Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“It’s a complicated case, JJ. The Second Circuit found that-”

Pwwttt. “No, Pepper. It ain’t complicated.” Silence. Pepper couldn’t think what to say. JJ said, “Guess I’m gonna hang up now,” and he did.

A GRIM-LOOKING HAYDEN CORK had brought in the news yesterday morning, having just gotten a whip count from the White House Congressional Liaison. The Senate was about to pass the Presidential Term Limit Amendment, 77-23.

“Apparently the Swayle vote was the final nail,” he reported.

Graydon Clenndennynn had been yanked back from another remunerative negotiation, persuading Russia to equip its domestic security forces with U.S.-made Taser guns, there being increasing need in Moscow these days to deal with a restive citizenry.

Hayden said to the President, “We’re going to kill him if we keep putting him through this kind of jet lag.” But Clenndennynn showed up in the Oval Office looking crisp and ready to lend wisdom and eminence to yet another presidential emergency.

“I’m not sure I see what the crisis is,” Graydon said, setting down his china coffee cup. “I was under the impression you didn’t want to run again.”

“I don’t,” the President said gloomily.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Because now I’ll have to run. To show them what I think of their ridiculous amendment.”

“Why don’t you just denounce them and be done with it?”

“I denounce the Congress all the time. Now, if I don’t run, everyone will think it’s because I was intimidated or scared off. I won’t have that. Because it’s not the truth.”

“All right. Then in that case, run.”

“Graydon,” the President said, “stop pretending to be obtuse. I don’t want to run. Everything I’ve tried to do has been predicated on being in office for only one term. There’s a principle at stake here.”

How many times had Graydon heard that hoary asseveration. “Then don’t run,” he said with a fleck of petulance.

“Hayden,” the President said, “would you please call Andrews and have a jet fueled to take Mr. Clenndennynn back to Moscow?”

“Donald,” Graydon said, “there are times when a leader has to choose-”

“If this is one of your what-would-Winston-do lectures,” the President said, “I don’t want to hear it. I’m not in the mood for Churchillian wisdom today, thank you.”

“-between the between the unpalatable and the poisonous. All right. The amendment is an insult, a slap across the face administered by a bunch of self-dealing scoundrels. So what else is new? You’ve been warring with the Congress since day one. All I’m saying is, you’re perfectly right. If you don’t run now, it’ll look like… cowardice. That you’re throwing in the towel.”

“So I’m damned either way. Is that it?”

“Sorry. Look,” Graydon said, “if it’s the prospect of serving another term that’s got you tied up in knots, I wouldn’t worry too much on that score. You certainly have my vote. But I didn’t pass huge crowds here on my way in from Andrews chanting, ‘Four more years.’ Where are we in the polls, Hayden?”

“Low thirties,” Hayden said. “We had some bounce from Cartwright, but Swayle eliminated that.”

“How could the Court have ruled for that… Oh, well.” Graydon sighed. “Supreme Court justices almost always disappoint. Remember what Truman said when they asked him if he had any disappointments. ‘Yes, and they’re both sitting on the Supreme Court.’ Well. There we are. Point is, sir, I think you can safely run for reelection and expect to be back on your front porch in Wapa-however it’s pronounced-by the following January 21.” [21]

“It’s too cold in Wapakoneta in January to sit on the porch,” the President said, “but I appreciate the sentiment. Well, this is going to be one heck of a queer campaign.”

THE SENATE VOTED the next day, 78-22, in favor of the Presidential Term Limit Amendment. Having cleared both the House and the Senate, the measure would now go to the states to be ratified. Getting three-quarters of state legislatures to agree on something can take a long time. It took four years (1947 to 1951) to ratify the amendment limiting presidents to two terms; but lowering the voting age to eighteen took a mere one hundred days to pass (during the Vietnam War). The punditariat [22]predicted that given President Vanderdamp’s unpopularity, the amendment stood a good chance of being briskly ratified. They confidently predicted that Vanderdamp would not seek reelection. He might be politically inept, they said, but he was not a fool, nor one to seek further humiliation. He would finish out his term and slink back to Wapawhatever with his tail between his legs.

A solemn-faced Hayden Cork, making a rare personal appearance in the White House pressroom, announced that the President would shortly address the nation from the Oval Office.

The President looked as though all the cares of the world rested upon his shoulders alone.

“It’s not going to happen,” he said to the somber faces around the table. “They will not become a nuclear power on my watch.” No one spoke. “Is that clear?” he said, his voice grave. “Are we all on the same page here?”

Heads nodded reluctantly. The Secretary of State had gone ashen, slumped in his chair.

“All right then,” the President said. “Let’s quit dicking around. Send in the Nimitz.”

“Cut.”

“What was wrong with that?” Dexter said.

“The line is, ‘Let’s quit messing around,’” the director said. “We can’t say ‘dicking.’ We’ll get fined by the FCC.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know the chairman of the FCC. He’s been to dinner at my house. We’re pals.”

“That’s great. Always nice to have friends in important places. But for now, let’s stay with the script. By the way, Senator, the energy in that scene-great. Amazing. I was blown away. Weren’t you blown away?”

The assistant director nodded. “Totally.”

President Mitchell Lovestorm grumbled assent. They reshot the scene. Lunch was called.

He remained at the table while the other actors dispersed in the direction of the craft services table, adrift in reverie. He was finding it harder and harder to turn his character on and off. One day, discussing it with the makeup lady, she’d told him about something called Method Acting, where you stayed in the character you were playing. He’d decided to try it. It worked. His wife, Terry, didn’t quite get it and seemed to resent it when he told her not to “tie up the hotline,” but generally it worked.

Dexter looked up at the screens about the Situation Room table. They depicted the paths of incoming missiles. But also outgoing missiles. Oh, yes. Yes. After lunch, they would shoot the scene where the Chief of Naval Operations informs him that cruise missiles launched from the Nimitz carrier group were on their way to destroy the presidential palace of Mumduk bin Shamirz-“Mad Ali” as he was known-the America- despising ruler of Badganistan. Our friend Mad Ali has a nice warm surprise headed his way. Oh, yes. Yes. Yes. Dexter visualized the two cruise missiles, hurtling in tandem toward their target, contour-hugging Badganistan’s wild and rugged terrain, zooming past a minaret, their rocket engines torching the muzzein in the tower as he called the people to prayer. The muzzein falling to the ground, a human torch, screaming. Nice touch. Clever, those writers. Overpaid, but clever. Well, it had to be done, didn’t it? Mad Ali had given him no choice. He’d tried to reason with him-again and again and again. He’d gone to the UN. He’d offered concessions. Trade agreements. Medicine for oil. An exchange of ambassadors. All rebuffed. Okay, then, Ali, my friend. Have it your way. But for this President, no more dicking- messing… whatever-around. Mitchell Lovestorm was not going to sit around and cool his jets while this towelhead went nuclear. Hell’s bells, even the French are with us this time. Allons, enfants de la Patrie…