by D. J. Herda
by D. J. Herda
The bizarre chain of events leading to one of the strangest meetings in Oval Office history began innocently enough early one morning when a black stretch limo pulled to a stop outside the gates to the northwest wing of the White House. A black sergeant in a blue uniform approached the car slowly. Stepping one foot down from the curb, he leaned his weight against the passenger side door. As the window rolled down, a clean-shaven man dressed in a shiny brown suit motioned toward the back of the car.
The window rolled up again, and the window behind it lowered three-quarters of the way down. The cop walked back and looked in.
“What?” he asked. He leaned closer. Behind him, a second cop, a patrolman, approached cautiously, taking in the spectacle.
The sergeant muttered something to someone inside the car and reached his hand in. A high-pitched voice laughed suddenly, splitting the thick beltway air working its way up from the Potomac. Other voices followed. The second cop lowered his hand instinctively to his hip where it came to rest upon the polished butt of a Smith and Wesson .44. Reassured, he stopped, feet spread wide and shoulders squared, just inches behind the first cop.
As the window slowly closed, the sergeant pulled his hand back and looked at the plain white envelope he was clutching. He turned to his partner.
“Well?” the second cop asked.
“Elvis Presley,” the cop said, holding the envelope up to him.
“Says he’s Elvis Presley and he has a letter for the President.”
The second cop’s eyes widened into circles nearly as large around as his mouth. “The hell he is,” he said softly.
“Call Secret Service and ask them what they want us to do. He says he’s going to stay right here until he gets an answer.”
“Are you serious? Elvis Presley?”
The cop frowned. “No, it’s John Lennon. Now will you go make the goddam call?”
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