"It is wicked to not respond." The invitation read at the end where the typical and polite "please respond" may be found. Only, it wasn't. It was this note, instead.
"Oh, really?" the recipient holding the invitation asked with incredulous consternation. His hands trembled with anger, boiling over into a pressured rage. His neck veins bulged and turned blue.
"What idiots!" He shouted and crumpled the invitation up into his fist. He tossed it from the window of his limousine as his driver gazed forward into the neon lights of night life in Vegas.
In a house in Appalachia, a house perched on a peak of the Blue Ridge Mountains, far from the bulging-veined man, another man sat at his desk near a cup of coffee with steam lisping over the black brew.
"Hmm, so now I am wicked if I do not respond."
"Sounds a lot like coercion," and, so, he tucked the note beneath a pile of bills.
Then, another man, sweat-covered after a dusty day's work, walked slowly home from the heartland fields where his combine sat idle and broken. Beams of sunlight filtered the dust rising from the ground beneath his feet. His lips parted, cracked. His tongue was thick and heavy. His mind revolved around how he would make an appeal to the banker. His bank account was broke, too.
He walked past the mailbox, reached in and found a postcard. His eyes slid across the gold-embossed lettering. His hand trembled. His dry, sticky tongue ran across parched lips, as he kept gazing at the words.
"You are invited to the wedding feast." (The President)
His eyes scanned to the bottom and read again "It is wicked not to reply." Not an illiterate man, though a man of the earth, he was cultured and recognized the absence of "repondez si'l vous plait." It read something like a veiled threat.
"It's a hoax," he thought, a bit annoyed as he pondered the details of the card, rubbed the dried sweat upon his forehead, shrugged and tucked the card into his chest pocket as he ascended the steps. "Yep, it's a hoax. You'd think folks would have better things to do with their time," and, so, he turned in his thoughts again how he would pay for the repairs to the harvest machine.
The porch's plank-boards creaked loudly beneath his weight. He dropped his large frame into the hickory rocker, and absent-minded, pulled the card from his pocket.
It bore the official seal of the Oval Office.
Just then a car with tinted windows pulled onto the farm-lane leading to the weathered house where he sat. He squinted and looked toward the approaching vehicle and could discern two figures with dark suits and tinted glasses, and so he waited, and then stood tall, stretching his tired limbs as the car came to a stop.
"Mr. Regan?" The passenger asked as he stood next to the car with government tags.
"Yes, Sir, that's me," the farmer said, holding the card in his hand.
"You are requested by the President to come to the White House for a special banquet, and," with a lowering of his voice, said, "Let me remind you, it is wicked not to respond."
"How can I respond to a thing that reads like a hoax?" The farmer said dryly, squinting narrowly at the two men.
"You respond one of two ways," the man said, sliding his sunglasses from his face and slipping them into his suit coat. "You respond in faith or you respond in fear of punishment."
"Then," said the farmer, beginning to tremble slightly, "What do you know of the President? What does anyone know!! Damn him."
"Yes, He is my father," the man smiled broadly.
"Then what say you? How should I respond?"
"You respond today and you respond in confidence. It is a good invitation. No hoax, he is honorable. The others have not believed my report, and so they do not come."
The farmer held the invitation up once again and read its words. And, then, that's when he noticed the fine print:
"All is provided for your coming."
"What is this 'all is provided' business?" the earthy man spoke still dryly. His tongue still heavy with thirst.
The driver of the car had walked to the trunk and flipped it open. He pulled a brief case and a garment bag from it.
"Here, everything you need has been bought already. I think you'll be satisfied with its custom design. Your itinerary is revealed daily, in envelopes, and in succession."
The man dropped the items on the dusty ground, and both officials climbed back into the car. The farmer watched the trail of fine brown soil billowing behind them as they drove back down the lane.
He stared at the case and bag. After a few moments, he descended the steps and walked toward the items, and opened the briefcase. Within, he found a small leather book. Its pages were yellowed with age, and one was creased. He opened to it and scanned its instructions.
"You are to depart the morning after receiving these provisions. Go to the nearest airport and there you will find a courier with ticket information. Do not delay. You must come or you will die."
He looked across the fields to where sat the combine. He mused, "I'm already as good as dead."
He picked up the bag and briefcase and walked back up the steps and entered his house.
Morning comes early.
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