Fiction Friday #19

NaNoWriMo Part 2

Marc didn't feel as confident as his smile made him look. His palms were sweating, his heart fluttered, and his stomach was trying to reenact Stomp. He hadn't felt this way making a speech since he was in high school. After that, he had full speech written by him or with someone else or by someone else; sometimes he just had a few notes with him so he would sound more off the cuff and personable; on those rare town hall style occasions where notes would make him look weak, he'd at least have discussed most of the possible topics with his staff before hand. Today, he had nothing. No one knew he was going to do this. His secret service guy for the day, Agent Grant, only knew that the president wanted to go to the press room.

He wiped his hands off on his pants, planted them on the sides of the podium and started to talk to the reporters.

"So, good afternoon everyone, and merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Presidents," a few of the reporters repeated back. All of them looked surprised. Not one of them had expected Marc to come out here the afternoon before his vacation started. Or maybe they were just surprised to see him in the press room at all. While he preferred to greet crowds of regular people in town hall settings so far, since his election two years ago, he'd only ever given speeches to the press and when he was finished he'd be ushered off by aides or secret service or both before anyone could get a question out.

Marc smiled again. No one in this room knew what they were getting today. This would be fun. His stomach flipped again.

"I know you weren't expecting me here today," he said, hand on either side of the podium. "Hell, I can't remember even being in this room since my family and I took our tour of the White House before I moved in."

Most smiled. A few laughed.

"So, I bet you're all wondering why I'm here, right? What would you think if I told you that I'm here to give you and the rest of the American people the greatest Christmas present, ever? What if I told you that I'm here to tell the truth, the actually truth? Not some bullshit" -- the reporters gasped -- " speech that a committee of aides and speech writers thought you wanted to hear based on polls, but the actual truth?"

"We'd think you were feeding us a load of crap," someone in the back had said; Marc wished that he knew the names of these people, but he didn't. The rest nodded and a few mumbled.

"Yeah, I guess I wouldn't believe me, either. I mean politicians, for thousands of years, have been saying they'll tell the people the truth to gain support, right?" There were some muttered agreements. "So, how about I just talk and you listen, okay? And then, later, when you and your editors are pulling what I said apart to find my 'true' meaning and CNN and MSNBC and Fox News are taking things I said out of context to make me look like more of an asshole than I really am, then you can decide if I'm telling the truth." His palms started sweating and he felt flush. He couldn't remember ever feeling this nervous before, in his life. Not even the first time he got laid.

"I haven't spoken about this with my Chief of Staff or the leadership of my party or anyone in congress or even my wife. So, this is sort of a Christmas surprise for them, too. This isn't going to be like the State of the Union which is just bullshit politics. Can ever of you remember a State of the Union address that didn't start off with 'the state of our union is strong'? I can't. And do you want to know something? The state of our union isn't strong. Our union is weak." His fingers dug into the wood of the podium. He had to hold on tight or he was afraid he'd fall forward.

"It's weak and everyone out there is afraid to say so. They know how close to crumbling our nation is, and they're afraid to tell you. Do you understand that? They're fucking afraid. Hell, I've been afraid of it too. But no more.

"What's worse is they don't know what to do about it because they're afraid to try to fix the problems. They spew out 'facts,'" Marc freed his hands from their death grip on the podium and made air quotes around the word "facts." "They spew out buzz words. They get your fear up by saying immigrants, especially illegal ones, are here to take your jobs from you. They remind you that there are scary people out there who want to attack in the night, and not in the honorable way, but the cowardly way; they want to bomb your local Wal*Mart and you have to keep shopping, 'keep American strong,' right?

"I've done it. Dan was up here doing it just a little while ago. He was throwing out statistics and fact and stories to keep you all distracted from the problems that everyone should really be worried about."

He ticked his fingers off as he said, "Education. National health. Global warming and the environment. Farm subsidies Common sense gun control. Debt, and I'm talking about personal debt, not the deep, black pit the last president dug for us. Social Security money for Social Security benefits rather than another freeway through Nevada.

"Instead, you worry about people saying fuck or shit on TV. You worry about video games where characters can rip the scrotum off other characters." He smiled and shook his head. "You try to keep kids from reading books that they can actually enjoy and then turn around and bitch about how kids don't fucking read. And why should they when you get rid of all the good stuff?

"I'm sure everyone out there knows where I'm going with this. You," Marc pointed at one of the cameras, "are pretty much to blame for all of problems. And I'm talking about every adult out there. I'm talking about those who vote in every election. I'm talking about those who vote only in presidential election. And I'm talking about those of you still don't fucking vote. You are the problem. You vote people like me into office over and over again.

"People like me aren't here to make things better; we're here to make money. We gotta support our families somehow and still get elected the next time our term comes to an end. Do you really think we get paid enough to be able to do those things and not get a little extra on the side? And I'm not even talking about the illegal things. Most of us don't even have to do anything illegal because we make the laws that keep us getting paid."

