President Willard swiveled in his new chair in the Oval Office, obviously enjoying the well-lubricated mechanism of the seat of power. The telephone on his desk buzzed. He stared at it quizzically for a moment, sat the cup in his hand down on the desk and then shouted in the general direction of the phone, “Yes?”
“The Vice-President to see you, sir,” the female voice on the intercom announced.
“Send him in,” the President replied.
“Paul, come in. Sit down. Beautiful day, isn't it?”
“Very nice, sir. Much warmer than Wisconsin this time of year. Had to get past a pretty colorful group of protesters at the White House gates though.”
“Colorful? Were they minority groups?”
“No, sir,” the VP chuckled. “It was Big Bird and some of the other Muppets from Sesame Street.”
“Oh, you mean because I cut funding to PBS? I told Lehrer that I was going to do that. Shouldn't have been a big surprise. Besides, PBS actually educates people, and we can’t afford too much of that, can we Paul?”
“No sir, we don’t really want a well-informed electorate. Could spell the doom of our party. So anyway, how was your weekend, sir?”
“Just splendid. The boys are still in town, and we all went to church together. The bishop told us that we doubled the size of his normal choir. How about you Paul? Did you manage to find a nice service for your family?”
“I didn't go to church sir.”
“Really?” the President looked surprised. “Aren't you a Catholic?”
“Only during the election season sir. I’m really a follower of ‘Objectivism’. We don’t have regular meetings.”
“Objectivism? What’s that?”
“It’s a philosophy developed by Ayn Rand. It’s based on ‘rational selfishness’.”
“And they say Mormonism is a cult,” Willard muttered under his breath. “You know, I've been thinking about finding jobs in the government for my boys. Think we could do that? I’m a firm believer in public service, you know.”
“All of your boys, sir? We might have to expand the government to do that,” Paul chuckled nervously.
“Well that shouldn't be a problem, should it? All of the Presidents do it, don’t they?”
“Well…you did campaign on the concept of reducing the size of government, sir.”
“Oh fiddlesticks!” Willard chortled. “Every President breaks campaign promises. The people expect it.”
“If you say so sir…”
“Can I get you a cup of this stuff?” he asked his visitor, holding up his own cup. “It’s really amazing. I feel energized when I drink it. They tell me the White House would cease to function entirely if we didn't serve gallons of it every day.”
“Yes sir, it’s called coffee,” Paul replied. “It’s quite popular.”
“Never had the stuff before. Help yourself,” Willard gestured to the sterling silver coffee service on the table in front of his desk. The Vice-President poured himself a cup, and then topped-off his boss’s cup as well. “Have you seen my desk? They tell me it used to be a boat at one time.”
“Yes sir, it’s called ‘The Resolute Desk’. President Kennedy made it very popular when they took photos of his children playing under it.”
“Kennedy, huh?” Willard scoffed. “Wasn't he an adulterer and a Democrat?”
“I believe that is true sir.”
“I was never unfaithful to Ann, you know.”
“Can’t imagine you ever had the time sir.”
“Maybe I’ll get rid of this desk. I can do that can’t I?”
The Vice-President nodded in agreement. “I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to redecorate anyway you want, sir.”
“Maybe I’ll get something sleek and modern. I sure don’t need all these drawers. Can’t imagine I’ll need to store much of anything. Except for this,” he added, holding up the ‘veto’ stamp. “I’m going to keep this close at hand, just in case those pesky legislators manage to pass something that wasn't approved.” Willard looked mysteriously skyward, as if at some unseen power.
“Well, that really hasn't been a problem so far, sir.” Paul smiled. “They've done everything we've asked for so far. Repealed Obamacare, tax cuts for the super-rich, a hike in taxes for the middle class, a huge increase in defense spending. We've got everything in place to privatize Medicare and Social Security. It’s been quite a successful honeymoon period for you sir. Now we’re ready to put the rest of your programs into place.”
The President stared back blankly at his visitor. “What programs are those, Paul?”
“You know, sir. Like Romneycare, your own version of a national healthcare system.”
The President looked around and lowered his voice, as if his every word and action were monitored by an unseen force. “That was never…approved, Paul. I just said that to get elected.” He then spoke up, smiling. “I said lots of things during the campaign that I didn't really mean. Don’t even remember most of them.” The Vice-President’s eyes widened in disbelief. The President’s intercom buzzed again. “Yes?” he shouted back at it.
“The Secretary of Defense and the National Security Advisor are here to see you, sir.”
“Send them in.” Two conservatively dressed gentlemen entered the Oval Office, and were offered coffee by the Vice-President. Both declined.
“I’m afraid we’re facing some fallout over the Iran situation, sir,” SecDef began.
“Fallout? What do you mean?” the President replied.
“Well, sir,” SecDef continued, “most of the world is a bit upset about us using nuclear weapons against Iran, without warning and all.”
“We didn't nuke Iran,” Willard protested. “That was the Israelis.”
“But we used our planes, sir,” the NSA added, “and our bombs.”
Willard’s eyes sneakily swept the room before returning his gaze to his new visitors. He then whispered: “But they were stealth bombers.”
