My Golden Weiner !!!

My Golden Weiner !!!

“According to our reports, a local fisherman has found a lifeless body off of the northern shore of the Indonesian sea. Although, documents released by our sources have been redacted, said sources have identified the body as that of Retired General AbdulRahaman Kazeem Mataduru. We will continue to report to you as we get more information on the matter at hand. This is CNN.”

Dr. Andrews Okanagan, professor of political science, had decided to end his tenure at Harvard and retire from teaching altogether. His students particularly knew him for his decision to go celibate, probably the only abstinent professor in Boston, well, until he went on a sabbatical. Montreal had the hots for changing you, so much that 47 years old Andrews got bent out of shape like crayfish. He fell in love with the Frenchness of the place and ultimately made do with a condo hillside on Rue Sherbrooke and in doing so, an informed Harvard student may have just won a bet.

The third engine refused to start during the landing sequence as SpaceX’s historic 300th civilian crewed launch had just crash-landed into the landing pad on the Indonesian sea; all lives were reported to be lost, one of whom was that of the now late brother of Zimbabwean president, Robert Mataduru. Dr. Andrews had just heard the news on TV while he grumbled about paying taxes in two countries. It was burning in Langley, Virginia yet the fumes at the CIA offices had found their way down Andrews’s chimney. He worked undercover for the agency as a political analyst. He had not informed anyone at the agency that he was crossing borders, but he was aware they were very well at the helm of things when it came to monitoring their own.

His phone rang, “private number” on the caller ID, he picked up at once and did not utter a vowel. “This is Lance speaking, is this Dr. Andrews’s cell?” He dropped the call and sighed heavily, five minutes had passed and it so happened that he had just been invited to Langley. “Sabbatical, my golden Weiner!!!”, he exclaimed loudly. It had been nine months since he bade farewell to the U.S. of A. Lance had booked an 8am first-class flight for the professor from the Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport scheduled to land by 3pm.

The pilot had just hit a squirrel and the flight crew needed a veterinary doctor to treat the half-dead hemorrhaging rodent. He stood up, “I’m a doctor!!!” in a confident tone.

His eyes blinked uncontrollably. While slumbering off, he had laid his head carelessly on the window covers. An hour had passed and embossed on his face was the Air Canada logo. The air hostess chuckled unprofessionally at the braille on his chiseled cheek as she tapped on his arm, a call from dreamland to real-life so he could fasten his seatbelt. Andrew wiped his eyes and acted as though he had been awake all the while. Simultaneously, a short burst of his squirrel-themed dream flashed through his mind, he smiled, thanked the flight attendant, and fastened his seatbelt.

He had not packed much for this particular journey, since he expected to be back having maple syrup with his pancakes by the weekend. Two Corduroy pants (brown and black), three pairs of red-bottomed black cover shoes, two black shirts, one white shirt, and two Tom Ford blazers, and his box was brimmed. Andrew went over all he had packed, as he took in the hot summer of Washington. “I am checking in for a reservation in the name of Andrews Okanagan”, he said to the concierge, “Your room will be G515 on the 5th floor. We offer a variety of complimentary breakfast between 7am and 10am throughout your stay at Wyndham”. He was handed the key card as he proceeded to G515. It was 4pm on a Wednesday evening.

Thursday morning, Dr. Andrews and the rest of the committee members with appropriate clearance had documents that stretched across the square table. An alliance between the Zimbabwean presidency and the U.S. government to shut down the insurgency led by a rather difficult-to-work-with sibling had taken a very dramatic turn. He was specifically invited to devise possible scenarios to maintain the said alliance. A statement from the Ambassador of Zimbabwe to the United States stated that the Zimbabwean army was in support of a brewing coup d’etat of the current regime. Unfortunately, current events have led members of the faction to believe that the U.S. government crashed the rocket on purpose to kill the Retired General AbdulRahaman.

The five minutes conversation he had with his handler, Lance, included major details about the upcoming meeting. While in the flight coming to D.C., he pondered over his notes as fresh unfettered sunlight coated his untanned white hairy hands. His teaching assistant back at Harvard during the spring of 2014 had recommended that he bought a nice notebook to write down his periodic eureka-esque thoughts. Today makes it seven years since he purchased his small black notebook; some pages were torn, but you know, it is what it is. He urged decorum in the room as he raised his feminine voice a pitch higher than the wailing lot. The room was made up of several egos, some professors, all accomplished scholars of the political scenery. They were not quite fond of one another, but awareness of each other’s accomplishments enabled camaraderie to prevail. With Andrew’s black leather skin notebook in one hand and a red marker in the other, he sketched what looked to be the table of six as a workable and scalable solution to the existing conundrum. The meeting ended with applause; Lance already had a black Cadillac running in the parking lot to convey the professor to his hotel.

Chauffeur for 37 years, John Green, a single father of his lovely daughter Karla moved to Virginia from Michigan where he was a driver for Gary Peters, Representative of the 14th district of Michigan. His daughter graduated high school and had been admitted to the psychology honors program at the University of Virginia. “Good afternoon Mr. Andrews”, Andrews muttered silently “Dr...” They pulled out of the parking lot, John was just about to change the gear to drive when a speeding FedEx truck driver rammed into the rear of the SUV, Lance grimaced in pain as he watched through his office window, the SUV somersaulting, as Mr. Green’s head broke through the windscreen, his seatbelts holding back his left hand. The ambulance had arrived so fast that one would think they orchestrated the whole accident.

Weeks had passed, Lance and Andrews stood aback at Mr. Green's funeral as they paid their last respects. Andrews in a black peacoat that was purchased for him by his Teaching Assistant, Denison, who came to visit after he heard of the accident. The professor’s hands cast heavily, as he stood mildly teary. Lance, on the other hand, had taken a moment to stare at a blooded black notebook in Andrews’s side pocket, a victim of the accident.