Alistair tore at his hair as he waited for the call to come. He knew it would, deep down. September was nearing, anytime soon he'd be called in to look at the last few details - and then. Then Germany would invade Poland and bring the war to a global scale - we're historians, and can all argue that the second world war had in fact already started in the far east - in Asia - but this invasion would really get it going and eventually, bring it to the global scale that would bring so much damage and death upon the chapters of human history.
I'm no writer, I'm the President, here I'm not even that. I can't change the course of History - and I tried didn't I? With the help of that madman Malinkow. Both were true; Alistair Bowmore was no writer, and definitely no poet, and although he was in the past, it would have hardly been possible to change the events occuring. He certainly gave off the energy of a stressed author - he paced the room, fiddled with the ink pen he held tightly, not realizing that the ink was dripping down his hand and onto his white sleeve. Stalin might realize they'd been right, he might start to listen, and if he did - was there hope? Hope the war could end sooner and his KZ would never be built?
He forced himself to sit down, only to stand up a few seconds later and pace the room again. It didn't just feel like his heart had stopped - or was threatening to, it felt like all the blood in his body had suddenly started to course through him more slowly, which led to his muscles and lungs not receiving enough oxygen - must have been what caused his stiff gait and the crushed feeling in his chest. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his business shirt. The cold air kissed his skin and threatened to crush him even more.
And then the phone rang. The sound suprised him even though he'd been waiting for so long - he dashed to the phone and picked it up, anxiously holding the receiver to his left ear. What time, what room? His blood now flowed faster than ever and it felt as if his heart couldn't keep up.
"Ja..?" He asked in a shaky voice.
"Is this Alistair Bowmore?"
"Ja - yes," why was she speaking english?
"This is Southgate Hospital, you're wife Monica Bowmore is in labor. Mrs. Bowmore has been asking for you repeaditly. If it's not so much of a hassle sir, please." She refused to say Mr. President - but Alistair didn't even notice. His whole world came crashing down on him.
He wasn't in Nazi Germany, he was at home. In his own office with his grandfathers clock and the telephone lines that didn't exist in the last thirties of the previous centuary. And it wasn't even september yet - it was Summer not Fall.
And he'd forgotten it. He'd forgotten that his wife was close to her due-date. "I'm the biggest asshole to have ever been President," he muttered, not realizing that the nurse was still on the line.
"No sir, you aren't. You're the biggest asshole of a husband and father." But he didn't even hear the words, or at least, his brain didn't register them. He slammed down the receiver and ran out of his office, pulling on his jacket as he flew down the hall. "Call the car, and not the limo, the mercedes!" He shouted at his secretary.
"I'm going to be a father, Hitler's going to invade Poland, Monica is going to kill me, I'll have to take a few days off, maybe I should stock up on the meds, where is my car? I thought I told them I needed my car. Where is the fucking Benz! Am I the fucking President or am I just any motherfucker in New York waiting for a cab. WHERE IS MY BENZ!" He noticed he'd been screaming the last part but didn't know he'd said the whole petite-monologe outloud. The guards stared at him. They'd heard rumors, and now they were seeing it with their own two eyes - President Bowmore was losing it.
It can't have been more than fifteen seconds after his rant that the Mercedes pulled up, and he jumped in the back as if diving into a pool.
"To the hospital, go, go go!" He screamed at the driver.
"Which hospital, sir?" The driver asked nervously and politely. He wasn't afraid of Alistair, he drove him around often, but he'd never seen him so stressed and hurt. Bowmore looked at him, eyes ripped wide open in horror and anger.
"The hospital in which my wife is-..." And he realized he'd forgotten the name. It had completely slipped his mind in all oft he excitement. The driver looked at him blankly. Alistair knew he could reach for his phone and call Abby to contact the hospital through his calling list for the presidential line, but he felt too down-beat too.
Not only had he been to ignorant to remember or realize his wife was burstingly pregnant, but he had now fucked up which hospital he needed to go to. He started to cry. He dropped his phone in his lap and began to sob.
"I don't know which hospital, Rudy, I don't know. I forgot. Oh good Lord I'm a terrible man." He began to bawl. The driver reached back and kindly took his hand.
"It's alright sir, the very same thing happened to me when my girl was in labor. Except for one thing - I had no one to ring. I drove all the way to Worschire Hospital only to have to go back to Southgate-"
"That's it, that was the name! At least I think!" Alistair called out, interrupting his comfortor.
"You sure, sir?"
"Mostly. Take us there, I'll call Abby to double check." Alistair cleared his throat, by the time Rudy pulled out of the parking space, Abby had already picked up.
And for the first time Rudy witnessed it first hand that even with tears streaming down his cheeks the President didn't let any emotion into his voice. He could have been calling about a pick-nick. A remarkable man, somewhat strange, but very-much remarkable. "Yes, thank you Abby. Thank you."
"We'll be there in ten, sir."
"Alright. Thank you Rudy. And please, one time when I can laugh about this night - tell me the story of your wife."
"There is none sir, I made it up to help you feel better." Rudy replied with a glance in the review mirror. "We all do that for you, Mr. President."