The Copper Pit

Chapter One

The Price of Lunch

The day begins as a bright spring morning with all the cherry trees in bloom. The abundant blossoms fill the air with their sweet delicate fragrance. The sound of mowers in the background draws our attention to the perfectly manicured lawns and shrubs. It is obvious that no expense has been spared in making this luscious landscape into a flawless work of art. As we gradually move across the expansive lawn, the noise of the mowers and maintenance equipment diminishes. A soft breeze gently moves the flowering tree petals, and we now detect the sound of people talking.

Our ears are drawn toward an open window next to a paved walkway of the huge stately white mansion. Slowly we slither across the lawn like a snake, just above the trimmed grass, over the walk, up the wall and into the large open window. As we move in and down to the floor along the freshly painted ivory wall, we are impressed by the opulence surrounding us. We see a hall before us with gleaming wood floors covered with thick expensive Persian rugs and beautiful ornate furnishings on either side such as tables, lamps and heavily framed artwork. Back at floor level all we can see are feet walking back and forth in the wide hall. Then there comes the sound of high-heeled shoes stepping on the wood floors growing nearer and nearer. We move to one side near the baseboard for safety as the sound gets closer and then it is upon us.

With swift determination the red high heels go by and we watch them stride down the long corridor toward a pair of wide double doors. We hear faint voices inside behind those doors as people are chatting and seem to be enjoying themselves. It sounds like a happy environment of the very rich where no one works, but takes pleasure in their leisurely lives.

From our vantage point we then hear the group laughter from inside the lively chamber as the woman in the red shoes nears the closed doors. She softly knocks three times and the laughter gets louder as she opens the door and walks in.

Here is the file you wanted, sir.

The laughter settles down a bit and a man says, Oh, that’s great, thank you. As she walks out all eyes turn to enjoy her fine gait.

The man with the file then turns to the other people in the room he has been sharing stories with and asks, Well, have we decided where we want to go for lunch today?

Someone says, I don’t know, you decide.

The man, clearly in charge by all the smiles directed his way, makes a commanded decision, Let’s go to that French place I really like. He looks at the only man there in military dress who says, Alright, let’s go there. Another man, dressed in a black suit, pushes a button on his walkie-talkie and says, Get Chopper One ready.

The conversation turns back to old stories and there is more laughter. Again, since our viewpoint is at ground level, we don’t see faces, just expensive shoes, the hand carved legs of fine tables and chairs, all in the very best of taste. Then we hear a muted voice saying, Yes, we will need to close down the highway, we will be on our way by eleven hundred. A louder voice in the hallway is heard responding, Warm up the chopper, get it ready to take off.

Hangar doors are opened, a helicopter is fired up and its motor starts to roar. The team scrambles as if preparing for battle. Over a one-hundred-man workforce has sprung into action. The pilot in command gives orders to the ground crew and he begins to speak to the airport tower. All other flights in the area are informed of the flight path of Chopper One and they know to stay clear or be shot down.

A doctor in a small private plane calls back to the tower and requests special clearance because he must get to surgery. But he is denied and forced to divert his path staying back and away from Chopper One. The air space is to remain cleared at any and all costs. The doctor must land at another airport some distance away, because of the backup of other flights, even though someone’s life hangs in the balance.

The man in charge walks with his entourage to the double set of French doors in the large room overlooking a garden. He stops there and looks out at the stillness and says not a word. The others follow him and also stand silently behind him, waiting for his lead. Then he slowly turns to the man in black and says quietly, Okay, let’s go.

The man in black looks at another officer intently watching and waiting for the signal, which he now receives as an almost unnoticeable single eyebrow movement. He forwards the message on as, Green light.

The French doors leading outside into the rose garden are opened by two guards and what was a peaceful sanctuary and a joy to behold moments ago, has now become utter commotion. The chopper that was hovering at one thousand feet is now descending to the ground. The street once filled with traffic is, without regard for others, now cleared and only those with media passes and news cameras are recording video of the day’s events. As we travel along at ground level we see again the manicured lawns, the striding shoes of the VIPs along with those of the security guards hustling with their radios. Most of the feet climb into the chopper and it lifts off.

Down below, Pennsylvania Avenue is completely shut down. There are horns honking, people cursing, and security militia with guns. Trucks and cars are stopped as traffic backs up for miles and people are being held against the fence as the helicopter crosses the street. The whole area literally grinds to a halt for this event.

Meanwhile, the man in charge uncrosses his legs and leans over to one side to get a better look out the chopper window. He smiles and says, I love this job, as he gently rubs his foot against the ankle of the owner of those red high heels. No one looks, but everyone sees.

Those in command radio ahead to alert the French restaurant of their exact arrival time and the owner complains, No, I don’t want you coming here, I wish you would go someplace else and eat.

You don’t understand said one of the radiomen, We are on our way. The restaurant owner slaps his thighs with both his hands in anger, No sir, I don’t want you to do this, I beg you not to come here. Nevertheless, black cars pull up in front of the restaurant. They start clearing the parking lot using tow trucks that have been on standby waiting. The customers who are upset at having their cars towed are arrested and stand-in customers sit down in their places and continue eating their dinners as if they were theirs. As the ground crew clears the way for Chopper One, the restaurant owner is angry because they’re moving potted plants, trimming tree branches back and even removing power lines to open up air space and ready the roof-top landing site. No one listens to him.

