The choke: An inaugural tale
United States v. Pretzel
1.
It could have been worse.
Not the football game, that is. George had no horse in thace. He just wanted a Sunday off. Rooting for America was easier than running it, especially nowadays. Chasing down all those Islamofascists was exhausting. Condi’s constant briefings. Dick with his fanciful ideas. Colin and his condescension, like he knew more than everyone else. Four months later, at least the Dems were still good patriots. Towing the line like fish in a barrel, George chuckled.
Sure the Midterms were this year, but that’s for then. As they said in Texas, don’t look a horse in the mouth when it gives you a gift.
He-he.
Then there was this place in Cuba — but not Cuba? — that just opened the other day. For the terrorists they caught. Real bad hombres, he was told, and the first of them just arrived. The lawyers kept going back and forth about it. It was never really clear to George how a place could be America and not America at the same time, but the lawyers said it was OK.
“Kosher,” Wolfie would say.
It seemed complicated, but the lawyers were all very proud of themselves for figuring out how to do that. Like his Yale days, a lot of smart guys around. And George was content cheerleading from the sidelines.
Thinking back to those days pushed George’s mind to his father. The end of Communism — now that must’ve been complicated. Real hard stuff. But Dad got it right. Now, all the Freedom was up to him.
“Don’t F this up, Georgie Boy,” he heard a voice say. Why was the voice always his brother’s?
A tinny cheer brought George back to the second floor residence he found himself in. The room, a fitting mix of stately ornament and man’s cave, was slipping obediently into darkness as the day’s deep winter sun bled out across the Potomac. The TV’s glare started to dominate. It showed padded-out players taking the still-sunny field, in a much warmer Miami. Describing it all, the disarming voice of Greg Gumbel.
George eased up, catching himself briefly in a daydream about how much better everything would be if the CBS Sports legend was next to him in the Situation Room whenever the Chiefs were asking for a decision. Surely, as the decider, he could make that happen. He’d have to ask those whiz-kid lawyers. Next to making a reasonable case for “enhanced” interrogation, getting the President a personal play-by-play announcer sounded easy.
Football was easy. Twenty-two men line up to pummel each other on a field of 10-yard increments. One side throws the ball and runs; the other side chases them down; and then they switch. Get to the endzone and score more points than the other side. Nicest of all, there was a countdown clock so you always knew when it would be over.
Clear objectives. Clear victory. Clear end. What George would give for a countdown clock. No such luck. Just stay the course. Otherwise, those 73,000 people in Pro Player Stadium would never be safe. What is America if not enjoying an AFC playoff in Peace and Security? Plus, it’s not like there weren’t perks to being a wartime President. Throwing out the first pitch in the World Series at Yankee Stadium a couple months ago was hard to beat.
Right down the center — bam! I’d like to see Jeb try to do that, George thought with a self-satisfying grin.
Cheers, applause.
Maybe he could do something like that for the Super Bowl coming up. Too bad George’s Cowboys never had a chance this year. He had to settle for the Ravens and the Dolphins today. The game was underway, and things were already looking miserable for Miami. Baltimore had them on offense and defense.
Sunday football was missing something. Off the bottle for years by now, at least snacks. George realized he had none. Another presidential perk: Direct line to the kitchen. Whenever and whatever he wanted.
George wanted pretzels.
He picked up the phone nearby. Moeller answered. Good guy that sous chef. He knew his way to George’s stomach. And every time he went home to Lancaster, he’d bring back some of those famous ones from Hammond. They were good. Just the right bite. Always fresh. Yeah, that’s what this Sunday called for.
The kitchen picked up without pause. A bowl was brought up and before him in no time. Now that’s what it means to be President of the United States. It was all about the pretzels.
2.
The pretzels, pets, and the President settled in for a couple hours of all-American distraction. This is when George felt like he rarely did these days: himself.
But not completely. Something was off. Was it that Yellowcake report Brother George just put on his desk? There was some disagreement about whether to include it in the State of the Union, but George didn’t really concern himself with such details too much. Anyway, Brother George assured him the Niger thing was a slam dunk. Truth be told, he was somewhat excited about the prospect of an Iraq redo. Dad got fooled, but he won’t get fooled again.
Maybe it was his America trip that was pushing him off his game. But that made no sense. He loved getting out of Washington, and the country loved him. His approval ratings were historic. The trip would be great, and he could keep some of those darn briefings at bay.
