demonde made a few clicks on his computer pad and left the White House for the airport. He had a date with an old man in Durango.

  CHAPTER 30

  October 24, 2060

  The nonstop barrage of reporters lasted most of Saturday and continued until after noon on Sunday. It was time for another football game. Greg taped a handwritten “Do not disturb” sign on the front door of the house. Reporters knocked from time to time, but eventually when nobody answered the door, they took the hint and left. Billy was exhausted from the hours of talking, telling the same story over and over again. He had garnered his fifteen minutes of fame at the Green Party convention, but the mass media wasn’t quite through with him. Despite the horrible images in his head, Billy repeated his experience to anyone willing to listen.

  “I hope my message is getting through to people,” said Billy.

  Greg sat up in the chair as the Denver quarterback completed a long pass down the right sideline for touchdown.

  “Yeah, baby!” shouted Ballard.

  Greg and Ballard exchanged their ceremonial touchdown dance, a Miller family tradition taught to Ballard when he was a teenager. Greg raised his right hand and Ballard his left, they stood across from each other and simultaneously yelled “Touchdown!”

  A man banging on the door interrupted their foolishness.

  “Should I get it?” asked Ballard.

  Greg tried to see which news crew was pestering them now, “All I see is a black truck with six or seven antennae on the roof. Let’em knock all day, we’re busy.”

  The television commercials ran for two minutes after the touchdown and the knocking on the door continued. The pounding grew more intense, and more annoying. It got to the point where Billy decided to answer the door himself.

  He cracked open the door and met the broad chest of a man. Billy followed the chest up another foot and saw the face of the toughest looking person he’d ever seen. Black sunglasses prevented Billy from making direct eye contact.

  “Billy Callahan,” said the man, whose demeanor appeared as rough as granite.

  Billy literally gulped as he said, “Yes, I’m Billy Callahan. What do you want?”

  The giant of a man flashed a badge and said, “I’m Homeland Security agent Jefferson and I have explicit orders to bring you to a secure location.”

  “What?” replied Billy.

  The agent was not amused. He was ordered to bring Callahan to the truck, either willingly, or tucked under his arm.r />
  Billy listened to the words, but they didn’t sink in right away. He stared at the insignia, assuming it was a joke. He turned back to Greg and yelled, “That’s a good one Greg. I’m not falling for it.” From another room, Greg yelled, ‘I don’t have the slightest idea of what you’re talking about. Who’s at the door?”

  Billy felt a knot develop in his stomach.

  The agent repeated his request. He removed the sunglasses and said, “Mr. Callahan, you need to come with me. I’ll give you a few a minutes to pack up some clothes.”

  The color rushed out of Billy’s face as he began to understand this was not a joke.

  “You can take a hike, I’m not going anywhere with you!” he told the burly agent, and slammed the door shut.

  Billy, Greg, and Ballard argued whether to comply with the agent. Greg tried to reach his attorney, but couldn’t. Agent Jefferson banged on the door. His fists sounded like hammers raining down on the cherry wood door.

  “Now listen, Mr. Callahan, you’re coming with me. I either escort you to the vehicle or I grab you by the collar and toss you into the back of the truck.”

  A second agent emerged from the front seat. “Need a hand, Jefferson?”

  The agent waved off the assistance, “Nah, he’s going to cooperate, isn’t that right?”

  Greg was enraged, opening the door, and yelled at the man, “You’re Homeland Security? He has a constitutional right to know what’s going on. He’s no threat to America. Hell, he’s trying to save America!”

  Jefferson folded his meaty arms across his body. “Mr. Miller, he has no such rights during times of war.”

  “Who the hell is at war?” Greg demanded.

  “We’ve been at war since the World Trade Center towers came down,” dead-panned Jefferson.

  “You’re playing the 9-11 card? That’s ridiculous!” declared Greg.

  “Mr. Callahan, please get in the vehicle. Like I said, it’s a matter of national security that you come with me right now.”

  The standoff ended with Billy hopping in to the back seat of the black truck. Neither agent spoke much as the vehicle lumbered down the street and towards the airport.

  Greg called the police. The Deputy Sheriff told Greg the Department of Homeland Security called the station hours ago, and presented the required paperwork to have Billy taken away.

  Greg called Bonsoi at the Green Party headquarters, “Alan, thank God I reached you. Homeland Security agents kidnapped Billy.”

  Bonsoi knew the call was coming. His men on the street relayed rumors that the President was sending a squad of goons to silence Billy, either by exposing him as a nut, which wasn’t hard to do, or to keep him out of the news cycle until after the election.

  “They didn’t kidnap him. Calm down. They want to talk to him. There’s no reason to panic.”

  “You’re awfully calm about this. You used Billy for the convention and now you discard him like yesterday’s trash!”

  “That’s not fair,” said Bonsoi.

  Greg’s temper rose in anger, “I always heard politics was dirty business. I wish to hell Billy never met you.”

  Bonsoi remained cool, “Remember Mr. Miller, he’s the one that wanted to get his message out there. It’s out there, and not everyone is pleased. When you rock the boat, you better be prepared to handle the consequences. Politics at this level is the major leagues, Miller. It’s for strong men and women.

  Greg fumed and slammed down the phone.

  Inside the black vehicle Billy saw a third man. He didn’t recognize the face, or the voice.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “No sir.”

  “I’m Nick Demonde. I’m President Dodge’s Chief of Staff.”

