GAME NIGHT PEDOPHILES

Imagine you have been invited to a game night at Martha’s Vineyard by Barrack Obama, the former president.

And it goes like this, “Hey John, come over we enjoy soaking our brains in beer and doing games,” he is on phone but you picture the man with his facial muscles puckered into that trademark smile of his. A million-dollar smile spreading all over the man’s face immediately flashes in your mind as one which together with the nail- head hitting speeches endeared him to millions of Americans' hearts.

Then you quickly haul yourself into hurried preparations. It is not common that a third rate human being rubs shoulders with VIPs unless probably in a court case. You try the ancient habit of dusting your best clothes. The old suit you wore that day, and the only one in the wardrobe looks unfit for this occasion. The grey color is too dull and the torn collars may make your poverty too glaring. Please don’t talk of the torn stockings whose function is nothing more than holding the shoes in place. Additionally, the squeaking sneakers you call shoes for lack of a better term are worn out due to age. You bought them during the student days when you met Obama at Harvard College. They have now lost shape...no they have a shape… but it is the shape of some footwear bending on one side. No one needs a degree to realize that they are unfit for the occasion.

“I don’t know how on earth I can attend such a game night and come back with all my humanity intact,” You complain to a colleague about the wrath of poverty that cannot spare its victim space to have a little gig with old friends. “I have neither the clothes nor shoes to go with the stature of this function.”

“This is what I have been telling you, John,” your colleague slaps your eardrums with a humorless accusation instead of a consolation, jealousy printed in capital letters all over his fox shaped face. “You spend too much money on these young girls. That is why you can’t even dress well.”

“But I have to survive somehow,” you roll your eyes in self-justification suppressing the inward condemnation. “The older women are not only hard to convince but also damn expensive.”

“I don’t agree with you,” He continues, “you better change your habits before you meet a youngster who will embarrass you.”

“Right now I need good clothes, not moral lectures,” you howl in anger. You are about to leave your friend for a more agreeable environment when he makes what sounds to be a reasonable suggestion.

“Why don’t you just put in a word with our employer,” he shouts behind you, “he may understand your situation.”

“Nooooo! Please!” you turn round in horror to object a bit more vehemently. The horror on your face is worse than that on a woman escaping hurricane Katrina. “The pig may find an excuse to rearrange my employment status. I may die of hunger if he does that.”

He laughs at your obvious discomfort. “Some things are worth trying,’ he drops a useful hint but in your heart, he looks happy at the possibility of your disqualification based on attire. You reject his advice as unworthy of any serious consideration. The heavy heart is almost dropping to the ground as you walk home.

However, somehow the manager, a sly old fox, discovers you got an enviable invitation from the former president. He has been doing his own KGB style snooping around trying to know what each employee was up to. The news gives him a truly bad time.

“What if some kooky reporter asks John about his attire -why it looks worse than that of a bushman from the Stone Age?” He is also alarmed about the prospects of the former president throwing a fit about the working conditions in some companies which are heavily subsidized by the state. “What if my employee abuses are exposed to the hostile public?” He panics big time, even fails to eat lunch which had suddenly become unpalatable. Then he tries an old trick.

Bribery. He calls you to his office, no his home in a serious breach of company rules but your excitement makes you overlook that. You hop about happily like an escaped convict because within a space of four hours two powerful men have invited you.

 You reach his place anxious to know why he sent this kind of summon. Much to your delight, he doesn’t waste any time on trivial. He goes something like, “John why don’t you get some advance like all the others? His eyes exude so much honest that a church chorister may look like a bandit in comparison.

Your face goes into a grimace, not because of the cognac burning your throat. The shock of the words from the manager is much worse than that. It has jammed the calculators in your brain and brought it to a standstill.

“My salary is so small that it looks like an advance itself,” you try to refuse, unaware that the offer is from a worried man. “Besides, paying back may present a problem for me, sir, thanks though.”

“No,” he has risen from his chair. Very uncharacteristically he rounds the table to join you on the other side. Standing next to your chair, he slaps you on the back lightly like he is a common buddy. ‘Who said you will pay back?”His hot alcoholic breath burns into your skin as if the nose hauling it is your girlfriend’s. “I forgot to tell you that yesterday was your bonus payday, so get it. Never spend sleepless nights on this one John.”

