Lila Seinfeld had relied on her electric boat’s autopilot to find the correct location. She had done this before several times that it was committed to memory: latitude 40.963 and longitude -72.185. Lila sat in the captain’s chair of the rented fishing rig which she had reserved a week before at the Hartford Harbor Marina. Hartford, Connecticut was one of the most active sea ports with a large bay and deep water, not to mention that several rail lines intersected at Hartford.
But today, Lila was going way out to sea to lay a wreathe over where her grandfather’s estate and gravesite were, buried 63 feet below the surface of the water. She first came to this spot ten years ago on a scuba trip to examine the former beachfront house on a street once called Further Lane in a town once called East Hampton. Her grandfather, Jerry Seinfeld, had unexpectedly died before Greenland melted and so never knew what was to be.
When the ice started to melt in 2038, it took only seven years for the whole process to run its course. Of course, no one knew that it was going to be only seven years of rising oceans and lost land, and so panic set in, people moving to high places, mountain cities sprouting over night. The Catskills of New York, the Rockies of Colorado, the Sierra Nevadas of California, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, not to mention any high ground inland. But things have settled down. No more ice was melting and hadn’t since 2045.
It was now 2091 and the planet was settling into a new golden age. People were adjusting to the new environment, both physical and economic, and this was due to several factors, including the widespread use of hydrogen energy, an unlimited energy source, the stability of the earth’s weather, the sinking of most of the Middle East under water, all of which seemed to feed into a sense of peace. The big ice melt also had a tendency to bring the world’s myriad cultures together to try to save the planet. The first century of the new millennium was a tough century, starting off real bad and getting worse for a good sixty years. But now just nine years shy of 2100, the planet was at peace.
Except Lila Seinfeld was not happy. Congress had finally passed legislation that federalized all property under water that was formerly above water. So title to her grandfather’s East Hampton estate was now clearly not in Lila Seinfeld’s name. This included any personal property that might be under water, though this matter was moot since underwater looters had already cleaned out all the formerly great estates and towns and cities. But it did spawn a whole new industry of underwater salvage, and her father, Jerry Seinfeld’s son, had the foresight to not only invest in the salvage business but also to utilize his salvage investments to rescue most of everything in East Hampton. Except for one thing. His father’s grave.
Jerry Seinfeld was very specific about where he was to be buried, and though he had spent most of his time in Maine, considered now in the later part of this first century to be one of the most beautiful regions in the world, Jerry wanted to be buried on his estate in East Hampton. He died at the age of 74 in 2028 from a brain aneurism that developed as he hiked up Mount Katahdin in Maine. He made it all the way to the summit and then dropped dead. It was seen as a sign, confirming to many that Maine was a spiritual place. His body though was whisked away and buried according to Jewish law as fast possible, with a small ceremony in East Hampton. That was 63 years ago, way before Lila was born.
But Lila had inherited much of the Seinfeld fortune through her father, and she felt a debt of gratitude and wonder at the source of it all. Lila had watched all the ’short movies’ her grandfather made, the old television series, and she had often wondered how someone could become so wealthy based on what she considered minor entertainments. But Lila was not about to question the source of her good fortune. Her grandfather was careful to invest, as well as her father, and so the fortune grew and grew, permitting Lila to own real estate in Hartford, one of the most expensive cities in the world, as well as Maine and a Montana ranch that was at a 4,000 foot elevation. Indeed, most real estate was still advertised by elevation, due to the formerly rising sea levels.
The GPS device in the boat’s autopilot started to buzz and the electric engine shut down. Lila had arrived at the spot directly above her grandfather’s grave. Her father had not salvaged the coffin because he thought it violated Jewish law. Lila did not know one way or another, but she knew that she was doing the right thing now. She picked up the sealed metal box which contained dried red roses and dropped it into the water. It sunk immediately.
“Thank you,” said Lila to herself.
Lila Seinfeld then turned the boat’s autopilot off, cranked up the electric engines and headed back to Hartford. It was a beautiful sunny day, and the water was glistening with blue sparkles.
It was a few minutes short of midnight on November 7, 2000 and Al Gore was not pleased to be called from his hotel room and brought all the way to the White House by the Secret Service. He did not even have time to properly assemble his clothes. He was wearing blue jeans and a white shirt, not something he would want to be seen in on this dreadfully long election night.
When one of the secret service men opened the door to the Oval Office, Gore first saw Bill Clinton behind the Presidential desk, his feet clothed only in black socks which were crossed at the ankles up on the desktop and Bill Clinton’s large hands behind Clinton’s white-hair head. Sitting in front of the desk on one of the two guest chairs was George W. Bush who was wearing khaki slacks and shallow leather shoes and a white oxford shirt, which betrayed his New England roots.
“What’s this about?” asked Gore as he stepped into the Oval Office.
“Hey Al,” said Bush.
“Take a seat,” said President Clinton.
“That’s OK. Why are you guys here? Why am I here?” asked Gore.
“We have a little problem,” said Clinton.
“A little problem. Hah. This is a biggie,” said Bush.
“What’s the problem, Mr. President,” said Gore. Gore usually did not say ‘Mr. President,’ but he felt like he should in front of his election-night opponent Bush.