As the owner goes out in the parking lot yelling and screaming, neighbors now without electric power, start to join in. One official looking guy gets out of a black limousine, walks up to him and announces loudly, You know what this restaurant is, it’s filthy. The TV reporters rush to pick up on this story as cameras flash and mobile mikes are thrust in his face.

The Frenchman speaks up, No, do not say that, don’t start that. Again, we are at ground level, and the guy continues anyway, This place is full of rats and cockroaches. We may need to shut this restaurant down. Expect tens of thousands of dollars in fines and of course there will be time in jail for reckless endangerment of the public. The Frenchmen sighs, Alright, alright, I will get your food prepared. The official returns to his limousine.

The people that are yelling out their open windows are being pulled back in by men in uniform and the area begins to quiet down and the fake newsmen walk away. The helicopter arrives, as privately owned outdoor furniture on other rooftop gardens are blown over the side and plants are destroyed by the chopper wind. There is militia with guns everywhere, on the ground and on the roof tops, as all are on high alert status. Then we see the people of the community huddled down on their floors, peeking out of blinds and behind the curtains to get a glimpse of why their lives have suddenly been interrupted in such an aggressive manner. The men in black uniforms are yelling at people to close their windows and frightened children in the streets are being shuffled out of the way. The whole area is in lock-down mode. Even garbage cans are inspected and no one is allowed on the street or anywhere close to the restaurant, for if you pop your head up, you could die.

By now, most all of the restaurant patrons have been replaced with stand-in customers who are actually military members dressed as civilians to act like everything is fine and normal. The true annoyance everyone feels is elaborately concealed. The men in the black suits have instructed all to behave accordingly or there would be a high price to pay.

Chopper One touches down and all the feet step out and make their way through the canopied entrance of the restaurant. There is dead silence in the restaurant until the head man in black gives the signal. At this time, in walks the President of the United States, oblivious to the trouble he has caused everyone. His idea was to just go out to lunch and for him, this is all he is doing, in just another day in his total-power existence. He enters the restaurant and is treated like a king by all. He is warmly greeted by the staff and guests and everyone acts like they are enjoying his company. They appear to love the President, but in reality they are all talking behind his back and cursing him.

The waiter spits in the President’s food before it is served thinking, The misery that this man brings to us, why didn’t he just order take-out of his meals, instead of upsetting the whole neighborhood and wrecking our business. He doesn’t care, he is the President, and so he doesn’t have to care.

The President finishes lunch, laughs, and gets up. He doesn’t thank them, doesn’t apologize for the inconvenience, doesn’t pay or leave a tip. The presidential party makes their way up the fire escape to the roof-top and once the pilot gets clearance, off goes the helicopter blowing away anything that was left. As they rise above the roof tops and begin their flight back to the White House, the lady in the red shoes gently reciprocates the leg rub.

The militia boxes up everything at the restaurant. Silverware, dishes, tablecloths and even uneaten food is taken. As they are leaving, the neighborhood people curse the President from their open windows, giving him the finger and shaking their fists at the chopper. Kids can be seen throwing bottles at the militia and the black SUVs. Some have even urinated in balloons and toss them at the government cars driving by.

As Chopper One moves across the city there is another gang war raging below, a thirty-year war that has been taking place on the streets of Washington D.C. The two groups never stop fighting trying to wipe out the other side so they can have all the drug sales. Today they are engaged in an unplanned battle, unaware of the President’s whereabouts. They are shooting it out in the streets over the drug turf, with tires squealing and machine guns going off, just as the President’s helicopter flies overhead. Suddenly, a random bullet hits Chopper One.

Meanwhile, the President is in the back drinking his afternoon libation, telling what he perceives to be funny stories, and everyone makes sure to laugh. The helicopter begins to wobble and some of the President’s drink spills on his hand, then drips on his new Italian suit.

He yells out, Hey, what the hell is going on, do I need a new pilot? Has he been drinking up there? What is going on, look what he did to my suit? I want an explanation of what is going on here, I am the President by god, I want to know!

One of the security people moves up front to speak to the pilot and comes back. Mr. President, we’ve been hit.

What! Are we under attack? Is the White House safe? Get my wife underground. Shut down the airport, close everything down.

The people around the President start to panic. No, says one security man, we think it’s an isolated incident. You don’t want to shutdown all the airports again, Mr. President.

Well, if you’re absolutely positive. We don’t want another 911. Those rag heads won’t get me. I’m too important.

We are pretty sure nothing else is going on, Sir. We are watching all the planes in the area very closely, everyone is on Red Alert.

Fine, get me back to the White House.

Once they land they find there is a hole in the prop and one of the windows has been grazed, most likely by the same stray bullet. The President is boiling mad.

I am the President of the United States and I can’t even go out to lunch without people trying to kill me!

One of his advisors tries to calm him, Mr. President, I don’t think they were after you, I think it was just a random bullet flying in the air from that long-time gang war going on the south side over drugs.

The President replies, Okay. That’s it, I’m done. Now it’s time to do something about that once and for all. He stomps away saying, "If they want to kill each other, I don’t care, but when they come after me, that’s a different story! This is going to end! I am the President of the United States…I should be able to go to lunch without being shot at.