  Billy shook his head in agreement. “I’ve seen you on a few talk shows. You’ve been saying mean things about me. I think your exact words were “He’s a freak.”

  Nick forced a smile. “Billy, politics is a strange thing. The reason I’m here today is of utmost importance and a vital issue for national security.”

  Demonde got right to the point, “Your speech at the convention was quite interesting. You were impressive for a man who hasn’t done much public speaking. We could use a man like you in our party. But, I’m intelligent enough to know that you’re not switching allegiances at this late date. You’ve been an outspoken adversary of President Dodge. You’ve generated unfavorable press against the President.”

  Billy stood his ground, “What do you want from me?”

  “The President has asked that you stop talking to the press until after the election. He understands that people want to talk about your story —”

  Billy interrupted, “That’s what happened to me.”

  Demonde continued, disregarding his passenger’s plea, “The President is much like anyone in the country who likes a good alien encounter story. In fact, maybe if things work out right the President will take you to Area 51 in Nevada. Your adventure story has riveted the country. I’ve never seen anything like it. Here’s the problem. The country is focused on you so much right now that other important issues are getting put on the back burner, and the President is concerned that our country’s attention is being sabotaged by your, ah, tale.”

  Billy shook his head in disagreement. “I think the destruction of the world is important. I’m on my own mission that has nothing to do with politics. I’m for the Green Party, yes, that’s true, but even members of that party don’t believe what happened to me. I don’t care what the President says about me. I’m going to speak my mind whether you like it or not Mr. Demonde.”

  Demonde took out his cell phone and tapped at the keys. He waited a minute for the reply and when the first few notes of the “Star Spangled Banner” played, he knew his answer had arrived.

  Demonde tapped the driver on the shoulder and held up two fingers. The driver made the next available left hand turn and accelerated the truck to 50 miles per hour, eclipsing the limit by fifteen.

  “What’s the rush?” asked Billy.

  His question met with silence. During the remaining eight minutes of the drive, nobody spoke. The truck came to a stop in the parking lot of the Denver Marriott hotel near Route 70.

  “Billy, here’s the scoop,” Demonde was all business now. “You are going to stop talking to the media, because you’re going to stay in this hotel until next Tuesday night. We’ve made arrangements for your stay, and there won’t be any proof that you were here or held against your will. In the meantime, the President won’t have to be bothered with seeing your face on the television talking about the environment and the Green Party will slip back below 30% where they belong.”

  “That’s kidnapping! That’s against the law. You can’t do that to me! shouted Billy.

  “Many years ago that was true, but shortly after the events of 9/11, President Bush was given the power to interrogate people that might be a threat to the United States. You’ve made your choice, so has the President.”

  Demonde signaled the driver to move to the valet entrance to the hotel. The curb side staff was missing. So was the valet staff that parked and delivered cars to the guests. And one other thing that struck Billy odd…there were no guests. The only people Billy could see were wearing dark suits.

  Demonde wiped his eyeglasses with the bottom of his overcoat. He peered through the glass and said to Billy, “We’ll do it the hard way. This is your home until after the election. Get out of the truck.” The two agents exited the vehicle and Demonde moved to the driver’s seat, ready to return to the airport.

  Agent Jefferson opened the door and helped Billy get out of the truck. He escorted him through the empty reception area and past the refreshment cart, usually manned by a junior member of the hotel. Today it sat without someone to straighten out the apples and healthy fruit drinks.

  The second agent escorted Billy to room #112, a fine room by travel standards, but today is was nothing more than another prison cell, like Balcher II at the Keller Institute.<
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  “Go ahead, step inside please,” said the agent. The door shut as Billy entered. He jiggled the lock, but the door wouldn’t open.

  Billy scanned the room and saw a sturdy chair, a desk, a bed, and a dresser wide enough to hold every piece of clothing Billy owned. A television sat on the dresser, the remote control near the automatic coffee machine. Packs of creamer, coffee, and sugar substitutes filled an oversized cup with the Marriott logo imprinted on it.

  Billy grabbed the remote control and tried to turn on the set. Nothing. He checked the remote’s battery compartment and stared at an empty slot. He attempted to turn the set on manually, but the picture remained dark and he began to understand the situation more clearly.

  “Okay, no television for me” he thought to himself.

  He plopped on the bed and grabbed the telephone. He picked up the receiver and waited for the hotel staff to assist him. A pleasant sounding woman answered the phone. Billy gasped with a rush of victory, “Can you help me get an outside line, please?” he asked.

  In a slightly southern drawl, the woman said politely, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan, I can’t do that. Good day!”

  Two strikes down and running out of ideas, Billy felt his cell phone in his back pocket. The phone was a recent gift from Greg, and he was still getting used to having it. He checked the battery level and smiled when the meter level shot up to 75% of maximum power. He glanced next to the battery symbol and sighed as the signal strength meter rested at zero with a red “X” overlaid on the display.

  “No signal.” He walked over to the window and peeled back the heavy flower-patterned drapes.

  Thick, black fabric covered the entire window area. He didn’t recognize the substance, but he was sure that is was recently put on the window to block his view and any cell phone use. He examined the room, hoping for an idea to strike him. He walked back to the door and stared out the peephole. All he could see was the back of the sentry, standing directly in front of the door.

  “Hmmm. No way out, and no contact with the outside world. Just great.”