The Guidelines: Must be 600 words or less and revolve around a U.S. President real or imagined.
Just Desserts
Pale fingers
clutch at the silk tablecloth, dragging everything off in a single ripple as
the dining room chair lurches backward, a limp body now prone on the ground.
There is the sudden smash of crystal-cut stemware, chandelier light glints off flying
cutlery, and a thousand gasps suck the air out of the room.
Secret service agents
in penguin tuxedos appear from behind curtains and palm trees to descend upon
the scene. They push the elegantly dressed crowd back, whisking me away to an
underground bunker before I can take stock of the situation.
Moments
ago I was staring down a slice of chocolate cake. I had managed to avoid food
all night, but now I was starving.
I debated with
myself, “Would it be so far out-of-line to require a food taster?” Just to take
a few nibbles of my food and drink in order to confirm it contained no poison?
“Snap out of it,”
I reasoned back. You are not a Roman emperor or Henry the Eighth. There are no velvet
robes and golden goblets here, no turkey legs, no slaves, nor court jesters.
In fact, in my
slim navy suit and powder blue tie I stand for quite the opposite.
I flew jets in the
Air Force just like my father and grandfather before me. I graduated top of my
class from an Ivy League college. I debated the fate of democracy on live
television. I’ve looked tyrannical dictators – the kind who should have their food tasted – dead in
the eye.
I am the very definition
of adept, agile, and adroit while handling any situation thrown at me as the
President of the United States. Some have even called me cool.
But then there is
this matter of the dessert. A drop of sweat threatens to slide down my
forehead.
I never thought my
Achilles heel would be paranoia, but I’ve become obsessed with the possibility
of an assassination attempt on my life.
It
all started last year when a kid, not even twenty-one, shot a couple rounds of
ammunition in the direction of the Oval Office. They later caught him in pajamas,
filling up his Volvo at a gas station outside of Pennsylvania. He claimed to be
Jesus in cahoots with Oprah via Twitter, and that I was the anti-Christ that
had to be stopped.
I wasn’t even in
town, in China for the economic summit. But later an agent pointed out a knick
in the thick, bulletproof glass of the window situated just behind the Resolute
Desk. That’s when the threat became palpable: there are people out there who
want me dead.
I now imagine my neck
snapped in half like a twig by a karate-kid operative with hooded eyes, lying
in wait among a crowd of supporters at a re-opened industrial plant in Indiana.
Visions of Jackie
O in her pink pillbox hat, of gaunt Lincoln in box seats at the theatre, of young
Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver; they run
through my head in a loop as I stoop down to kiss the baby that has been thrust
at me expectantly. Adorable cooing and rosy cheeks aside, I see a wolf in
sheep’s clothing.
The
Vice President is smiling at me now; his perfect rows of teeth are Shark white.
I eye him warily. The very definition of his job is wanting my job. The slice
in front of him is carrot cake.
“Hey
Phil,” I ask with a strained smile, “Would you mind trying the chocolate out for
me to see if it has peanuts in it? I can’t stand peanuts.”
p.s. i had a lot of fun with this.