Fly around. Shake hands. Real salt-on-the-earth people. And pie.
The buoyant chant of “U-S-A” lingered in his head as the teams took to a huddle on the field. George peered at the TV over the rim of his glasses. It wasn’t his eyes that were bothering him, though. His throat tickled, as he reached for another of the Hammond’s.
George let out a soft grunt to clear it before popping the pretzel in. He let it sit there on his tongue, suspended in the time and space of Texan saliva, until it started to dissolve in starchy comfort. Tasted as good as always, George thought — they always got the salt ratio just right — but he was now more sure that something wasn’t right. He was just as unsure about what it was.
Barney looked at him sideways. Spot was panting in the corner. George’s pulse slowed as he pushed the pretzel down. From the mics on the field, he could just make out the quarterback’s calls.
A hike. A snap. Ball between the legs and in the air. George’s eyes fluttered. His glasses slipped off his nose. Spot let out a little yelp, helpless and confused. The bowl of pretzels waited expectantly for another stab of presidential fingers, but it would never come.
The room got darker and smaller around George. It wasn’t the fleeing sunshine, though. The last of the ambient light coming in through the window was fighting a losing battle with the TV’s illuminated pixels. And George was fighting a losing battle with consciousness.
He hit the deck. Touchdown Ravens.
3.
The consultants consulted against it. They said they didn’t look “presidential,” least of all for an inauguration. Baloney. He was President — or very soon about to be. “Presidential” was whatever the President said it was. By definition. Since when did he listen to consultants, anyway. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have won the election.
The mittens were staying.
“If they’re so concerned, they should move this back to March like it used to be. An outdoor event in the middle of winter,” the President-elect huffed, a frustrated thumb stuck in the loop of a half-constructed tie. “What mishegas.”
“It should be your first act as President to change it, dear,” the soon-to-be First Lady deadpanned.
“If only changing the Constitution were that easy. I’m going to be President, not the Messiah,” he retorted. “More mishegas.”
The President-elect in the mirror stared grumpily back at the man struggling with his tie. It wasn’t coming together as easily as he hoped. The mittens were on the dresser in front of him, reporting for duty.
At least wear a suit that matches, the stylist had pleaded. For more than a moment, he considered taking the stylist literally, but an entire knitted suit was a prank too far. Even for him.
Seeing the frustration rising in his eyes, Jane approached the mirror and took command. She had the tie tied a few seconds later, finishing it off with a deft knot without taking her eyes off his.
“Messiah, maybe not. President of the United States will have to do.”
“... -elect,” Bernie replied. Even a wife’s efforts at matrimonial support came second to accuracy. “There’s still time for me to drop dead.”
There were more than a handful of people who might like to see it. After all, you don’t pull off the first successful third-party win in the nation’s history without upsetting someone.
Jane’s dismissive eye roll was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. An aide peeked in. “We need to get going, sir.”
The President-elect responded with a nod, reaching for his blazer and coat. The aide made way for him as he took a step towards the doorway. He always forgot how tall the incoming President was, giving him an unpredictable gait as he swung into forward motion.
A secret service agent straightened up as the President-elect emerged in the hallway. “B-ball is on the move.”
The small party coalesced and set a course like a school of fish. Jane, a few steps behind, cleared her throat. “Forgetting something?”
Bernie turned back to her with a half-feigned expression of guilt, and moved in to make up for his senatorial absentmindedness with a husbandly kiss. A wooly object immediately got in the way.
“You did insist on the mittens, no, Mr. President-elect?” she said, holding the pair up between their faces.
With a defeated sigh, he took them in one hand and took hers in the other. The aide and agent stared at them both with a patient professionalism. Bernie eyed them back before rolling them to the heavens above.
“Mishegas.”
4.
... to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.
A muffled cheer ricocheted across the Mall. From makeshift broadcast studios on the Capitol periphery to political feeds across the social media cosmos, the mittens competed with the copy of the Constitution the new President swore his oath on for hot-take attention. Depending on your preferred flavor of airtime-filling rage, eschewing the godlier text was either a bold break from tradition or a clear-and-present threat to America. But at least, the social warriors on all sides could agree, he took his mitten off to swear on it.
First Lady and Chief Justice took their seats. An anticipatory quiet filled the day’s sun-soaked dry air. The man now quixotically in charge of the world’s most sprawling military-industrial and intelligence-gathering apparatus gave his overcoat a tug as he turned towards the podium awaiting him.
