The President and the Seven Almonds That Did Not Exist

In those days, the President had many wonders — a calendar the size of his hand made from silver mined in South America, a Mongolian saber more than three feet in length, and an astrolabe from the navigators of Portugal — but among his gardens of rose and ones of air force, he owned a treasure that glittered with more luster than the silver, sang with more sharpness than the blade, and called down the favor of the heavens more piously than the orrery. These were the seven almonds that did not exist.

The philosophers have debated the significance of the almonds for generations now, producing flurries of paper like a snowstorm. Professor Peterson of Copenhagen, a logician, argued famously that the non-existence of the almonds exemplified A.N. Prior’s work in 1941 modernizing William of Ockham’s treatment of future contingents. The almonds, said Peterson, did not exist in the very same mode of God’s knowledge of future events. The anonymous author of The Way to Non-Being, rumored to be a disgraced monk from the Daeheungsa temple in South Korea, suggested that meditating on each of the almonds that did not exist — seven — allowed the initiate to ascend upwards through each layer of the Upper World, before finally extinguishing the self at Satyaloka, the abode of Brahma on Mount Mehru.

There are many more interpretations, and each, especially for those of a more Hermetic tuning, has its strengths.

But I — who was once a simple social media attache at the White House Office of Nuts, Legumes, and Pulses specializing in the creation of Pinterest boards in which Michelle Obama extolled the virtues of dried mung beans — will tell you the true story of the president and the seven almonds that do not exist. I do this because I am now an old man, with nothing to lose by telling the tale. Much has been lost during the years of Trump, but here is the true story.

As night fell on the windows of the Treaty Room, the President’s body drooped low over his desk. Although he called himself a “night guy,” he had to admit that even he had reached his limits. After dinner with his wife and daughters at 6:30, during which he had gently parried his eldest girl’s increasing insistence that after graduation she be allowed to the Pacific Northwest to study applied homeopathy at Evergreen State College, he retired to the private office near his bedroom on the building’s second floor.

Tonight, as he faced the papers that required his attention, the usual distractions held no allure. He had already been disappointed by the Web Gems on Sports Center and lost a game of Words With Friends he had played against Susan Rice. He swiveled in his chair once around, then twice, coming to rest to gaze up at the portrait of Ulysses S. Grant. He let out a sigh, then picked up the desk phone.

Soon, assembled in front of his desk, standing at attention, were several of the President’s courtiers. They were his cook, his chief of protocol, and his head environmental advisor.

“I’m hungry,” said the President. “And bored. So bored. What you got?”

“Sir,” said the cook, shielding his nervous hands in his white coat, “may I suggest a second helping from tonight’s dinner? The First Lady was quite fond of the arugula.”

“Pass,” said the President.

“But sir, you can see the garden that the arugula grew in from the window here.”

“Hard pass.”

The chief of protocol stepped forward, shielding her eyes from the sun setting behind the President.

“Might I suggest some salted caramels?” she said. “You love those.”

“I do,” said the President, “but don’t you think that trend’s pretty played out?”

“Might I suggest some Jelly Beans, instead?”

The President glared at her. “Wrong party.”

“Of course not, sir. My apologies,” she said. “Perhaps a Big Mac?”

“Yes,” said the President. “Have Monica send one in, please.”

“Right away, sir — ”

The cook nudged the chief of protocol with his elbow and shook his head.

“Pretzels?” she suggested.

“You want me to choke?”

“Broccoli?”

“Puke?”

“What about almonds?” said the environmental advisor. “Almonds are good.”

“Almonds,” said the President, thoughtfully. “Almonds.”

“I think I have some at my desk, actually.”

“I like almonds,” said the President. “But I remember Reggie posted something on Facebook from BuzzFeed the other day that I read — well, I skimmed — that said almond farming was causing the drought in California. So I don’t know.”

The room fell silent.

Finally, the President had an idea.

“What if I eat almonds, but not too many of them?” he said. “Like seven almonds.”

“Wonderful,” said the advisor. “I’ll go find the bag. I think I have seven left.”

“No wait. Seven is too many,” said the President. “But I have an even better idea.”

“Eight?” said the cook.

“Six?” said the chief of protocol.

“Cashews?” said the advisor.

“What if the seven almonds — and hear me out on this — what if the seven almonds don’t exist?” said the President.

The cook gasped, the chief of protocol beamed, the environmental advisor nodded enthusiastically, and the three went off to find the President seven almonds that did not exist.

The President sat for a moment alone. Then he spun in his chair again and, when it came to stop, pulled his phone from his pocket. He pecked out a text message to Michelle.

“U up?”