Leaders
By David Macpherson
The hitchhiker slammed the trunk closed and walked over to the driver’s window and framed his big face there. “Couple of things,” he said, “you do have a spare tire back, but its old and shot. Be better to drive on no tire than that one.
The driver slapped the steering wheel. “I knew I should have got it replaced. Thought I was saving myself some money. And of course there is no cell reception out here.”
The hitchhiker nodded. “Nother thing. There appears to be the dead body of a President of the United States folded up in your trunk.”
The driver shook her head slowly, like she was keeping time to a mid tempo waltz. “Again?” she said. “This happens more than I would like to say.” The hitchhiker shrugged. “Well,” the driver said impatiently, “Which one is it.”
“Which one is what,” the hitchhiker asked.
The driver leaned toward the window. “Which president is in the trunk?”
The hitchhiker nodded, “I’m not entirely certain, but I believe that it was Millard Fillmore, our 13th President.”
The driver stuck out her bottom lip like a child told that there will be no dessert, “He wasn’t even a good one.”
The hitchhiker patted her hand. “To be fair,” he said, “he seems devoid of any vestigial presidential charisma, what with him crumpled in a ball by your tire iron and the bottle of windshield wiper solution.”
“Most people are,” she agreed. “I never get the good ones showing up dead in my trunk. I get Polk. Or Harrison. I get James Garfield so often I refuse to count. Had Nixon last month. He did open up trade with China, but does that make him good? I kind of doubt it.
“But do I get Lincoln?” she asked with head directed to the car roof. “Do I get Washington? What lucky trunk gets the moldering remains of FDR? Wouldn’t that be a fine change of pace? Having FDR dead in my trunk? I don’t ask for much.”
“What do you do with them? These bad dead presidents?” the hitchhiker asked.
“Well I don’t throw them into a dumpster if that’s what you’re wondering. Just because James Buchanan, say, was a terribly ineffective administrator who brought on the Civil War as much as any one man could, he was still the President and deserves a proper burial. I toss him and all the other Presidents in my trunk in the compost heap at my Uncle’s farm. In a couple years, no matter how awful a President they were, they are now equipped to help tomatoes grow to their finest potential as high grade organic fertilizer.”
The hitchhiker nodded. “You know what we should do? We should just drive. On the flat tire. Just drive.”
The driver looked ahead at the vanishing road, “But can’t we break an axel or something bad?”
The hitchhiker smiled, “This car? Not this car. This car was built to go forward. I don’t know where it’s going, but do you think a tire is going to stop it?”
The driver turned the key and the engine took. “This is a bad idea. But when did that ever stop anyone. Get in. We got miles to burn and a President to toss in a compost pile. There is no time to waste.”
- - -
David is a writer living in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
By David Macpherson
The hitchhiker slammed the trunk closed and walked over to the driver’s window and framed his big face there. “Couple of things,” he said, “you do have a spare tire back, but its old and shot. Be better to drive on no tire than that one.
The driver slapped the steering wheel. “I knew I should have got it replaced. Thought I was saving myself some money. And of course there is no cell reception out here.”
The hitchhiker nodded. “Nother thing. There appears to be the dead body of a President of the United States folded up in your trunk.”
The driver shook her head slowly, like she was keeping time to a mid tempo waltz. “Again?” she said. “This happens more than I would like to say.” The hitchhiker shrugged. “Well,” the driver said impatiently, “Which one is it.”
“Which one is what,” the hitchhiker asked.
The driver leaned toward the window. “Which president is in the trunk?”
The hitchhiker nodded, “I’m not entirely certain, but I believe that it was Millard Fillmore, our 13th President.”
The driver stuck out her bottom lip like a child told that there will be no dessert, “He wasn’t even a good one.”
The hitchhiker patted her hand. “To be fair,” he said, “he seems devoid of any vestigial presidential charisma, what with him crumpled in a ball by your tire iron and the bottle of windshield wiper solution.”
“Most people are,” she agreed. “I never get the good ones showing up dead in my trunk. I get Polk. Or Harrison. I get James Garfield so often I refuse to count. Had Nixon last month. He did open up trade with China, but does that make him good? I kind of doubt it.
“But do I get Lincoln?” she asked with head directed to the car roof. “Do I get Washington? What lucky trunk gets the moldering remains of FDR? Wouldn’t that be a fine change of pace? Having FDR dead in my trunk? I don’t ask for much.”
“What do you do with them? These bad dead presidents?” the hitchhiker asked.
“Well I don’t throw them into a dumpster if that’s what you’re wondering. Just because James Buchanan, say, was a terribly ineffective administrator who brought on the Civil War as much as any one man could, he was still the President and deserves a proper burial. I toss him and all the other Presidents in my trunk in the compost heap at my Uncle’s farm. In a couple years, no matter how awful a President they were, they are now equipped to help tomatoes grow to their finest potential as high grade organic fertilizer.”
The hitchhiker nodded. “You know what we should do? We should just drive. On the flat tire. Just drive.”
The driver looked ahead at the vanishing road, “But can’t we break an axel or something bad?”
The hitchhiker smiled, “This car? Not this car. This car was built to go forward. I don’t know where it’s going, but do you think a tire is going to stop it?”
The driver turned the key and the engine took. “This is a bad idea. But when did that ever stop anyone. Get in. We got miles to burn and a President to toss in a compost pile. There is no time to waste.”
- - -
David is a writer living in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
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