The Keener in Chief

The President is at it again. This time with a truck driver outside Milwaukee. 

The driver shakes the President’s hand. Tells him gas is too high. The President nods in unison with the handshake. The muscles on his neck bulge because he thinks he is smiling. Behind the silence, the President is thinking. The nod and smile plus the handshake should be enough for this one. The truck driver. The man asks him again about the gas. The President nods. He wishes the truck driver was talking about someone he just lost. The President would have the right words for him then. Instead, he has to talk about the situation with the gas. Something about the Middle East. Volatility. He emphasizes this. Volatility. Oh boy, the President says. If only the driver knew what he knew. Oh boy. His son saw it firsthand. In uniform. That buys the President some peace. It is the driver’s turn to nod. The driver says he forgot. No one says anything during the rest of the event. More smiles. More handshakes. The President poses for a picture with a county assessor.

There are no incidents when he goes to see Oregon after the wildfires. Nobody bothers him during the state visit to Latvia either. People want to greet him, not meet him. He wears his trademark blue and red striped tie. The white suspenders. This way everyone knows it really is him. The relief does not last for long. It ends during the tour of a new Styrofoam recycling center. People in Buffalo are ready to talk to the President again. A couple of handshakes in and a teacher asks about student debt. Something about the Senate parliamentarian. The President does not hear the rest. He smiles. He tries to move on. Another teacher next to her asks the same question. The President hates the echo. He says he knows how she feels. His son. His son joined the army to get an education. But did he ever get to enjoy those wonderful benefits? The President waits for the teachers to answer. 

He does not get to hear their no. Hands rush him back into the limo. The limo rushes him to the plane. The plane rushes him back to D.C. The President looks out the window. He would rather be on his way to a funeral. A pure function of state. No personal friction involved. A chance to be a statesman while sending another statesman off. He thinks about what he would wear. Not that dark suit. The other one. Dark suspenders too. The President thinks about how it would make him look. Tall. Dignified. He wonders why there could not have been a funeral in Latvia.

Congress goes into recess and the President goes back on the road. Unofficial campaign stops. He is in Duluth, dedicating a laundry facility for a Coast Guard Station. More accurately, re-dedicating it to Walter Mondale. But it looks new to him. The President salutes a man in a uniform. He tells him about his son. His service. His sacrifice. The man in the uniform does not know what to say. He walks off and returns to work. The President follows him. If the son is not enough, there are others. His wife died in a helicopter crash. Does he know that? The man shakes his head and tries to move the buffer without waxing over the President’s shoes.

Outside Orlando, there is time for golf. The President drives his cart around the course. God, he thinks, his Dad could really drive a golf cart. The press swarms by a nearby fence. The President waves at them. Again, his neck does the bulging thing. The opposition press is there too, and mean. They yell at him. They ask if he can still handle the pressure. If he can stand up to America’s enemies. There are many enemies. The President asks them all to give him a moment. A moment later he is in the trap. Him and the cart. The President brushes the sand off of his plaid pants. The opposition press asks him if he is thinking about his wife. About that ocean. About how it was an accident, but— Always, the President tells them. He is always thinking about her.

The President says he sees a raccoon. Rabies, he says to them. Rabies killed his great-uncle. The press is confused. The President tells them he needs his privacy. He needs space to mourn. Yes, after all these years he needs to mourn. The President runs away. He wishes these rolling green fields were part of a cemetery. After a brisk walk, he reaches a large topiary. It is shaped like pinecone. It is large enough for him to hide inside. The President looks out from in-between the branches. He waits for the media to leave the fence. A Secret Serviceman brings him his club. He asks the Secret Serviceman when the next funeral will be. He does not know.