You must buy what might make you a bit presentable to the society of real men. It is obvious. You have little chance of getting anything from anywhere. His offer makes sense, nothing else does. Your heart starts beating fast as the invitation overshadows your mind. “I can attend like a real man also,’ you muse to yourself. You agree with a reverent bow of your head.

In downtown New York where you have decided to do your shopping, you run into Tony Blair who explodes like,” Hey John! Long time, how are you?”

You squeeze your eyes wondering; “who the hell is calling me out of the teeming fifteen million people trashing the necessity of a Mr?”

But then you sort of explode into a roar of surprised laughter when you realize it is the same Tony Blair with a hooked nose that mesmerized people not just at oxford but later on as a British Prime Minister. The earlier days were when you pursued a small course in international politics with the hawkish Israeli boy. It was eons ago and the prime minister bit somehow threw an awkward daylight scare into you. Your laughter is a gimmick to calm the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You belch as he takes the lead like a mind reader; “still shopping for that ‘Mr’ thing John, right?”

 “Oh! Nooooo! I am comfortable with first name address, Tony,” you howl like the roar of November thunder clouds. “Those were days Tony, those were great days.”

“Which days, John?” his steady glare under bushy eyebrows hits you between eyes. While his life has seen several exciting moments to choose one from, yours is fixated on one which to him is as insignificant as a drop of water in the ocean.

“Remember oxford…...” you try some desperate flashback.

“Damn it! That stint at Oxford,” he cuts you short because to him that memory is buried somewhere presently inaccessible, in a slot under a pile of other slots which only comes up when some inconvenient old folk brings it up, like now. “Was the saddest time of my life John, and perhaps the only one I will pay anything to forget.” The tone, not the words rip through your heart like a panga of pride.

“I am sorry, Tony,” you sympathize with him wondering why in life one man’s lowest moment may be another man’s greatest. “The jurisprudence thing and the Ugly Rumors...Yes, it was sad. But why should such little blots still get you down even after a gorgeous stretch as Prime Minister?”

“Forget it...” he reassures you, “I am trying to move on, though it is so hard with old folks resurrecting the ugly blots.”

“What brings you to Manhattan Mall, then?”You ask surprised that a former prime minister with splotches of Iraqi blood still fresh on his hands can move around without an escort. What if some zealous terrorist decides it is his bounden duty to do him the Devil’s favour?

“Today is special my friend,” Tony Blair answers his cheeks contouring into a smile. “I am off to a game night at Martha’s Vineyard. I have been invited by the great man himself, you know?”

“What a coincidence?”You yell happily, surprised eyes glittering with too much enthusiasm like a boy on the first date. “I have been invited there too.”

“It will be a great night…,” Tony is saying with a far off look in his eyes. “But John for once tames your horror traits.” You are not listening, not even a bit.

A “damn you! This is gorgeous” wow escapes your yapping lips when you notice that a grey Mercedes Benz had pulled up a few yards in front of Tony Blair. The blaring music from the Rolling Stones sort of cuts several inches into your soul, hauling you back to the seventies. “Get in, we are late already,” he roars to you while his body goes into undulating waves in tune with the music.

You have dressed already in good clothes. It is just a matter of travelling with the obliging chauffeur to the Vineyard.

The big black gate swinging to open noiselessly somehow jolts you back to life. You watch the well-watered lawns, the tree lines and then you see her. She was born to make every scenery dreadfully exciting-a complete fairy tale she was. Your well-designed life for tonight is flung out of orbit.

Sasha appeared swinging a tennis racquet from the east in her sports attire.”Nice kid...truly nice kid,” you let your mind wander to forbidden grounds. Your lips are saying the words unconsciously.

“That is my daughter, John,” the boom of a familiar voice cuts into your thoughts, “that’s why you did not advance in life…too much paedophilia.”

“Sorry Barrack,” you apologize with shame as you tear off your wicked gaze from the young maiden shaking her little bottom as she sprints into the foyer, “I was surprised she had grown so much.” You had just dropped from the Benz and could not see several hands awaiting yours for a handshake.

“I wasn’t born yesterday pal,” he forces a fake rebuking smile but continues sticking his knife into your side, “you were looking at her like your whole life depended on it. It was disgusting John.”

“Forget the look Barrack,” Tony swings into your defence, “besides he has apologized already, hasn’t he?”