‘You better sit down there, Al, ’cause this is a biggie,” said Bush.
‘Let’s get to the point,” said Gore, who remained standing. He was not about to be taking orders from the Texan.
‘Let me just say it. The numbers you are seeing on the news, the election night returns are all bullshit,” said Clinton.
“I don’t understand,” said Gore.
“Wait to you hear this. This is like such a biggie. It makes me want to be president so bad,” said Bush.
Clinton glanced over at Bush and smiled.
“When the first numbers started coming in, I convened a small committee of officials from the CIA, the NSA and the FBI to re-configure all computer relays and switching equipment to correct the returns,” said Clinton.
“Correct the returns?” asked Gore.
“The real returns show Nader in the lead,” said Clinton.
“What? Can you say that again,” said Gore.
“I know it is hard to believe. Ralph Nader is wiping the floor with you guys. I guess people are fed up. They just don’t like either of you two,” said Clinton.
“But tell him. Tell him what you are doing. This is cool, Al. Wait to you hear this,” said Bush.
Clinton and Gore both briefly glance at Bush who was getting all excited, like a kid at a toy store the day before Christmas.
“We have electronically re-routed the return results through the Langley computers without anyone’s knowledge. And just so you know, we are generally spitting out numbers back at the electoral districts that track the polling statistics from the week before to avoid any risk that someone might think things are totally wrong,” said Clinton.
“But are you saying that if you just let the election run its course, Nader would be president?” asked Gore incredulously.
“You and George here would have already conceded if it wasn’t for my quick and decisive action,” said Clinton.
“See. See. Isn’t this cool that a president can do this. So much fun. It’s really awesome, don’t you think, Al,” said Bush. Gore and Clinton ignored Bush.
“But you cannot do this,” said Gore.
“Let’s dispense with the ethics lecture. We need to do this for the sake of the country. The country is better off in the hands of the Democrats or Republicans. President Ralph Nader would destroy the United States of America,” said Clinton.
“I’m not sure that’s so true,” said Gore.
“We have one problem though. Florida,” said Clinton.
“Problem,” said Gore.
“Yeah, the guys weren’t able to re-route Florida. It’s causing us headaches, but oddly, Nader is not doing well in Florida. Florida is really a toss-up between you two, so we lucked out,” said Clinton.
“So what’s the problem,” asked Gore.
“Well, the CIA guys sort of worked the program slightly in George’s favor, but the FBI guys are feeding numbers that are slightly in your favor, Al. It all makes me uncomfortable,” said Clinton.
“Uncomfortable. This is like the biggest cover-up in American history,” said Gore.
“It’s just so cool that we are sitting here doing this,” said Bush, who is again ignored.
‘Don’t get carried away, Al. We just need to make a decision who is going to win Florida. We need to decide this right now, and I propose a coin toss,” said Clinton.
“You see, the guy who wins Florida wins the election. Awesome, huh?” said Bush.
“I have an American Eagle $20 gold coin in my hand. I am going to toss it and let it land on the Presidential desk. George wants to call it, isn’t that right George?” asked Clinton.
“Yeah,” said Bush.
“Wait. Wait. This is moving too fast for me. This can’t be real,” said Gore.
“It’s real. This is how it is in the Oval Office. Things happen fast. I am tossing,” said Clinton, who flipped the coin in the air.
“Heads,” said Bush.
The coin landed on the table and twirled, slowly moving to the edge. Clinton, Gore and Bush kept their eyes on the twirling gold coin as it slowly settled down and stopped on the very edge of the table. The coin had the eagle facing up, the tails side up. But the $20 gold piece teetered precariously on the edge of the desk, it settled there briefly, as if suspended in time, and then fell to the thick carpet below. Bush rose quickly. Clinton ran around the side of the desk. Al Gore just remained standing, looking down at the gold coin which had flipped over with Lady Liberty facing up. Heads.
“Well, would you look at that,” said Clinton.
“Looks like I take Florida,” said Bush.
“It was tails on the desk and heads on the floor. Maybe we need a second toss,” said Clinton.
“Forget it. It’s heads,” said Bush.
“Maybe we should have defined the rules of the toss,” said Clinton.
“In Texas, you toss and wherever it lands is what you live with,” said Bush.
“What do you think, Al?” asked Clinton.
“I think this is so totally ridiculous. The country’s future turning on the toss of coin,” said Gore.
“Hey, man, it’s not any coin. It’s an American Eagle. It’s a $20 gold piece. Show a little respect,” said Bush.
“So it’s decided. We will throw Florida to you, George. That is if the CIA and FBI guys can work out a re-route of the Florida poll numbers so we can control events,” said Clinton.
“And if they can’t?” asked Gore.
“Well then, I just don’t know what will happen,” said Clinton.
Bush raised his voice: “Re-route the numbers. You’re president. You can do this, which is real cool, but it ain’t cool if you don’t do it,” said Bush as he walked to the door. “I’m out of here. Nice office. I’m going to like it,” said Bush as he left the room.
“You OK, Al,” asked Clinton.
