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The Oval Office
The First One Hundred Hours
"Mr. President," said Chief of Staff Madison, entering the Oval
Office unannounced; "this just in from Secretary Paine." Sporting thin,
black-frame glasses on the tip of her nose, full of brass and business, she handed the
president a folder, the words 
— meaning "Not to be copied" —
stamped diagonally in presidential blue.
The president glanced at his two guests, appealing to their approval for his first official act. Their faces bland, he took the folder. "Th-Thank you, Dolley."
"Oh, Benjamin, darling," she winked, acknowledging the fat man in American Colonial short coat and knickers, "I left an 'Eyes Only' copy on your desk, too — As you requested?" she queried.
Dr. Franklin cleared his throat.
Ms. Madison sauntered to the Queen Anne chair, leaned in, and whispered into his hairy ear. "Don't be a bad boy, Benjamin," she said in a husky, sexy voice, eliciting a chuckle from the president's female guest. "There'll be no copying while I'm Chief of Staff." She slapped his pate with her sheaf of papers, blessing him if he hadn’t heard her. Or hadn't wanted to.
As if to caution her, Dr. Franklin pointed—or stabbed—a forefinger at the young Chief Executive, who, for the briefest moment, had become engrossed in the document at hand. It seemed incongruous, but Chief of Staff Madison laughed; it was as if it didn't matter. As if nothing did. That made Benjamin laugh, too.
Their laughter echoed in the empty room.
"Thene!" Madison said to the president’s female guest. (She made it rhyme it with theme). "I love your earrings. Are they the ones that . . . " She glanced at Benjamin, who blushed when she wiggled a limp, accusing finger at him. "Are they the ones that Dr. Franklin . . . "
"Oh, yes, Dolley. Thank you."
"I thought . . . "
"Yes, . . . definitely yes." Thene moved her head, liberating her hair from her bare, olive shoulders; her long, diamond earrings tinkled like unearthly music. "They’re the ones," she said. "Aren't they beautiful?" She sized up Benjamin and made him feel uncomfortable.
"They’re exquisite," said the Chief of Staff.
" . . . and look at you! I love your boots," said Thene.
The president stood. Handed the folder to Dr. Franklin, who fanned his face with it and laid it on his lap.
"Benjamin, don’t be gloomy," Ms. Madison said. "It’s just beginning, Jesus Christ. It's what we've worked for. It's why we're here."
"I'm not gloomy. I am burdened; I am responsibile; I may even be pooped." He grinned, well aware of the pun.
The president's head shot up; he'd heard that, but he didn't understand it.
"Yes! But I am not gloomy."
"Good. I'm glad to hear that, Ben," the president said, "because there's been an explosion on the planet Jupiter." He pointed to the folder in Ben's lap. "N-NASA and sources at the Pentagon . . . " He worked his mouth like he'd swallowed a golf ball. " . . . estimate the size of the asteroid as c-comparable to the size of Earth. Earth!"
Everybody froze.
The President sank back into his chair. "Jupiter! I didn't think anything was the size of Earth."
Everybody sighed. The note of wonder in his scratchy voice had convinced his invited guests and his uninvited staff that he had not yet caught the drift of things. Not of diversionary politics, at least.
Months of campaigning had made his voice whispery. Raw. Experienced, one might think. Yeah, experienced. But he could not help but glance — grimly, with high suspicion and no small fear — at his mysterious mother. Actually, he had expected the worst: that they knew everything, and he nothing. About what was happening? Nah, about everything.
A simple stream of air escaped his lips.
He searched their faces. "Tell Thomas I want to be brought up-to-date on this." He stuck out his hand. Benjamin handed the folder back to him. He handed it back to his Chief of Staff. "Up to the minute, if necessary."
"Yes, Mr. President," she said.
" — Oh — and find Thomas. Tell him I want him."
"Mr. Paine?"
He looked worried. "No. Jefferson."
