“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.”
CHAPTER 20
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.”
“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.