Marc closed his eyes, stepped back from the podium, and took a deep breath. He stepped forward, opened his eyes, and said, "Let me tell you a story:

"When I was a little kid, I didn't live a horrible life. My parent's made enough money so my life was pretty good, but sometimes we'd go into the city and I'd see the people sitting on the street holding cups and asking for some money. I watched the men and women in suits pretend that they weren't even there, like they didn't exist. When I walked past them with my parents, they put me in between them and tried to keep me from seeing the homeless people. I didn't understand and I didn't ask why. And, like everyone else, I grew up not seeing what was around me, not seeing the things I didn't like.

"Once upon a time, though, I thought I could change this. The day I was elected into this office, this grand office, the office of the most powerful man in the free world, the day I knew I'd be president, for a full minute, I thought that maybe, maybe I could change things. Maybe, I thought, this time things would be different and I'd be able to do things that the guys before me couldn't. I'd be the one to get this country going again, to get it to care again. Then I started the job.

"For some reason, you people out there thought it was a smart thing to split congress between the two parties. 'Let's make the House one party and the Senate the other,' you thought. 'Let's see what our new president can make of that.' I thought that, like me, they'd want to work together to make our nation stronger. That when my first hundred days started counting down.

"I don't know where the idea came from, but for some reason, in this modern time, people think that those first hundred days of a president's term are the ones that will set the tone for the whole damn thing. Do you know what I achieved in those first hundred days? Nothing. Do you know how many bills I tried to get through congress? Something like fifty. Do you know how many came out in the end? None. Do you know how many bills came out during my first year as president? Twenty-eight and that includes the budget that almost didn't happen on time.

"I was called the most ineffectual president since Andrew Johnson. At least he was hated and couldn't accomplish anything because he was trying to put the Union back together in an unpopular way. Shit, he was trying to do something that had never been done before, but me? I was just trying to do my job.

"In time, I realized how useless it was, though and I figured that when the next election came around you people would be as sick of the bullshit as I was and you'd actually elect men and women who wanted to make this place we live better than it is, better than it ever was. You didn't, though. In November, you just elected the exact same people into office. Nothing's changed.

"And what, please tell me, am I supposed to do about it?

"Am I supposed to go about trying to do my job and fail because you people want me to? Maybe, but I thought I should tell all of you what I thought first.

"The truth is a jagged fucking pill to swallow and I hope most of you choke on it. And while you're at it," Marc stepped out from behind the podium and grabbed his crotch, "you can choke on this, too."

He stepped back behind the podium, planted his hands again, and asked, "Any questions?"

The crowd was silent. More than one reporter had their mouths open so wide that birds could build homes in there and raise chirping families. Even the ancient dyke who had been sitting near the front row for half a century looked like a deer frozen in headlights. Marc felt great about that. If he could shock someone who'd been covering presidents since Johnson or Nixon, he couldn't wait to see the reaction the "average" person would have.

They'd want him impeached, or dead.

This was going to be fun. The most fun he'd had over a holiday since he was in grad school and spent spring break in Rio de Janeiro drinking anything handed to him and fucking anyone, man or woman, who was sober enough to say yes or drunk enough to start sucking on his cock without even being asked. Thinking about sucking and fucking under the watchful gaze of that giant Jesus still made him laugh. God, that had been one hell of a week.

"Well," he grinned again feeling better about himself and his career than he had since he left local city and county politics, "I can tell by the looks on your faces that you don't have any questions and I have a plane to California to catch. I look forward to reading and hearing all your reactions tomorrow and in the weeks to come. Enjoy your time off and have a very merry Christmas with your families. Hell, give your moms a big sloppy wet one for me."

He turned away from the podium, and then turned back. "Oh, yeah. One more thing." He flipped off the cameras trying to do his best Nixon impression. "Fuck you, too," he said, laughing.

He turned again and walked away from the podium. He stepped down the two steps and headed to the door.

"Come on, Grant," he said to the Secret Service agent waiting there, "I want get out on the south lawn and onto Marine 1 and be on the way to the airport before this bunch regains consciousness."

"Yes, sir," said Agent Grant. He lifted his wrist up near his mouth and said, "People, Peter Piper's on his way to the market."

Marcus Gandbuth felt so good that he had to keep himself from skipping through the halls and out to the helicopter. The world was a wonderful place and it could only get better.



Flying Back Home

Cindy Gandbuth didn't arrive at Andrews Air Force Base until two hours after Air Force 1 was supposed to take off. It wasn't her fault though. She wasn't one of those First Ladies who had and agenda and she wasn't one of those First Ladies who went out of her way to support matronly causes like schools and poor little orphans. Sometimes, though, she had to go out and do crap like that, for her husband, for his career. When she thought of that she'd sigh. She'd done a lot of things for her husband's career. And today was another one.

While waiting to get onto the base, she sat in the limo, staring blankly out the window, thinking of the day before they finally arrived there.