The eagle-taloned Great Seal of the President of the United States screaming and clawing at his boots, Benj. Franklin poured a glass of Madeira from a tall, dark, dusty bottle on the newly-elected president’s naked desk. He turned and handed it to Thene, who — seated elegantly, disinterestedly, in a low-backed, magisterial chair — moistened her lips and smiled. He poured a glass for himself and a third glass of the ancient wine for the uninitiated, unwilling president, who, staring out of a sunny window in the Oval Office — his strategy for confronting the first interplanetary crisis of his presidency — blindly took the Madeira. Sipped it. And turned to hear the story of his life.
"Mr. President," the president said.
"Father," Ben corrected.
"As you wish, Father. Mr. Father."
Dr. Franklin glared.
They stood toe-to-toe on the carpet. Thirteen stars on a field of blue. Embossed with the eagle-taloned Great Seal of the Presidential Office. And what a magnificent carpet it was. Round. Brilliant. Alive. And what a strange Office this had become.
Thene moistened her lips. Tasted her husband’s Madeira. Insisting, the while, on this dirty-linen expose of their private lives. And there was the president. Her president. Hungry for Love and thirsting after Truth. Either of my handsome men could have become the president of this great land. Either could have been nominated and elected to this great office. But, unfortunately, that was not to be. Intoxicated. Brimming with maternal love, Thene raised her glass to her rebellious son. And toasted him. It had been a bitter-sweet victory for her, losing the presidency for Benjamin, whom she loved more dearly than her Immortal Life. And, too, to be fair to her selfish interests, she fully believed that she -- that they, that she and Benjamin -- had better things to do with their time -- with eternity, no less.
The president toasted Ben. "To . . . ." Or began to. But thought better of taking his sarcasm any further. " . . . To all present. Mother?" Thene wrinkled a lip. And drank Ben’s Madeira. And wished she were in Hades or in Hell.
Inauguration Day. Three days ago. It should have been a moment of public triumph; it was a moment of private defeat. It crushed her. "Darling," she whispered, "there are things we want you to know: Things we should have told you years ago."
"Talk."
She darkened. "Let’s say, We lied to you."
"Let’s. You used me."
Ben interrupted. "Lucky, don’t be difficult."
"Why not?"
"We MADE you!" his father boomed.
"Ben," Thene interrupted. "That’s not going to work."
But it worked. Nervous, Lucky was beginning to feel — even to understand — the power they had given him. Not the people. Not those who had elected him. Or thought they had. Christ, for all he knew, in every precinct coast to coast, the election had been rigged. Bought. Electronically cracked.
"What . . . What’s that . . . noise?" questioned Ben. Numb with paranoia, he gravitated to — and sat suspiciously at — the president’s executive desk. "Are we — " He punched a button on the big desk. "ARE WE BEING TAPED?"
"No, Sir," a voice came back. "The Secret Service needs your signature to activate it. Is that you, Mr. President?"
Ben punched the button. "It’s nothing," he finessed.
"I’m nothing."
"THAT’S CRAZY! YOU . . . you’re . . . " He lost it.
"WHAT! SAY IT! WHAT AM I? YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I AM? I’M A PRISONER OF YOUR LUST," the president roared.
Thene let his anger hang there. "Wrong," she said quietly.
Lucky froze at her steel-gray eyes.
"You’re a prisoner of mine," she corrected.
Ben shivered. Jesus Christ, what’s that make me? he wondered. But he knew very well what that made him. That was why he shivered. And that was why Thene smirked. Respectfully, he slipped out from behind the magnificent, stretch desk. "Lucky, Lucky," he commiserated. "My boy." He stopped a passionate step or two short of embracing him. And although he was driven, he did not know what was driving him.
Thene sized up the Oval Office, as if to demolish it.
