Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

And yet… how lonely it felt. At such a moment, only a president, on whose shoulders these matters ultimately rest, could truly know the terrible loneliness of command, the terrible isol-

“Dex.”

“Um? Oh. Yes, Buddy. What is it?”

“You looked like you were heading past Pluto there. You okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Just… reviewing the situation. Going over my lines.”

“The loneliness of command, huh? It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Dexter stared at Buddy. You have no idea. But then, how could you?

“You going to eat something?”

“Not hungry,” Dexter said.

“We got a lot of scenes this afternoon. Don’t let your blood sugar drop. We need you in the zone, baby.”

Baby? This was no way to talk to the President.

“I’ll get something,” he said. “Buddy-a word?”

“Sure.”

“It’s about the First Lady.”

“What’s up?” Buddy said cautiously. Ramona Alvilar was on fire as the ironically named Constance Lovestorm. Her steamy flirting scenes with National Security Director Milton Swan had even the crew breaking out in sweats and adjusting their trousers. “She’s doing a hell of a job, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Dexter said. “She’s a fine actress. It’s not that.”

Buddy nodded. “So?”

“I just feel… she’s my wife, Buddy. She’s the First Lady of the United States of America. Why is she rubbing the thigh of my National Security adviser?”

Buddy stared. “That’s the story line, Dex.”

“Well, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.”

“Ramona is helping to make this show hotter than one of those cruise missiles you just launched. Nothing’s broken. Let’s not fix it.”

“But where’s the dignity? Mitchell Lovestorm is a good and decent man. President of the United States. He’s fighting off the Islamic hordes and the Russians and the-”

“Little yellow bastards. Don’t forget them. They’re still shitting themselves in Shanghai over the Nimitz’s little visit there. Ha-ha.”

“Yes, meanwhile, my wife is reaching for the zipper of my right-hand aide. And he a former Navy SEAL commander. A decorated war hero…” Dexter shook his head distastefully. “To me it just feels… demeaning. To everyone.”

“Look,” Buddy said, “ Milton hasn’t boinked her. We haven’t even decided if he’s going to boink her.”

“I for one would greatly prefer that he not boink her.”

“We’re having a script meeting on that very point this afternoon. I’ll definitely-we’ll take a good hard look at it.”

“I just don’t think that the President of the United States ought to be made out to be a-cuckold.”

“I respectfully disagree. To me, it enhances your humanity.”

“How?”

“Didn’t Abraham Lincoln have some problems along those lines? And look at how well he’s regarded.”

“No, no. No. His wife was a nutcase, but she wasn’t diddling the help. Look, according to all these amazing reviews we’re getting, the viewers like President Mitchell Lovestorm. They admire him. Shouldn’t we respect their feelings?”

Buddy resisted the impulse to swat Dexter with the rolled-up script in his hand.

“Dex,” he said, “to me, to them, all this personal stuff makes you an even greater president. Look at the situation. The whole world is on fire, the economy’s crashing-through no fault of your own, remember, it was your predecessor’s reckless fiscal policies that screwed everything up. Meanwhile, your wife is trying to give the National Security adviser a hand job under the cabinet table. This is precisely where your dignity comes in. Do you let it get to you? No. No, sir. Mitchell Lovestorm rises above it. I see tremendous dignity in that. I see greatness in that.”

“From where I’m sitting,” Dexter said, “it’s the NSC Director who’s doing the rising.”

“Your wife is a beautiful, highly sexualized being-from the barrios of Puerto Rico. So, okay, she’s a bit frisky.”

“Frisky?” Dexter snorted. “She’s a complete slut.”

“Hey, that’s the First Lady you’re talking about. No. I think that’s a tad harsh. Passionate. Latina. En fuego! And any guy whose crotch she was stroking would rise. Lazarus would rise from the dead again if Ramona were reaching for his wiener. But you’re forgetting about episode fourteen.”

“What about it?”

“The reconciliation scene? On Air Force One? Talk about hot. I got blisters on my fingers just from holding the script when I read it the first time. You’ve won the war. Mad Ali’s on his way to a month of serious CIA waterboarding. Connie’s come to her senses and realizes that it’s you she loves, not Milton Swan. You tumble into the bed on the plane. Through the window while you’re ripping each other’s clothes off, we see F-16 fighter escorts framed in the setting sun. Jesus, I get a hard-on just thinking about it. I want to put a warning after the opening credits, like the ones they have for the pills? In the event this episode causes an erection that lasts more than four hours, seek immediate medical help. Then, in episode fifteen, what happens to NSC Director Swan? Hel-lo? The Russians put that radioactive shit in his borscht at the state banquet at the Kremlin and the next thing you know, he’s glowing like a lava lamp. And you and the First Lady-going at it like rabbits. I need a cold shower just from thinking about it.”

Dexter considered. “What about if it turned out that Swan was working secretly for the Russians? Yes. And they didn’t want that to get out, so that’s why they killed him.”

Buddy sighed. Actors. He yearned for the day when they were computer generated. “Why,” he said patiently, “would your National Security Director have been working for the Russians?”

“I don’t know,” Dexter said with annoyance. “Can’t the writers figure that out? Isn’t that why you pay them so much?”

“It’s an intriguing idea. Let me discuss it with them. Meantime, let’s stay with the program, okay? Speaking of which, did you see that write-up in People?”

“No,” Dexter lied. “I didn’t. Was it good?”

“Good? ‘Monday nights this season, vote Dexter Mitchell for President. He’ll give you goose bumps every time he says, “Send in the Nimitz!”’ ”

“Nice,” Dexter said aloofly. “Yes.”

“Nice? By the end of season two, they’ll be screaming to have you in the real White House. Now, go get some lunch, would you please, Mr. President? You don’t want to send in the Nimitz on an empty stomach.”

President Vanderdamp sat at his desk in the Oval Office, warming up his instrument. He had been in the glee club in high school and found that it helped before a speech.

“Do do do doooo do do doooooooo. Da da da daaaaa da da daaaaaaaa… Dee dee dee deeeeeee dee dee deeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”

He knew that he must look somewhat ridiculous to the dozen people in the room: the ever-fretful Hayden Cork, the TV techs, his press secretary, the gloomy-looking Secret Service agents. He glanced at the TV camera suspiciously. His predecessor had been caught on tape picking his nose before a speech. It got twelve million hits on YouTube.

“Is that thing on?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. President, but no signal is going out.”

“Hope not. Wouldn’t want to see myself doing this on the Internet. Would I?”

“No, sir,” the technician said.

“Two minutes, Mr. President.”

“Thank you.”

“Dum dum dum dum dum dum dummmmmmmmmm…”

A makeup woman leapt forward like a gazelle to powder puff the presidential forehead.

“Am I sweating?”

“Oh, no, sir. Just a teensy… sheen. These lights, they’re so gol-darned hot.”