He cleared his throat.
My fellow Americans,
Today, as we gather for this inaugural moment, we do so at a time of extraordinary upheaval. Let me be clear: For decades, we have seen the fabric of our democracy get torn asunder by lies, greed, and corruption. These threats are not new, and they transcend party and partisanship. They are systemic — and they are why for too long we have lived with economic and political systems that work against the will of the people.
I was elected to change this. And change this I will. Not me, of course, but we. Together.
That’s why today I want to talk to you about not only the pressing issues of economic disparity and looming oligarchy, but also outline a bold plan to break the stranglehold of the two-party system that is at the center of the rot of our democracy.
No wonder our opponents say the system is rigged and our elections are fraudulent. Because they are — but not the way their loony conspiracies tell it. Let me tell you: It is actually much worse than their conspiracies. Your vote is stolen long before you go anywhere near a ballot booth. Sometimes, I don’t even know how I got here myself.
That is why we will put an end to gerrymandering and voter suppression. We will push for term limits and public funding of elections so billionaires and their lot can’t buy candidates — and your voice is fully heard.
Let us call the status quo for what it is: corrupt. No wonder everyday Americans feel unheard and unrepresented. To those who feel that way, I am here to say: You are not dumb. You are not crazy. You have every right to be disillusioned.
But despair is not an option. Pessimism is not policy. Together we can — and we must — do better. And doing better starts right now.
Here is the truth: The crises we face are not acts of nature. They are the result of deliberate policy choices made to benefit the few at the expense of the many.
Thankfully, we have the power to change this. And so we will.
We can hold accountable those who profit from the suffering of others. Billionaire insurance executives have every right to prosper and live with dignity and free of fear, but they do not have the right to dictate who lives and who dies. If America can put a man on the moon and overthrow foreign governments it dislikes, then surely it can negotiate better drug prices.
Let me tell you: Letting tech oligarchs control the means of conversation is not what I call freedom. We can regulate social media without infringing on free speech.
We can ensure that corporations do not ditch American workers as they chase cheap labor overseas. We can demand they clean up their messes and that their executives pay their fair share.
To those in power who say we can’t, I say: Look around. America has always been about making the impossible possible. History shows us that when we organize —when we raise our collective voice — we can win.
We can create an economic system based on justice, not greed.
We can guarantee quality healthcare for everyone.
We can provide good education to all students, without them drowning in debt.
We can fight climate change and create good-paying jobs.
We can restrain the billionaire class.
We can — and we will — fight tirelessly for a government that works for everyone, not the few.
I can be the king-like commander of a bloated, trillion-dollar national security state that makes total sense for an anti-imperial democratic socialist to be in charge of.
These goals are not easy, but they are just. As we work towards them, I ask for your patience, your support and, most of all, your solidarity. We do not have a moment to lose.
But first, I’m told I have to go to no less than five inaugural balls. So more on that later …
5.
Somewhere nearby, the canons fired. It was warm, but not from the air. It was wet, but it wasn’t snowing. Darkness set in, but it was the middle of the day. First slowly and then quickly, thousands of people in attendance changed into flip-flops and jerseys. The snappily dressed Marines were now in shoulder pads and cleats.
Inaugural applause faded into an electronically reproduced hush. It was first down again.
On one side of his face, George felt the scratchy warmth of carpeting soaked in his own drool. On the other, just as warm, a stinging lump. Barney and Spot looked at him just as confused as he was looking at them.
Mother won’t like this, George thought wearily. She always said: When you're eating pretzels, chew before you swallow.
He stumbled to a mirror to find his cheek bruised and lip cut. Ari-Bob was gonna have fun explaining this one. But there was something bigger in need of explaining.
George felt something he was unaccustomed to feeling: unease. It wasn’t from the pretzels, though, now scattered violently about the carpet in front of where he was sitting. Nor from the wooziness of unconsciousness. His watch showed he couldn’t have been out that long, but the experience of being out suggested differently.
George took a seat on the sofa again, collecting his thoughts. It felt so real. Maybe it was — somehow, somewhere?
Ridiculous, George assured himself. I’m President.
Still, maybe he’d take a trip down to the Senate wing of the Capitol sometime soon. Just to make sure — and also see about getting a pair of those mittens.