“Alright! Alright!” Barrack relaxes laughingly but the pain is still obvious behind the smiling eyes, “the games are this way. Please follow me, will you?”

The tall frame, as strong as a steel beam, leads the way into the shadows where the roar of another voice rips into your heart. “I know that voice; truly I do…,” you wrack your brains.”Where did I hear that voice?”

Barrack is a mind reader.”That is Benjamin Netanyahu,’ he says with a conspiratorial wink. “That is the first game he has won after losing everything through the afternoon.”

“You now remember the man referred to as Benjamin Netanyahu, don’t you? You sort of ask yourself. Yes, the prime minister of that tiny brutal nation of exiles-Israel they call it- as if there is anything biblical about it. You become angry, “why invite me here to an assembly of war criminals?”You grumble internally.

“John, the game has started,” Tony Blair shouted after he had done his round of placing pictures. “I have made the map of great lakes. Let’s see what you can make with that half brain you call a blessing.”

“Why choose the great lakes?”You roar in surprise. “Are you planning to recolonize America?”

“It is a dream ravaging the soul of every Briton,” he stoops down to whisper into your ears, the corner of his eye keeps Obama under observation. “You know we world conquerors are dyed-in-the-wool imperialists, don’t you?”

“That is …...” you are rudely cut short by some sweet female voice.

‘I will serve this one personally,” a voice caressed your eardrums and a scent of very expensive perfume hauls your nostrils into some inconvenient throbbing. The war criminal thing flees from your mind like a paper kite along with Tony Blair’s imperial designs.

You turn round and almost collapse when your frightened pupils lock into Sasha’s glittering pupils; she is standing two yards away, smiling. Her eyes are twinkling like those of a model who has won a beauty contest. The lips are stretching the whole face into a flat beautiful face full of invitation. The jingling bangles throw your thinking process haywire. Your mind brews some expectancy. Your eyes glitter with some hesitancy, they fail to notice the other girl extending a drink to you, your drink.

The sparkling cranberry-lemon juice in Sasha’s hands is more attractive than what you have ever seen the whole fifty-seven years of your life. The other girl yes has the same drink- but she is not Sasha. She is smiling- but her smile is not as magnetic as that of Sasha. Her name Paula is sexy yes- but does not have the same heart twisting touch like that of Sasha. You don’t want to take her drink. It is too old.

You extend a slow hand to receive the drink, but an invisible magnet pulls your hand. Yes...yes it pulls you towards the one from Sasha. You hesitate, unsure as to whether it will work; whether your little dream will be fulfilled. Sure enough or worse for you, the matter is resolved almost instantly.

In a flash, Sasha scowls angrily and pulls her slender hand back. She looks at you with the same hostility that a woman favors a pile of feces at her doorstep.

“Who is he anyway?”She asks as she throws the glass into the fire where it crushes and the fizzing sound is like your heart crumbling to pieces.

“Some jerk from your papa’s background…,” a young guy answers as he wraps a treacherous hand around her waist of all places. He is clean-shaven with a dark adolescent goatee. His hairline moustache makes him irresistibly handsome. “I hear he read law at Harvard with your pa.”

The other girl is still offering you a drink. She is dark- sparkling darkness that holds your heart in both hands. But hey! She is not Sasha, she will never replace her and she is much older. The Sasha you saw at the gate, yes the one you started fantasizing about almost immediately. The Sasha who was now twisting her teenage bottom, walking away angrily, acting as if any human can control nature.

Meals are being served. Another moment of heartbreak. Sasha is leading a line of girls serving the pizzas. Swaying the dish gaily she heads straight to where you are standing and this time she wows some ‘Hi sir!’ to you. Your heart flees away- the mischief in the greeting is irresistible. You succumb quickly but again your mind recalls the crashing tumbler coupled with the fizzling fire. She wants to catch you again-to break the little thread of peace in your heart. No. you choose the cheese from the next girl –the older Paula-as a way of swimming in safer waters.

“No, sir! Yours is this one..!” Her caressing voice torments you even more than the crumbling tumbler did a few minutes earlier. ‘Did I hear correct?’ You wonder to yourself. ‘A pizza -cheese for me from that hand, Sasha’s hand...is it real?’ you refuse.

“John, are you mad?”It is Tony Blair shouting. He is now drunk and cares for nothing. ‘Get the girl’s food, why snub her as some tropical African baboon would?”