“No. And I am not going along with this nonsense,” said Gore.
“We need a smooth transition. It’s good for the country,” said Clinton.
“Nader would be better than that asshole,” said Gore.
“Al, please. Calm down,” said Clinton.
“I’m going back to my hotel room. I don’t know what I am going to do. But I’ll tell you one thing, that coin was tails on the desk. On the presidential desk,” said Gore as he turned and left the room, leaving Clinton alone.
“Damn, I’m going to miss this job,” said Clinton to himself.
Story inspired by my son, Max Bennett.
Bill Keller sat in a cherry-wood chair with arms and a dark green cracked leather seat. The chair was by itself near an old window in an old room of the old New York Times building on West 43rd Street in Manhattan. Everything was old in The New York Times Building, and sometimes this comforted Bill Keller, and at other times he hungered to get out of there and move to the new headquarters under construction on Eighth Avenue and 40th Street. Old versus new. His newspaper was under siege because he made the editorial decision to publish an article about the Federal Government’s program of reviewing all, or at least randomly, private financial transactions with the voluntary cooperation of banking institutions. The Federal Government’s examination of private financial transactions was not necessarily illegal. Indeed, it was arguably based on clear legal precedent, not to mention statutory authority. Indeed, when Keller first learned of the program, he was surprised that Federal officials mounted a major effort to convince him not to disclose the existence of the financial monitoring. Their argument was simple. They said that it took months, if not years, to convince the major banking institutions to cooperate in permitting Federal examiners to review all private financial transactions. In essence, the Federal government wanted the ability to sit down with the banks’ computers and look at everything, all transactions, major and minor, with names, addresses, past records, security information, source of funds, anything and everything the bank was privy to, the government wanted to be privy to. The Feds argued that the banks were essentially disclosing information that their customers arguably would consider confidential, and so the banks were obviously skittish. It would be bad public relations for them to admit to their banking clients that their financial lives were an open book to the Federal government. Disclosure of the program, so the Feds argued to Bill Keller, would scare off the banks and terminate their cooperation. The argument was spearheaded by John Negroponte, the National Intelligence Director.
Bill Keller heard the argument. He felt that the argument was not bullshit, that the Feds were being upfront about the reason, which made him inclined to respect their advice. Indeed, it was an ‘Old School’ instinct to balance the various concerns, both public and private, government and journalistic. The old building he was in, with the piles of paper that The New York Times still created in this digital world gave Bill Keller a sense of moving forward with prudence. The ‘New School’ had nothing to do with prudence. The internet had made everything an open book. And no one cared about balancing anything. If it was there, and someone had access to it, it would end up on the internet. The digital age had made Bill Keller’s job more difficult. He now had to keep an eye on the internet, holding back as long he thought it proper, but only when he thought it proper. His governing rule was to try to come up with a reason not to publish, not to disclose. And quite frankly, even with ‘Old School’ thinking, the skittishness of banks was not a good reason to withhold information. If the banks were skittish, they were skittish for a reason. If the banks were compromising people’s financial transactions, then of course they would be skittish. People should know. The government should pass legislation giving the Feds the right to make the banks disclose, taking the burden off the banks and letting the public know that when they transact money, someone will be looking.
So ‘Old School’ Bill Keller decided to go with the story and publish the article. The phone was ringing off the hook. People were calling for his head. People were threatening to punish The New York Times.
Bill Keller thought about the old building he was in. He would miss it. Next year, he would be moving into one of the most high-tech facilities in the world, the most connected, the most digital, the most highly linked up information center on the planet, and he wondered if he would be able to hold onto his ‘Old School’ philosophy. Why should he, he thought. Afterall, look where it got him this morning. But then, this was also news.
The Muslim boy sat with his father on a Gaza beach. The white sand around the father was red from the blood that was blasted from the father�s body from a stray Israeli bomb. The Muslim boy was eight years old.
The Jewish boy sat with his father on a street in Tel Aviv. The black asphalt around the father was glistening dark red from the blood that was blasted from the father�s body from a Palestinian bomb that had been placed in a park car. The Jewish boy was eight years old.
The Muslim boy watched the two men lift his father onto a stretcher and cover him with a white sheet. The two men walked away with the stretcher and left the Muslim boy on the beach with the red sand.
The Jewish boy watched two men lift his father onto a stretcher and cover him in a white sheet. The two men walked away with the stretcher and left the Jewish boy on the street with the glistening red asphalt.
The Muslim boy stood and faced the afternoon sun that hung over the blue Mediterranean water. He took a deep breath and thanked God that the death of his father had now given him purpose.
The Jewish boy stood and faced the afternoon sun that hung over the tall buildings of Tel Aviv. He took a deep breath and thanked God that the death of his father had now given him purpose.
The Muslim boy and the Jewish boy had once lead purposeless lives, playing soccer together, swimming in the sea together, drawing and writing together. But now into the void of empty lives, lives filled with nothing but shallow pursuits like sports and art, was placed the blood of their fathers, blood that was hot and wet and a combustible fuel that would outlast the oil fields of the Middle East. A fuel that represented what scientists claimed did not exist in nature: perpetual motion.
