A Formal Invitation to a Coup D’Etat

Like millions of left leaning Americans my personalized invitation to the coup d’etat came in the mail about midweek at the end of March. That the envelope was written in cursive was somewhat of a challenge for me as I had completely forgotten about being taught cursive in school, so when I read the name the B, to me, looked more like an S and the R an N, the K was quite possibly a Z and I didn’t even bother with deciphering the last name.

I considered it junk mail, or a bill for one of my many unpaid credit card debts. Until my husband arrived home from work and saw the envelope sitting on our coffee table did I realize it’s significance. He shouted, “Oh! Did we get our invitation from President Obama?”

Though he had not been president for a few months now, we both, as nearly half of civilized America, still referred to the forty fourth president as President Obama. In our living room, in fact, was a framed poster of Shepard Fairey’s indelible “Hope” work. It had been above our chaise lounge for eight years and would probably continue to remain there for at least another eight. And while we were hoping to add another piece to our collection, perhaps one of Hillary, there was left a blank space on our wall as a reminder that we were, in fact, living in the worst of times.

“Why didn’t you open it,” my husband asked as he set down his satchel by the doorway. I pointed to the bag on the floor and gestured for him to hang it in its appropriate place.

“I couldn’t read the envelope so I figured it was junk,” I responded.

“Open it,” he said.

He sat with me on the couch as I stuck my pointer finger under the flap of the envelope and carefully opened the pouch. I extracted a thick piece of paper that had the weight of a CEO’s business card and flipped it over to the side with text so that we both could see. The lettering was a dark, royal blue, and slightly raised, almost brail like. Holding the invitation in my hand had the severity and importance of holding a Golden Ticket.

The 44th President of the United States of America humbly requests your participation in a coup d’etat against the current administration.

When: Beginning April 2017
Where: French Polynesia
What to Bring: A change of clothes, food will be provided

Sincerely,

Barack Obama

“Well, I don’t quite know what to say about that,” I said as I read the invitation once more. My husband was craning his neck forward as though he were trying to examine some hidden meaning or code.

“Seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said. “Shall we go?”

“I can’t think of a single reason why not,” I replied.

Getting to French Polynesia was not as challenging as we had expected. What surprised us was the lack of fellow travelers on this journey. In the weeks leading up to our self-imposed exile we spoke with a number of our friends who were weighing the pros and cons of “The Coup,” as it became known. Fox News covered it extensively, Breitbart wrote about four articles a day about the ensuing coup and the possible invasion of Obama’s (Muslim) forces. Drudge Report claimed they had uncovered battle plans for an assault on Hawaii and then San Francisco, places that would be easy to take because of their Obama sympathies. Upon closer inspection, however, the leaked plans were just a darkly lit cell phone picture of a game of Risk.

At LAX we expected a hero’s farewell, but it was business as usual. We landed in Honolulu and almost nobody seemed to be buzzing about The Coup. There was a young burnout couple that looked like they were using The Coup as an excuse to drop out of college. They slammed beers at the airport bar and by the time we all boarded for our flight to Fa’a’ā International Airport they were significantly sauced.

My husband was dressed in Che Guevara Chic, a new line of clothing that was hastily marketed at American Apparel. He had skinny army green combat pants that tucked snuggly against his butt, tall black boots that looked more like repurposed Doc Martins, a matching green button down with pre-rolled up sleeves (and shoulder carrying spot for a pack of smokes), and 100% cotton t-shirt with the word “Rebel” in red, though that was covered up by his button down. He balked at the beret that was also for sale because, in his words, it was tacky.

Comparatively, I looked like I was going on safari. From head to toe I was in light brown khaki, and looked more like General McCarthy than rebel of the week.

“Everyone on this flight is wearing Hawaiian shirts,” I noted.

My husband shrugged. We loaded the plane first, as we had splurged for first class and spent the next twenty minutes trying to pick out who was coming with us to The Coup and who was headed on vacation. By my tally the plane was about nine tenths vacationers. Though the only people I was sure were on our side were the twenty year old drunks at the back of the plane.

It was a surprisingly short flight and we arrived only a little buzzed. I had the invitation in my pocket and I pulled it out to remind myself that there was no other information about a final destination other than French Polynesia. We grabbed the one suitcase we had packed for the both of us and looked around to see if there was anyone who looked like they were meant to greet our fellow freedom fighters.

The burnouts were hanging by the taxi stand enduring what looked like a waking hangover. The sun was pouring onto their skin and as the doors opened to the outside I felt a warmth that was far more welcoming than what I had experienced in Honolulu. We stood next to the couple as they shielded their eyes and after a few moments I cleared my throat and asked, “Are you here for The Coup?”

“Yes,” the girl said with a clip in her voice.

“Where are we supposed to go?”

She looked at me and squinted, “I think a car is coming.”

On cue a minivan arrived. An overly tan white gentleman of about thirty was driving. He rolled down the window and asked, “Are you here for The Coup?”

We all nodded. He got out of the car and opened the trunk. We helped him pile in our things than loaded into the seats. The car smelled like stale Febreeze, which perplexed me because the tropical air was so pleasant, why not just keep the windows rolled down?