Florida is at it again. Thank God, the President thinks. It might be the President’s new favorite state. A school shooting in Kissimmee. A deadly waterspout in Sanford. Of course there is a hurricane in Pensacola. His staff say there are shoulders to hold too. Several dozen hugs to give. He is careful to hide his smile. There is only concern. The President cannot go back to the capital now. The people are in shock. The President has to calm them down. The news is about these visits. Not the comments at the golf course. Not the arguments over the debt cliff. His grieving parade. The President watches it later. He likes it. The country representing itself through itself while seeing itself on the news. This is the highest stage of mourning yet. There is nothing to negotiate. There is nothing to debate. He is there, indivisible, just like the flag. By his showing up, the grieving can start. Within moments, he becomes a walking condolence.

In Key West, a retiree emerges from some ruins. The President offers a hug. A shoulder pat. A handshake. She refuses all of them. She yells at the President. This is about the planet. He is not doing enough about the planet. The Secret Service manages to hold her back. The President hates this. He wants to be the one who can calm her down. Not these black suits and sunglasses. He speaks to her. These things happen, he begins. Sometimes these things include rare things too. Rare things happen all the time. He says it again. Rare things happen all the time. The President tells her about his wife. Died in a helicopter crash. It was hit by lightning. But the President will continue to fly. America will continue to soar. The woman starts to cry. She just wants to cry. The President says he has to leave. He tells her his son just overdosed on a marijuana. The other one.

God, would he love to be at a funeral. The disasters are good, but a funeral would be better. Just stand there and be the nation. When the plane touches down at National Airport, the President issues an Executive Order. He wants to go to Arlington Cemetery. His convoy moves past the Pentagon and slides into the graveyard. The President sticks his face out of the limo. He watches the reflection of the white tombstones rolling across the black body of his car. The wind lightly tussles his downy hair. It feels like God is scratching his head. The President sees a funeral in the distance and points it out to his driver.

Once there, he starts to offer his condolences. The man was a veteran. The President asks where he was wounded. Grenada, the widow says, but he died from bowel obstruction last week. The President hugs her. He tells her he knows her loss. The President stands next to her and holds her hand. He squeezes it. This is very serious. He is there. There, there. She asks the President how he knows how it feels. He brings up his daughter. She died of meningitis. Taken too young. The widow hugs him. She asks him how old she was. He says she was young. Too young. She nods and asks. What was her name? It was his daughter, the President says.

Someone comes out from behind an obelisk. A member of the opposition press. He snaps a picture. He brings up the President’s brother. The shell companies. The President says his brother is dead. He fell off a jet ski. The reporter says the brother is still alive. He is testifying soon. No, the President tells him. He squeezes the widow’s hand even harder. The other brother has died. Along with an aunt. A snowmobile accident. It is a very difficult time for the President’s family. They need their privacy. He squeezes the widow’s hand some more. She wobbles.

The President is at it again because the people are at it again. He is touring a factory in Memphis. It is all very dynamic in a general way. They have a dog he wants to see. A machine gun will go on its head. But the President is not interested in that. It is a robot and its four legs can dance. The President hopes he can pick the song. Make it twist. Like we did last summer. Twistin’ time is here. The President knows it. All the words, he really does. But people stop him. People not in white coats. The President is angry. Now there is a protest. There are chants. Not another nickel. Not another dime. Not for this crime. They want him to stop the current ad hoc solution. There are posters. They call it an ethnic cleaning. Does the President not know about the ethnic cleansing?

A young woman in a scarf shows him a picture of a child. His wife liked scarves, he says. She was wearing one when they found her. The woman continues to hold up the picture. There is blood. The child might still be breathing. The President cannot tell. It is only a picture. The President says he understands. He shares their concerns. His family was massacred too. It is just one of those things. You get over it, the President declares. But he feels for the child. He touches the picture. The President bends over and speaks to it. He tells the picture not to worry. It gets better. The woman in the scarf is not crying. The President is happy. His magic has worked again. He tells the protestors they ought to be grateful for what they have. And God bless America while we are at it, he says. We need it. Things are hard for America. We are not done, though. We are not done. Actually, America is in a better place. He points at the lights shimmying above the factory floor. America is up there. Right now. America is looking at us and smiling. The President smiles. Through his clenched teeth he demands to see the doggie dance.