Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“They certainly are. And what’s your name?”

“Maureen, sir.”

“Well, thank you for taking such good care of me, Maureen.”

“No sweat, sir.”

“That’s very funny.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You said, ‘No sweat.’ And we were talking about sweat.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. I guess it was funny.”

Donald Vanderdamp considered. He probably should be sweating. Odd-darned odd-to find himself in this position. All he’d wanted to do was get the job done and go home. The address he had planned to give, from this very desk, was a paraphrase of what his hero, Calvin Coolidge-that least appreciated of American presidents-had said: “I do not choose to run for President in 1928.” And now here he was. Doing… this.

“One minute, Mr. President.”

“I’ve. Got. A. Lovely. Bunch. Of. Co-co-nutsssss.”

“Sorry, sir?” the technician said.

“Vocal exercise.”

“Yes, sir. Stand by.”

“Good evening,” the President began. “This is the-let’s see-third time that I have spoken to you from the Oval Office? I’ve tried not to do this too often. I used to hate it when I was growing up and the President would come on and preempt The Jack Benny Show or Bonanza or some other favorite television program. Of course these days we have a jillion channels, so you can always just switch. And anyway most of the networks won’t preempt for a presidential announcement unless it’s nuclear war. Well, it’s all about ratings, these days. Ratings and polls and endless numbers.

“Speaking of that, my approval ratings-if you could call them that-are pretty darn dismal. Most of you think I’m doing an awful job. Well, I’m sorry about that. But I’ve always said, and you’ve heard me say it-you can look it up-that the presidency ought not to be a popularity contest. Certainly doesn’t seem to have been one in my case. But let’s get down to it.

“Every president’s hope is to bring the country and the people together. I seem to have accomplished that. I’ve managed to unite most of you in disapproval of me. And now both houses of the U.S. Congress have set aside their partisan differences and passed an amendment that, if ratified by the states, would limit presidents to one single four-year term. I have a few things to say about that.

“First, I congratulate Congress on-finally-passing a bill that wouldn’t require billions of dollars, plunging the nation into even worse debt.

“But now let’s be honest. This amendment isn’t about future presidents. This is about me.

“Let me remind the Congress that we already have mechanisms for denying presidents a second term. They’re called elections. And-what do you know-we have one coming up just sixteen months from now. If the Congress can’t wait that long, they could just impeach me, but since my crime consists of trying to force the Congress to be fiscally responsible, I’m not sure that dog would hunt. So they’ve gone about it this other way. And here we are.

“Now, the plain truth of the matter is I wasn’t planning to run for reelection. It’s been an honor and a privilege to serve as your president, but I wasn’t going to ask for seconds.

“But this amendment, this absurd, ridiculous, petty amendment, changes that.

“This is politics at its worst, if that isn’t redundant. So now I am going to run, if only to make a point. I will not be dictated to-nor will I allow future presidents to be dictated to-by what I consider to be, quite possibly, the worst Congress in United States history.

“Let me go further. I don’t think there’s been such concentration of rascality and unscrupulousness under one dome since the worst days of the Roman Empire.

“Frankly, it feels darn good to get that off my chest.

“Now, since we’re speaking candidly, I’ll tell you something else. I hope I don’t win in November. I’m not the sort to hang around where I’m not wanted. But there’s a point to be made and, by gosh, I’m going to make it.

“I’ve got a swell family back home in Ohio. And some really swell grandkids I haven’t seen nearly enough of. I’ve got a dandy front porch with a swing chair on it. To be honest, my fellow Americans, I wouldn’t trade all that for four more years of the White House if you made me emperor for life and threw in the Hope diamond and a Las Vegas chorus line.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, but here we are and here we go.

“And I’m sorry if I butted into your favorite TV show. Good night, my fellow Americans. God bless us, and God save the United States of America.”

There was a hush in the Oval Office after the President finished speaking. No one moved. Then one of the TV technicians began to clap and suddenly the whole room was applauding, even the Secret Service agents, who never, ever register emotion, much less applaud.

President Vanderdamp, frowning at this unexpected display, thought, Oh, shit.

Amor, I have been a fool. But now I am yours. Totally yours-if you will have me. Take me, Meetchell. Take me. Send in the Neemitz. Now!”

“All right, Connie, but no more Mr. Nice Guy.”

“Cut.”

“Problem?” Dexter said grouchily, dropping the panting Ramona Alvilar onto the satiny sheets of the presidential bed on Air Force One.

“Five minutes, everyone,” Jerry the director called out. He and Buddy approached. “Everything okay, Dex?” Jerry said.

“Yes. Yes,” Dexter said a touch petulantly. “Everything’s fine. Why? Is it not fine for you?”

“No, no,” Buddy said heartily. “It’s fine. Great. I think it’s going totally great.”

“Really great,” Jerry echoed. “But I’m-maybe it’s just me-I’m not sensing a lot of heat. Buddy, does that sound fair?”

“Yeah,” Buddy said. “I think it sounds fair.”

“This is a hot, hot, hot scene here,” Jerry went on. “Ramona’s-Jesus-she’s on fire. We’re going to have to pack her in ice between takes. But when you hit the ‘No more Mr. Nice Guy’ line, it’s coming through like a-I don’t know-BlackBerry text message or something.” Jerry turned to Buddy. “Does that sound valid to you?”

“I think so,” Buddy said as if considering an amendment to Newtonian physics. “She was giving me an erection, and I’m ten yards away.”

Dexter sighed. “Fair enough. I’m sorry, guys. I’ve… I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

“Is everything all right?” Buddy said solicitously. “Anything I can do?”

“No. No. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t, actually. The day before, Dexter had had another argument with Terry over the Park Avenue coop she wanted to buy-or as he now referred to it in conversations with her, “the fucking coop.” She’d found one she liked, on Park Avenue and Seventy-fourth Street, the most expensive latitude and longitude on the planet. It was the bottom floor of a vintage apartment building, something called a maisonette. Dexter assumed the word was French for “hideously expensive.”

“Four million? Four million dollars? Terry. Hail Mary, full of grace.”

“It’s New York, Dexter.”

“Thank you for clarifying that. I’d assumed you were talking about a diamond mine in South Africa.”

OKAY,” Dexter said to Buddy and Jerry. “Let’s do it again. I’ll rip her clothes off with my teeth.”

“Whoa, Tiger,” Buddy said, giving Dexter a manly shoulder punch. “That’s an original Carolina Herrera. But I love the energy. Throw her onto that bed, send in the ol’ Nimitz, and we’re out of here. Good to go, Mr. Prez?”

“Yes, yes,” Dexter said, sounding profoundly bored at the prospect of ravishing a woman voted by People magazine the third sexiest woman on planet Earth.