The president, grim. Took Ben’s hand firmly. Shook it with vigor while staring darts at Thene. There’s a common enemy here. He thought it. But he did not know why he thought it at just this moment. He guessed that his Immortal Mom had been involved — in her disinterested fashion — in the third-party coup and ultimate victory, which, through all the horrors and innuendoes, through all the personal embarrassment and pain — had gone successfully. Very successfully.
They had dislodged Excalibur.
Except, he wondered, how am I to rule? How does a dead man rule?
But this crucial interview with Mom and Dad had been a long time in coming. Twenty, thirty years. And it was long overdue. The president had done the smart thing when he booked the Oval Office for this afternoon’s — and, possibly, this evening’s — closed-circuit Soap Opera. And directed Chief of Staff Madison to reschedule his appointments. And not to interrupt. Except, that is, for one unlikely emergency. One that might unexpectedly arise. Not unlike the one that did arise. Unexpectedly. On Jupiter. Yet, indubitably, to be sure, the White House could not otherwise be surpassed for privacy and isolation. Not three confusing days had passed since his inauguration — his administration not yet one-hundred hours old — when Dr. Franklin and Ms. Thene, Dr. Franklin’s ex- in the After World and the president’s Immortal Mom — a.k.a. Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus — had conceived the Wisdom of this family thing:
But, golly! They’d changed the Rules of the Game on him again.
Bastards, he thought.
They sat, the three of them — Ben judiciously avoiding the president’s chair — in front of the desk with their chairs placed indifferently about the Great Seal of the Office of the President of the United States.
"Begin," said the president.
Benjamin shot a glance at Thene. And back at the Chair. "Where?"
The president shrugged. "I don’t know. You’re the one who said there’re things . . . you want me to know."
"I did not," his father said.
"I said it," his mother said.
Lucky flipped a pencil. But the next moment he was quite composed, not at all cynical, and behaving like a professional politician. Like he was chairing a congressional investigating committee.
"I don’t care who said it," he said. "Let’s make it clear to this" — he smirked, spreading wide his arms — "tribunal: What you guys knew, and when you knew it." He flashed a devilish grin.
Ben and Thene betrayed a guilty glance. Then one of them shrugged, and they decided to play along. As if to say, What have we got to lose? The kid they’d promoted for president — and gotten elected — was beginning to believe that he was the president. Was changing from a prop to something else.
"Right?"
"Right," they chimed.
"I thought it was me," Ben said. "I thought they were going to crucify my ass next. After they’d dumped the Lord."
"You didn’t want the job?"
"You gotta be nuts. They invited me up to the Big House — you know about this, Thene — to GOD’s Galactic Headquarters. That’s the Rotunda at the Jupiter Hilton. Where the big shots stay. Honest."
The president doubted it.
"They asked me to present — to the Board — the paper I’d prepared for Zeus."
"The Jupiter Hilton?" the president asked, incredulous.
"Are you listening?"
"I’m listening. You want applause?"
"That’s not important," said Thene. "The Jupiter Hilton is not important to this conversation. Yes, it’s on Jupiter."
"What." The president had lost it. "What's on Jupiter?"
"The Jupiter Hilton."
"That’s what I thought she said," the president said, to no one in particular.
"It’s a bigger universe — and a dumber one — than you’ve imagined, kid. You know what dumb is? This one’s dumb. It’s rooted in randomness and entropy. Thank god for brains — " lectured Ben.
"Ben, tell the friggin’ story."
"Right. I’d begun to have doubts about what they — Galactic Inc. — wanted me to do — after I’d finished presenting it. My little plan."
Thene glared.
"Okay, okay. My Presidential Plan."
The president sat up.
Ben began to sweat. "Jesus Christ. They threatened me with Jesus Christ. They’d just given Him the shaft. Am I supposed to be impressed by their making me a god? Or a legend? Am I nuts?"
The president sat back and laughed. "Threatened you?"
"Games! There’s this statue . . . "
Copyright © Domenic Corsaro 1998