“Good group today,” the driver remarked. He put the car in drive and slowly pulled out of the airport pickup area. “He’ll be glad to see you.”

President Obama was a regular at our picnic table when we ate lunch. I think what he liked most was talking to people closer to his age. The cuisine at our little camp was nothing to write home about and after three weeks I still couldn’t get on board with Poi. It was the only food that I had ever seen that looked exactly like it tasted.

In the distance Michelle was leading a calisthenics workout that I had discovered after a few sessions was a bit too intense for my liking. About fifty members of The Coup though were breathing heavily, sweating, and trying to keep up with the former First Lady.

When we chatted with the President we talked mostly about sports. I could tell that he was initially surprised that a gay couple was so well versed, but I reminded him that Nate Silver, my personal hero until the 2016 election, was Mr. Baseball and a gay man. While I loved baseball I was more of a hockey guy, which really didn’t connect with the President, but my husband was baseball and football. In fact, my husband was a quarterback at a division III school. A starter too.

After dinner the three of us and whomever else was interested, would throw around a football or baseball. More and more The Coup felt more like an extended vacation than training for an upcoming invasion.

The President was largely uninvolved with the logistics. There was a former FBI agent and Obama loyalist who we called “The General,” who led most of the training sessions. Weapons weren’t really allowed in French Polynesia so we worked mostly with sticks as replacements for guns, and coconuts as stand ins for grenades. Whenever I was on the attack I still made the sound effect of what I imagined a machine gun sounded like.

For our lessons in espionage there was a woman named Kale who was CIA operative for twelve years. Her name was either a poorly thought out alias, or, as my husband decided was more likely, it was such a terrible name that there was no possible way that her name was not Kale.

According to Kale, the only way we were going to truly be victorious was if we infiltrated local governments, found sympathetic citizens, politicians and media types willing to aide or join us, and build a rebellion one person at a time. The war, she said, would be won over the airwaves, not on the ground.

Training lasted for roughly five hours a day, though more recently it had been three hours or less. The rest of the time was free time and I spent it letting the waves crash against my body, trying to remain standing as the water tried to make me fall. Down the beach I saw the President skim boarding with his daughters. He looked happy.

By June there were roughly four thousand people in camp and the meals became more inundated with purple by the day. My husband was napping on the beach with a John Le Carre novel over his face when The President came to sit with me.

“Mr. President,” I greeted him.

“Barack,” he insisted.

I scanned his face, it seemed less jagged than when he left office. His hair even seemed darker, as though it had regained some of its youthful color that he had when he first entered office. If he was going to continue to spontaneously rejuvenate like this I wondered what the point would be of ever leaving.

“When do you think we’ll go back,” I asked.

“Before the football season starts, I hope,” he said wryly.

I let out a soft snort and looked out onto the ocean. “I’ve never been a part of something like this. It feels good. I wonder though how we’ll be received back home.”

“Who knows,” he said. “I still have unbending faith in the American people as a whole.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? So are nearly four thousand others.”

I looked down at the sand between my feet. I wiggled my toes and let the cool grains drip off my toenails. The bowl of poi between my arms on the table was still untouched and I saw The President eyeing it. I expected him to ask for a few spoonfuls but he just smiled at me.

“Keep up the good work,” he said as he excused himself from the table.

I watched him as he made his rounds to the pockets of people loitering around the campsite. He shook hands with everyone he spoke to and laughed fully at all the bad jokes he heard. I felt whole to be around so many allies.

That night I sat up in bed and realized I had no idea what was going on at home. There were four thousand of us here, training daily and preparing for an invasion of our homeland. There were still millions at home, waiting for us to storm the beaches, but maybe they were starting to believe we were never coming back.

The sound of the water sliding against the shore was my ticking clock and I thought of all my friends and family and how they were relying on me, on all of us. In the early days of The Coup I thought only about heroics and parades and overthrowing the regime. Now the only images I conjured were reuniting with my people back in the States.

I didn’t sleep that night, only kept my eyes fixed on the dark outline of the horizon. I counted the waves until I forgot what number I was on then started again.

When the sun peered over the shore I went to dip my feet in the water and let my feet sink into the wet the sand. I stood until the sun was inches above the horizon before I tried to extract myself. The sand felt like I had trapped in soft concrete. Behind me I heard the slap of bare feet walking towards me and, unable to move my legs, I rotated my torso to see who was coming.

“Good morning,” the President hailed.

“Good morning Mr. President.”

He sidled up next to me and we both admired the same horizon. He seemed to enjoy sharing a moment of silence with me, or with anyone I assumed. For years there were people talking at him, or around him, or near him, or about him. Now there was as much quiet as he wanted.

“I’m thinking it’s time to go home,” he said.

“Really?”

He took a deep breath and said, “Time for all of you to go home.”

“You’re not coming with us?”

He shook his head. I extracted my feet and the flop of sand chunks slapped against the water. The President extended his hand and shook mine. He smiled and walked away.

“But,” I stammered. “But Barack…”

He turned to me and back pedaled, still grinning. He shrugged and said, “You don’t need me.”