“Oh! Sorry young lady,” you extend a hand to receive the drink. “I am not snubbing anybody, Tony.” Your fingers are shaking like guitar strings. You have no control over their behaviour. Alcohol can’t give you control over their behaviour. To make matters worse, your 

heart spins around and treacherously reignites the same fire that burnt it a few moments ago.’ The food is from Sasha,’ it started saying. “You see she likes you…bra…”

Just then the host is seen directing another guest to a long mahogany table, the last man. He was wearing a black jacket and black crocodile shoes. A white shirt flashes on the chest but he had no tie. His face was oval with straddling beards. This was Assad, president of Syria.

As soon as Assad sits down, the host yells for everyone to come to the table for the concluding games. Benjamin Netanyahu was made to sit directly opposite Assad. They were looking into each other’s eyes like two wrestlers just before the bout. The host Obama sat next to Assad-on the right. You are seated next to Benjamin on the left. Tony Blair is at the head of the table like the chairman. The two generals sit at the foot of the table next to two women. Food continues being served. The situation wrestles your heart from the crush on Sasha. The mind fights to understand what exactly is going on and it is completely jammed.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,” chewing a little pizza, Tony addresses the people seated around the huge mahogany table. “Allow me to get into the last game of the day. Assad, why are you fighting your brother so savagely?”

Assad looks around as he takes a bite on the pork chops, “He grabbed the Golan Heights and is unwilling to hand them back to us,” he says in anger. “That is an unfair thing which we hope to correct through the use of arms.”

“The meeting is a friendly one,” Tony tries to cool down Assad. “Before Benjamin comes in, Oprah do you have something to say? I saw your hand was up.”

“How did Benjamin grab your Golan Heights?” she asked turning her pool of hair into a peacock flair and gesticulating with the drumstick in the left hand. “Tell us what happened, will you?”

“We were duped by the Egyptians to attack him,” Assad said dropping his eyes to the pork chops. The way he chewed them one would say the habit would grow on him forever. That was terrible sacrilege when you imagine that Arabs hate pork with a religious passion.

“So you attacked your brother without a cause, right?”Oprah pushed for an unequivocal declaration.

“There were reasons….,” Assad was trying to explain.

“Oh! Really?” Oprah said. Her face twisted in disgust. “I can imagine the horror of someone attacking another without cause.’

“Why can’t you give back the Golan heights to your brother, Benjamin?” general Changchow put in. He was there because of China’s rising status as a world power.

Before Benjamin can answer another round of refreshments is brought. This time Sasha is missing. Your mind starts playing tricks, no havoc.’ Where is she?’ your internal turmoil is truly painful. “Is it that young man again?’ you try to stand up with eyes widened like a fool on parade. You must go and find her. Why leave her with that young man? That is intolerable. You can’t tolerate it, never! Your dark silhouette alerts Tony, especially when you angrily smash a fist into your palm.

“John, sit down!”Tony shouts you down.”This matter requires your clear mind.”

“Which matter, Tony?”You ask dazed and completely disoriented.”I don’t know about any clear minds…”

“Is he sick?”Mary Robinson asked. “I am a mother. These are symptoms of someone who is missing a woman.”

“Probably,” Benjamin spoke for the first time. “John doesn’t do this unless some small skirt is tagging his heart.”

“He was the best negotiator at Harvard,” Barrack Obama sighs helplessly.”If this Golan Heights issue is to be resolved, he is the only one who can do it.”

“Even at Oxford he did a lot of conflict resolution,” Tony throws in something. His oily lips move noisily as he bites the cheese pizza heartily. “His problem has always been chasing kids.”

“Who is the kid?” a lot of voices shouted at the same time.

“I can’t say with certainty,” Tony said enigmatically. “But you won’t like it, especially Barrack.”

“Does the problem concern me, Tony?” Barrack arched his eyebrows. Suddenly his face drops into a sunken wretch- wiping out the famous smile. He has understood what is at stake. His facial skin sags like that of an old cow.

Is it because he has seen an opportunity to wrap up a historic achievement slip through his fingers? Is it the fear of joining the long list of failures on the Arab-Israeli conflict? Or because some jerk wants his dau…. “Who is the kid, John?”

“This is not about any kid, Barrack,” you quickly blurt out as your legs carry you towards the gate. You start fleeing in fear like a criminal.