Misunderstanding

"I had a misunderstanding with my bladder."  Dr. Khalid Mohammad made no reply and continued reviewing the patient's lab results.  "It won't happen again!"  This time the breakage in the patient's voice prompted Dr. Mohammad to look up from the clipboard.  "It was just an accident," the woman whispered, more softly this time.

Dr. Mohammad arose from his chair and approached the patient's bed.  "You're not in trouble for urinating on the bus seat:  you're here because there was blood in your urine."  And because you were raving like a lunatic about the non-stop whine of government death machines in the secret tunnel.  "Where is 'Dupont Down Under'?"  (This is what the George Washington University Hospital intake nurse had recorded as the patient's home address.)  The patient grew paler, now realizing she had given away their secret home.  "Is it somewhere in Dupont Circle, or out in Fort Dupont?"  She nodded yes.  "Which?"  She nodded yes again.  He took a deep breath.  Let the Medicaid collection agent worry about it.  "We need to run some more tests.  I'm concerned about several things."

"Do I have pig flu?" she blurted out, sitting bolt upright in her bed.

He shook his head no, though he had already entered her in the master list of current patients to receive the H1N1 vaccination if it arrived while she was still in the hospital.  "You have troublesome levels of...toxins in your body.  I'm going to recommend a blood transfusion, which will take some time, but I think it will help a lot."  She pulled the sheet up to her chin, remembering a vampire movie she had seen many years ago.  "Then we need to talk about what kinds of food you're eating, what kind of water you're drinking, and what kinds of medications you have been taking."  She shook her head no, having already told him that she was taking no drugs.  "We'll talk about it more tomorrow."  He squeezed her wrist reassuringly, then left the room before smelling that she had incurred another misunderstanding with her bladder.

A few blocks away, the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope was compiling security briefings into a comprehensive report for the Secretary of State.  August 2009 had turned out to be the deadliest month for U.S. troops in their eight-year engagement in Afghanistan.  "To Hell in a Handbasket!" was the working title of his report--something his mother was constantly saying.  "This will not go well."  These were the other words that kept popping into his mind--something his dentist had said after President Bush had sent the troops in.  (Where was that dentist from anyway?  He had said Iran, but maybe that was a lie?)   He had still learned nothing about Project R.O.D.H.A.M. except that his suddenly secretive girlfriend appeared to be in the midst of it, and the body count in Afghanistan was rising.  Eva Brown was unable to call or email him with daily assurances of her safety, but always made technological excuses for this, insisting she was not involved in anything dangerous.  "Never get involved in a land war in Asia."  He couldn't remember where he had heard that, but figured it was from a book on the Napoleonic invasion of Russia, or maybe the Vietnam War.  (It was actually from "The Princess Bride".)  He took a deep breath and resumed editing the section on the Khyber Pass.

Not far away, Hillary Rodham Clinton was reading another CIA briefing on Afghan tribalism.  "Loyalties lie with the tribe.  It is the tribe that controls food, shelter, religion, childrearing.  It is the tribe that offered protection from the Soviet invaders, and all the invaders that came before.  The concept of a 'nation' is almost meaningless to Afghans outside the major cities. It is all about survival of the tribe."  The tribe of men, she thought.  She picked up the phone and called "C. Coe Phant" to get an update on the plans of the Reserve Officers Deployed to Hunt Armed Misogynists for spiking the Taliban's drinking supply with estrogen.  There's more than one way to get 'em by the balls.

A few miles away, Button Samuelson was in the office of Caljohn Mgmt., LLC, discussing proxy ballots with her boss (and occasional boyfriend) Calico Johnson.  It was the first time she was overseeing a condominium board election, and she didn't understand what he was saying.  "Look," he said, leaning forward in his chair.  "These people are sheep.  They don't know how an apartment building should be managed.  They think everything should look great, and their condo fees should be low.  They don't know the difference between drywall and plaster.  They'll come up with all kinds of stupid ideas, like replacing hallway carpeting with tiles or putting grills on the roof.  They'll bitch if the washing machine cost goes up a single quarter.  They're morons.  They need complete guidance."  Samuelson nodded, still unsure what her boss was getting at.  "You can't let troublemakers get on the board.  We are the ones managing the building."  Samuelson nodded again, slowly.  "Which of the candidates calls you the most to complain?"  He didn't wait for a reply.  "We don't want them on the board, got it?"  Samuelson nodded again, even more slowly.  "It's for the good of the whole--never forget that."  He placed a small paper bag on the desk, which contained several pen erasers.  "It's for the good of the whole," he repeated.  Then he kissed her and walked out.

"The guns, the guns!"  Fiver Bunny was talking in his sleep again.  "OHHHHHH!"  His friend Hazel Bunny gave him a poke.  "The men with the guns are coming.   OHHHHHHH!"  Hazel Bunny poked him again.  Fiver Bunny rolled over onto his back, his eyes open but blank.  "Keep that commotion down!" yelled Bigwig Bunny from another rabbit hole in the heart of Rock Creek Park.  "But when Fiver gets these dreams, it usually means something!" whispered Hazel Bunny.  "It means he's a stark raving loony!" responded Bigwig Bunny.  "Hunting's never been allowed here!"  Not far away, a National Park Service employee was doing a final walkabout before the public hearing tonight on how to cull the deer population in Rock Creek Park.  A bizarre howl came from a small glade, unlike anything he had ever heard before.  He turned around, then heard it again.  A few startled deer bolted for deeper tree cover, feeling their days were numbered, but misunderstanding why.  High up in a sycamore tree, the Warrior watched and listened.