She went out to some measly ass school somewhere out in Virginia. It was supposed to be near some famous Civil War battle, but she figured that was normal Virginia bullshit since, as far as she could remember, the entire state was covered in "famous" Civil War battles that no one wanted to remember except for the good ole boy assholes who lived near by and the anal retentive Civil War buff assholes who thought living their lives through a war that ended one hundred and fifty years ago is a good way to live their lives. The school was also named for some supposed guy who supposedly died in some supposed battle at some supposed time, but he supposedly grew up in the area and supposedly died a hero's death, so he deserved to have an elementary school named after him. Frankly it should have been called "Too Far From Washington To Matter Much" school since its paint was peeling and the heat in the rooms wasn't working and there wouldn't be any one out to fix the heat problem until after Christmas and the paint problem wouldn't be fixed until it all came off and left the building looking like some sun beat abandoned farm house from the dust bowl.

It was for the kids, she kept reminding herself. She was there to bring a little Christmas cheer by showing up and smiling and sitting in the gym slash auditorium slash cafeteria and watch a bunch of kid sing songs and put on short skits. She was expected to laugh and clap and cheer when appropriate so the kids would have their fragile egos protected rather than learn the truth, that their lack of practice and enthusiasm had made for a terrible time.

Worst of all, the time there went on forever. She got there at eleven and ate lunch with the kids, some sort of chunky turkey juice stuff poured over a lump of flake potatoes in the big rectangle on the tray with a scoop of green beans in cream of mushroom soup in the circle to the left and in the three squares on the top were a little carton of milk, a brick of green Jell-O, and a roll. The food was actually okay, not a five star meal or anything, but really good for a little school that was on the verge of falling in on itself. Cindy ate at a table in the cafeteria with the kid surrounding her, with her current favorite Secret Service Agent Jan Stakenov standing behind her the whole time.

The kids were, well they were kid. They were loud and messy. Some of them thought it was strange having a grown-up sitting at their table eating with them and were shy. Some thought it was funny and whispered to their friends about it. Some simply stared. One little boy even pulled the "see food" gag on her, which struck her as a pretty brave thing for a kid to do to any first lady; she figured that any other first lady would have been shocked and taken aback at such a crass display, but Cindy thought it was ballsy and did it right back at him, then showed the food on her tongue to the whole table. When the blob of mashed potatoes and chewed up green beans fell off her tongue onto her tray, they all started to laugh with her, and when she picked the blob up with her spork and ate it she was treated to lots of kids saying "eeeewww" and then more and even harder laughter. She briefly wondered if any cameras had caught her little food show. It would make for quite a story, but she didn't remember any flashes going off at that time. Part of her wished one of the kids had started a burping contest, and then they would have seen her family award winning performance. The lunch with the kids only took forty five minutes. The pageant started at noon.

During those fifteen minutes, the kids ran to their classrooms to get ready and she watched a couple of women fold all the lunch tables up, roll them to some room behind the little stage, do a quick sweep of the entire floor, and put out mats for the kids to sit on. Later, she found out that the two women also helped in a couple of classrooms as teacher's aides and each drove a bus in the morning and afternoon.

It show was only supposed to last an hour, but it went ninety minutes longer. The principal said that when the kids learned that the first lady was coming they got so excited they kept wanting to do more for her. Cindy wasn't stupid, though, she knew that it was when the teachers found out she was coming they thought they'd show off for her by making the program longer. She wasn't sure, though, if they were trying to show her how much they can accomplish on such a limited budget or if they were just showing her how little they had.

If it had only been an hour, the show would have been fine, but by the third performance of kids singing "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer," with the echoes -- "LIKE A LIGHTBULB!" "LIKE MONOPOLY!" "LIKE COLUMBUS!" -- shouted by the audience, Cindy was imagining horrible scenarios of men dropping down from the ceiling with huge automatic weapons and firing into the crowd of children an parents while Jan pulled her out of the room into the parking lot. Sometimes, one of the bullets caught her in the head or chest and she fell to the floor laughing. Other times, Cindy would find a machine gun, somewhere, and open fire on the guys coming from the ceiling, and then she'd hop around the room kicking terrorist ass, Batman style. Still the kids sang on and then performed a scene from A Christmas Carol, then sing, then something from "The Gift of the Magi," and then another song. Maybe if they did a scene from Santa Claus Versus the Martian, with the audience doing some MST3K, there would have been something worth watching after the first hour.

When it was finally over and all the children had taken their bows, she stood up and thanked them and lied to them when she told them that they were all wonderful and she hadn't ever seen a performance as good at the one they just put on for her. She clapped at them and then the teachers started clapping at her and, after a few seconds, the kids started clapping and yelling, too. Cindy didn't roll her eyes. She wanted to, but she didn't. Cameras snapped and flashed around her as she stood among the students and teachers and parents who were cheering her. She hoped she looked grateful. It wouldn't help her husband's career if she looked tired and annoyed in a roomful of children.

By the time she got out of the school and into her car, they were running two hours behind schedule.