Surgeon General’s Warning: The views expressed in this column are not necessarily those of GliderTech, Casady & Greene, john calhoun or anyone who smoked and DID inhale. The author reserves the right to blend facts and blatantly spurious information to a degree not seen since all three major networks aired competing Amy Fisher movies.
My first thought upon seeing the White House was “It looks much bigger in the movies.”
Granted, 1600 Pensylvania Avenue is not unimpressive, nor puny. However, from Hollywood, one gets the impression that right smack dab in the middle of Washington is this gleaming white shrine to democracy, thirty stories tall with amazing columns and patriotic music always playing from little speakers hidden in the bushes. Sorry to disappoint you, folks, but the White House we know, love, and avidly watch being blown up by evil alien spaceships in major Hollywood movies-- it isn’t exactly accurate. It’s just a big, white house. A very nice house, and certainly very appropriate for the Leader of the Free World, but I’ll bet you it can’t hold a candle to Aaron Spelling’s place.
I found myself sitting in a fairly comfortable chair in the Oval Office, waiting for the president to arrive. The Secret Service agent who had escorted me here had left me with one instruction only: “Don’t touch anything.” (The way he patted his shoulder holster when he said it made me inclined to obey.) Out the picture window behind the president’s desk, I could see Lafayette Memorial Park and Outdoor Homeless Shelter. I found it ironic that The Leader of the Free World lived just across the street from a bunch of people who, for whatever reason, made their homes outdoors in nests of cardboard, newspaper and who knows what. I could also spot the friendly anti-nuclear peace protestors at the edge of the park who, as their colorful homemade signs trumpeted, have Maintained A Constant Peace Vigil In This Exact Spot Since 1982 And Show No Signs Of Stopping Despite The Many Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaties Recently Signed! They must be going for the record books.
As I turned to study the paintings on the office walls, I was struck by the sense of history that seemed to hang in the air. (Or was that the smell of McDonald’s fries?) This was the very room in which Richard Nixon had masterminded the Watergate break-in; in which Ronald Reagan had kept his jellybean jar; in which Forrest Gump had explained to JFK the results of drinking fifteen Dr. Peppers in a short span of time.
A screech of brakes and a jarring crash from somewhere outside the White House interrupted my reverie. For a moment, I thought that yet another pilot had decided to use the Rose Garden as his own personal landing strip. Then I remembered that Chelsea was still taking driving lessons. Sure enough, several minutes later President William Jefferson Wafflin staggered in, straightening his disheveled suit.
"Sometimes," he said in his customary drawl, "ah think her learner’s permit will be the death of me." He seemed friendly and open, and unlike Senator Dull, he appeared to have a pulse.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. President," I said, shaking his hand. Before he could respond, an ear-splitting yowl filled the Oval Office. I looked down to find Socks, the First Feline, clawing and biting my trouser cuff as if it had just insulted his mother. It hurt. I was not surprised, though; cats in general don’t seem to like me.
"Mr. President, your cat seems to be clinging to my ankle and relentlessly attacking it." He chuckled slightly at this.
"Ah used to have the same problem with Speaker Gangrene," he said, reaching down and yanking Socks from his secure hold on my leg. He took the cat, set it down outside the Oval Office, and quickly closed the door. I heard angry hisses and persistent scratching through the closed door; I wondered how I was going to get out of here with my pants leg intact.
President Wafflin walked over to his desk and sat down; the chair groaned. I guessed he hadn’t been eating as healthily as the press had reported. Sure enough, he cast a furtive glance around the room and then withdrew a Big Mac from his desk drawer.
"You didn’t see this," he said conspiratorally, and proceeded to demolish the burger. Wow. Not five minutes in the White House and I was already participating in a presidential cover-up. "Now, son," he said in between bites, "what’s this game you’re here to show me?"
I set up the Powerbook, hoping no special sauce would splatter on the screen, and launched the CD. No surprise: in the House Selection window he clicked on House of Food first. "Any house that involves cheeseburgers has my complete support," he said with his mouth full, his onscreen Glider scooping up yet another Wolfeburger.
I mentioned that Bob Dull had enjoyed the game. "Bob Dull liked the game, huh?" he asked interestedly. I could see he was thinking quickly. "Well, ah think it’s a wonderful game, a terriffic game, although for entirely different reasons than Senator Dull, and my staff has been working on a slightly different version of the game that I hope to endorse shortly."
He inquired about the little green 'He' tank. "Oh, that’s helium, Mr. President," I said. "It allows the Glider to move up as well as down." A thought struck me: had the Leader of the Free World ever made his voice sound like a chipmunk’s?
(Scene: a tense arms summit between the U.S. and Serbia.
Serbian President: Very well, Mr. Wafflin, I will cut back on the number of MSG-4’s near Potomarsk, but I refuse to disarm more of the ZR-5’s around Sarajevo. Do you understand? I said -- Mr. Wafflin? What are you doing with that balloon?
President Wafflin: [in high squeaky voice] Christmas, Christmas time is here, time for joy, and time for cheer...
Serbian President: Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, all right, I’ll disarm the ZR-5’s, too, if you pass that balloon over here.)
"Mr. President," I asked him, "have you ever inhaled helium, maybe at a birthday party?" He suddenly looked very nervous.
"Uh, no, no, ah never inhaled." I wasn’t too sure of that, but I let the matter drop.
"So, Mr. President," I inquired one hour and seven Big Macs later, "what do you think of the game?"
"Ah think it’s a wonderful game. It paints a picture of an America where skies are sunny, where the air is clean and everyone is free to enjoy it. That’s the kind of America ah’ve worked to bring about these past four years, and together, that’s the kind of America we can work for some more once ah am re-elected in 1996..."
"God Bless America" had begun to play from tiny speakers in the walls during this last speech, and little mechanized American flags had popped up from his desk and begun waving back and forth. He went on like this for several minutes, music playing and flags waving. Very clever, but thankfully I had watched a lot of Dennis Miller shows before coming to Washington, and was thus safely inoculated against such sentiment.
"Oh, Mr. President," I added as I was folding up the Powerbook, "there’s just one more thing--"
"Boxers," he said quickly.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Boxers. Ah used to wear briefs, but ah switched to boxers in the past few months. They’re surprisingly comfortable, and-- that was what you were going to ask me about, wasn’t it?"
"Um... no, Mr. President."
"Oh." He began to study the floor as if it were an Extra Value Meal menu.
"I was just going to say that you look like you have a pretty easy job here."
"Easy, son? What makes you say that? These have been the toughest four years of my life. Ah ‘ve had to deal with dangerous situations in a number of hostile places: Bosnia, Somalia, the Republican Congress..."
"With all due respect, sir, I believe my job is more difficult. You try finding something humorous to say about a paper airplane every month."
Before he could say anything, an ominous red light on the president’s desk began to blink rapidly. He looked genuinely alarmed.
"What is that, Mr. President?" I asked nervously. "Has someone launched a nuclear missile and started World War III?"
"No, son, it’s even worse than that! Hillary’s coming!" And with that, he began to frantically stuff the Big Mac wrappers back into his desk drawer. Hmmmm... the lady or the tiger?
I decided to take my chances with the tiger, and slipped out the way I’d came in. Socks was waiting patiently outside, but he seemed to be in a forgiving mood. I got away with only a ripped pant leg and seven stitches. I was beginning to understand why, in earlier versions of Glider, the main adversary was a large cat.
Maybe Socks, and not Warren Christopher, should be the one we send when we want to persuade foreign leaders to see things our way.