“Yes sir,” SecDef rolled his eyes. “But apparently an Iranian spy saw them land in Tel Aviv before the mission.”
“Spies?” the President seemed perplexed.
“Yes sir,” his NSA added, then explained, “seems the Middle East is full of them. Fairly ubiquitous in fact.”
“Then there’s also the matter of the actual fallout sir. It seems that a vast cloud of radioactive material is now sweeping across India and heading directly toward China. I've heard that they’re both pretty pissed-off at us right now,” SecDef added.
“India and China?” the President mused. “What do they matter to us?”
The Defense Secretary and National Security Advisor exchanged a worried glance, and then the NSA spoke up. “Their combined population is about 2.6 billion people sir. That’s almost one-third of the world’s population.”
“Oh,” the President answered, still unsure of the consequences. Just then his intercom buzzed again. “Yes?” he shouted toward the device.
“The Secretary of the Treasury is here to see you, sir.”
“Send him in,” the President replied wearily.
“Sir, I’m afraid we've got big troubles,” SecTreas began without the usual pleasantries. “The capital markets are collapsing. The Dow lost half of its value already, including all of last week’s big increase. I've already ordered all of the exchanges closed until further notice. I’m afraid the bubble burst a bit prematurely. Oh, and I just heard that China is demanding that we repay all of our debt to them immediately.”
“Oh no,” Willard moaned, “that will wipe us out.”
“Not really sir,” SecTreas explained. “The Chinese hold only about 8% of our total debt. That’s really the least of our problems right now. It will increase our borrowing costs a bit, if we can still borrow from anyone, that is. We may actually have to default on our debt obligations. Seems most of the rest of the world doesn't want to do business with us right now.”
“Eight percent? So that was true then. I thought the Democrats just made that up. You know, like most of the figures I used during the campaign.” The President’s intercom buzzed again. “Yes, what is it?” he screamed at the device.
“Your personal financial advisor is here to see you sir.” The woman’s voice responded wearily.
“By all means, send him right in,” Willard beamed.
“Sir,” the Vice-President interrupted. “Do you really think that’s wise? We seem to be dealing with important matters of national security right now. Besides, I thought all of your personal wealth was held by blind trusts.”
“Well yes, Paul, they are held in blind trust,” the President explained. “But I’m not looking at my money, am I? Just discussing it. The trusts are blind, not deaf and dumb.” Willard acknowledged the bespectacled newcomer to the room, and offered him a cup of coffee, which he declined. “What have you got for me, Smithers?”
The accountant glanced around the room, recognizing the powerful men standing next to him, and gulped before beginning. “Well sir…um…we’re in a bit of a fix right now it seems…um…the banks sir…the off-shore banks…in the Caymans, and Ireland? Well…it seems they've nationalized the holdings of all American investors.”
“What?” Willard exploded, “even mine?”
“Especially yours, sir. Seems they’re blaming you for the new worldwide financial collapse.”
“Worldwide financial collapse? When the hell did that start?”
The accountant checked his watch before replying. “About thirty minutes ago, sir.”
“What about Switzerland? Certainly the Swiss didn't nationalize my accounts. They do business with everyone.”
“That’s right sir. Those funds are safe. Your Swiss bankers noticed a small uptick in the U.S. Treasury Bond futures market last night and put all of your money in good old, safe T-Bills.” The accounted smiled for a moment, until he observed the stricken look on the President’s now ashen face.
“But we’re about to default on all of our debt obligations you idiot! I’ll be completely broke!”
“Oh…that is bad news. Perhaps you’ll excuse me for a moment, sir? I've got some other calls to make. I need to switch some of my really rich clients into gold futures.”
As the accountant beat a hasty retreat through the door of the Oval Office, with his cell phone at his ear, the President’s intercom announced the arrival of the Secretary of State, who entered the office before waiting for the boss’s OK.
“Ah, I’m glad I've found you all here,” SecState observed. “Paul, the helicopter’s outside ready to take you to your secure location in West Virginia. Everyone else come with me, we've got to get to the underground bunker right now. Seems the missiles are in the air and we’re under attack.”
“Do you have any orders for us, sir?” SecDef asked.
Willard appeared shell-shocked, blinked twice, then responded: “I don’t know. Just do whatever it is you normally do.” In the hall, as he headed for the elevator surrounded by his Secret Service detail, he heard the alarms going off. Then he realized that they sounded exactly like his alarm clock.
Willard opened his eyes, and feeling the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheet beneath him, rolled over to face his wife.
"Good morning, dear," her smile was bittersweet. "Did you sleep well dear? You seemed to be moaning right before your alarm went off. Are you alright?"
"Fine dear, just fine...the election...I didn't...?" he remained a bit groggy, having gone to bed much later than he was accustomed.
"No dear...Don't you remember?"
"Yes...of course. Just a bad dream is all...Ann, we're still rich aren't we?"
"Yes dear, as far as I know. We have more this morning than we did last night. Just like every morning."
"Good."
Note to readers: Willard's Second Week is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity of the characters to persons alive or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental, and not intended.
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