This is a creative writing idea. Strictly fictional, but I am trying to humanize the President. Not sure if this is worth the effort, but should I continue this? Do you want to see more "chapters"?
Here goes:Dinner with George Bush at the White HouseIt’s 6:30 PM. The world, according to the government, gets off work at 5PM and is, therefore, at home, watching the news, and available to hear the occasional State of the Union Address, on time, and at home.
(Most people I know work until at least 6:30-7, and don’t get home until 7-7:30. It stands to reason that presidential addresses should occur when most people are available.)
In any case, by 6:30, our President and His Staff have all turned in their day’s work, and have already started the cocktails. For today is an unusual day. One where George and his most trusted staff members retire to a quiet meal alone. But you thought the president doesn’t drink? Of course he doesn’t drink to excess any more, but among his close knit, this is part of the ancient tradition that isn’t questioned or judged. The attendees this evening are:
George Bush, President, turning 60 this year.
Condeleezza Rice, Secretary of State, the youngest at 52.
Dick Cheney, Vice President, is 65.
Laura Bush, Our First Lady, is 56.
And, finally, Donald Rumsfeld, Secretary of Defense, is 64 years old.
The room is intimate; there is a small but well-stocked bar and bookshelves with leatherbound editions, and Dick is taking his turn as “drink refresher”. His choice is scotch on the rocks, Glenlivet. “While I’m up,” he grunts, “may I do the honors? Laura, what would you like?”
“Well, you know, I am still partial to those pretty drinks, we call them MO-HEE-TOES. Do we have any mint?” she replies with a hint of her Austin Texas based drawl. Laura is not yet fully comfortable in this setting, but asserts herself as the “second most important person” in the room adroitly—-responding not with a simple request, but one that makes Cheney work harder than he had previously anticipated. She has called upon the code of chivalry-to help reaffirm that her husband is the big man in charge. In response, Cheney, by stroke of luck, discovers the sugar, mint leaves, and rum, within easy distance and recovers elegantly. “Coming right up, Madam”.
Condeleezza, sensing it is now her turn, pipes up “Richard, would you mind fixing me a ‘pepsi and rum’?” . Cheney shoots her a knowing grin, affirming their mutual awareness that Pepsi has now overtaken Coca-Cola for worldwide market share. With regard to her drink of choice, during her college stint at the University of Denver, she grew accustomed to drinking rum and has an able tolerance. Her rational mind insists that she must stay alert, so this is why she requested the coke and rum.
Cheney, hands now full with drinks for the Queen and the Princess, capitalizes on the chance to get out of his duties as bartender and presents the beverage to Laura, who has now found her spot on the “main couch”, cocked in an uncomfortable position on the end. “Why thank you, Mr. Vice President” she says with Monroe-esque flirtation. Cheney then swivels to Condelleezza, who sits upright, studious, and at attention, on the ornate yet hard chair that sits across from the coffee table that separates her and the First Lady. Condie simply says “Thank You”.
Cheney returns back to the bar, fetches his drink, and, somewhat exhausted by the exercise (compounded by ill health), retires to HIS favorite seat, a worn yet stoic leather chair. There is a surge of pain from his abdomen as the alcohol hits his belly and he winces slightly.
George, though portrayed as something of a dolt, is actually very aware and perceptive. He quickly thinks to himself, “Rummy doesn’t have a drink, and neither do I”. Rumsfeld is off in his own world, conflicted about something, looking over the books that sit in the shelves. So George steps over to the bar, twisting open his elixir of choice, a Grey Goose Vodka Tonic with a twist of Texas Lime. As he prepares his concoction, he blurts out to Rumsfeld, “Don, what’llitbeforyoutonight?”
Rumsfeld peers over his reading glasses, and says “Gin and tonic”.
Like a boxer, Bush does not retreat to THE COUCH with his wife, but strides across the room to Rumsfeld with importance, drinks in hand.
“We’re having steak tonight. New York cut, from the Angus on my ranch. No reason to eat chicken when we’ve got that damn bird flu”. Both Condeleezza and Cheney think to themselves, oh God, not steak again. Condee prefers chicken, and Cheney has just been told by his doctor, for the 15th time, that he needs to lay off red meat. As if on queue, the butler arrives.
“Please be seated, dinner will be served shortly”. In the kitchen, the cook, Pierre, who has served since Gerald Ford, is finishing up the preparations. Yes, the meat did come from Bush’s ranch. But it was harvested from a steer months ago. It was butchered by a disgruntled employee who dropped the steaks on the floor, thought about throwing them out, then changed course and decided, with a grin, to spit on them. These steaks have now spent the last day defrosting. It is prepared in the oven, baked until well done, the way George likes it. The spit, flavor and juice is all but evaporated. It is grey but sanitized and safe.
As the cadre assembles around the table, Laura sitting first, followed by Condeleezza, the rest plopping in, George reaches his hands out in prayer. Rummy rolls his eyes. Cheney closes his eyes (out of exhaustion and ill health, waiting, like a child, to dig in to the grub), while Laura and Condie comply.
George begins “To the good people of West Virginia, Louisiana, and Iraq…”