THE REPRISAL



Shortly before 2 P.M., the young man arrived at the Museum of National Antiquity, an eight-story structure of pink granite and glass that occupied an entire city block. He was only slightly surprised to find the building empty and deserted. By now the young man had come to understand how closely the absence of clutter was tied to efficiency in the One Minute Way of Life.

The young man walked across the lobby to where a large sign said:

On the wall under the sign was a display that said:

And sure enough when the young man checked, the number he had taken from the dispenser was 667. It bothered him that he might have long to wait. In fact, even before he had managed to locate a chair on the ground floor, he heard footsteps behind him and a voice called out: "Number 667?"

The young man turned to acknowledge the voice and was struck by the awesome beauty of a statuesque woman in a gossamer white gown who seemed to float over the marble toward him. He managed to say: "I'm number 667. I have an appointment with Ms. Fester."

"Call me Helen," Ms. Fester smiled.

"Helen," the young man said.

"That's better. Now follow me," she instructed, as she wafted by him. She led him down a wide hallway and up three flights of stairs to a set of ten-foot high polished walnut doors. In large gilt letters on the door were these words:


"Give me a hand," Helen said, and together they leaned against one of the large wooden doors until it slowly swung inward, revealing a cavernous auditorium piled from floor to ceiling with books and artwork.

"I don't understand," said the young man, "The rest of the building is spotless and spacious. Why is everything crammed in this room?"

"Budget reductions," Helen said. "I was forced to lay off the entire work force."

"I don't see what that has to do with the emptiness of the rest of the place and the chaos in here."

"It's really quite simple," Helen explained. "When I came here from the Bureau of the Ulterior, we had a staff of nearly 500 people and one of the largest collections of artwork and objects of historical significance ever assembled anywhere on the planet. The net cost of this operation was in the neighborhood of $5 per year for every man woman and child in this country."

"I see," said the young man.

"But the actual cost was much higher. Janitorial service, for instance, was contracted out. So was security, procurement, and so on. And what good were all these expenditures doing? Were they strengthening the national defense? Were they contributing to the education and enlightenment of the general population?"

"Well," the young man hemmed, "that would at least seem to be the purpose of a museum."

"I'm surprised that a young man as bright and inquisitive as you appear to be would think such rubbish. Surely you realize that most museums are only open during hours the general population is at work. It's obvious the only reason museums exist is to give wealthy members of our society huge living rooms in which to display some of their favorite mementos."

"I'd never thought of it that way," he said, jotting down this new thought in his book.

"So what I undertook to do when I came here was let this particular museum be self-supporting, since bud-get constraints make it impossible to pay for any salary beyond my own. I decided to allow the collection to sink or swim on the free market. The result of those efforts is what you see today."

"You sold the collection?"

"Auctioned leases to the collection," Helen Fester stressed. "The things you see in this room are the objects no one was willing to lease, not even at a dollar an acre. I've stored them here in the event some future administration can find an interested party to lease them at a later date."

The young man was impressed. "That was a stroke of genius."

"Yes," said Helen Fester, "I thought so myself."

A short, uneasy silence followed.

Then quite without warning, the young man was surprised to hear himself ask this question: "Do you have any idea why I'm here?"

"Not the slightest," Helen smiled, "unless you were expecting me to say that the One Minute President's government is not the most efficient on Earth."

"That's exactly why I'm here," he said.

"Then I'm sorry to disappoint you," she said, "because there has never, in all the history of mankind, been a more efficient government than the One Minute President's."

"But how can that be?" the young man asked. "How can a country built upon wishes and gladhands have the most efficient government in the world?"

"Beats me."

Just then an alarm blared and a voice boomed in the Hall of Failed Policies of the Past. "Your minute is up," the voice said. "Get out!"



The young man departed the Museum of National Antiquity shaking his head. The One Minute President was a complete enigma to him.



That night the young man could hardly sleep. Twice he found himself dreaming he was on stage dressed like Elvis Presley playing the part of Hamlet with his mouth full of knockwurst, while a leather-clad Ophelia stomped Polonius to death with her high heels. The young man took this to be an omen, a message that he did not have all the pieces to the puzzle yet. And each time he awoke in a sweat, he found himself truly excited about the next day—when he would learn the final pretense to becoming a One Minute President.

Posted: Thu - March 12, 1987 at 09:01 PM    
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