Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash
Mr President, the leader of the Free World and the most powerful person on the planet, could not sleep. For two hours, he’d lain on the presidential bed in the dark, puffing and pounding the presidential pillow, tossing and turning in his presidential pyjamas, pulling up and kicking off the presidential blanket, but no position seemed to aid his attempt to fall asleep.
He attempted deep breathing exercises to relax, only to hyperventilate and hallucinate that the Gold Codes to access America’s nuclear arsenal changed bi-weekly, using the winning Powerball numbers. That way, no one would forget them.
After his presidential CO2 levels returned to normal, he counted sheep and became drowsy until the flock started whirling dervishly about in brown sikke hats and white tennures. Mr President lost count and became nauseous. He recited the Declaration of Independence, the number of presidential electors in each state, the presidents in reverse chronological order, the vice presidents in alphabetical order, the House of Representatives speakers in birthdate order and finally the Senate presidents pro tempore in political party order. But still Mr President stared wide-eyed into the blackness filling the presidential suite. He then worked his way through the First Ladies. All that did was arouse him.
And what was keeping the world’s most powerful person awake at night? The polls, of course. He’d stormed into the White House as disenchanted Republicans and Democrats abandoned their parties and embraced his Progressives ticket. But that had been three years ago. Convincing the voters had been easy. Convincing the hostile Senate and House of Representatives, riddled with staid traditionalists resistant to radical change, had proved impossible. For over a thousand days, Mr President had sat in the Oval Office as a lame-duck president whose policy platform lay dormant and whose approval ratings had plummeted to record lows.
Mr President stared out into the blackness. Actually, it wasn’t the polls that were keeping him, the most powerful person in the world, from getting a good night’s sleep. He still had a year until the next election. Plenty of time to earn the trust of the American voter, to win back the support of a hostile media and to turn the polls. No, the reason he was staring, bug-eyed and bleary, out into the black presidential suite was the time, 11.45 pm, for today was his birthday, and no one, not even the First Father or the First Mother, had remembered. It’d been like any other presidential day, with everyone greeting him with either ‘Good morning, Mr President’ or ‘Good afternoon, Mr President’. There’d been no cake, no candles, no company. And what vexed him most was it being a milestone birthday, his twenty-first, when he transitioned from childhood to adulthood. That he had been the leader of the Free World for the last three years was beside the point. Birthdays were birthdays, regardless of how powerful you were.
Mr President sighed. That everyone had forgotten that today was his birthday didn’t surprise him. After all, there had been that minor issue about his failing to produce his birth certificate to substantiate his claim that he had been thirty-eight years old when elected to office. He knew where it was: tucked at the back of the presidential undies drawer. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone else where it was. He tried to convince the electorate of his antiquity by putting a grey rinse through his hair and donning a wardrobe make-over consisting of cardigans and slippers. He grew a beard, but the eight hairs on his chin failed to convince his constituents. He made serious sacrifices, like not riding his skateboard around the White House and not putting his feet up on the Oval Office desk and swallowing the gum in his mouth before giving the State of the Union Address. But he drew the line at taking up bingo. Enough was enough. Like a great politician, he waited out the scandal. Thankfully, a salacious royal sex scandal across the Atlantic got him off the front page, and within a month, political apathy ruled again. But now karma had struck. All had forgotten the Birthday Boy.
Mr President sighed again. Maybe a cookie and milk might help him go to sleep. He rose from the presidential bed, put on his presidential robe and slippers and wandered down to the presidential kitchen.
When Mr President arrived in the kitchen, he saw a black-suited, orange-haired Secret Service agent standing in front of the presidential fridge.
‘Good evening, officer,’ Mr President said.
‘Good evening, Mr President,’ the officer said. ‘And happy birthday, Mr President.’
The oven clock displayed 11:55. Mr President gave a wry smile. At least someone had remembered. At least someone loved him. God, it was lonely at the top.
‘Thank you, officer, for remembering.’
‘Are you wishing to partake in a midnight snack, Mr President?’
‘Just a cookie and a glass of milk.’
‘Allow me, Mr President. Please take a stool.’
The officer pulled a cookie from a glass jar sitting on the bench and placed it on a napkin. He retrieved a milk carton from the fridge and poured a full glass of milk. Taking a small bite from the cookie and a sip of milk, he raised his forearm and stared at his wristwatch.
As Mr President awaited the Secret Service stipulated sixty seconds for toxin detection to pass, he said, ‘What’s your name, officer?’
‘Orange, Mr President.’
‘Orange? Is that your first name or surname?’
Mr President scanned Orange for signs of sweating, asphyxiation or choking. Orange’s sunglasses prevented Mr President from observing bulging eyes or pin-pricked pupils. He made a mental note to raise the matter with the Director of the Secret Service at their next meeting.
‘Surname, Mr President.’ Orange looked as fresh and rosy as a newly plucked apple.
‘And what’s your first name?’
‘Mock, Mr President.’
‘You’re kidding me, right? Mock Orange?’
‘No, Mr President. That’s my name, Mr President. My parents were botanists, Mr President.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You can consume your supper, Mr President.’
Mr President picked up the cookie and bit into it. As he chewed, he stared long and hard at Orange.
‘Agent Orange, I commend you for your bravery. How long have you been doing this?’
‘Twenty years, Mr President.’
‘And you’re willing to die for your president?’
‘Yes, Mr President. I have only had one close shave, Mr President. President George W. Bush, Mr President. Iraqi dates, Mr President. A gift from President Hussein, Mr President. I had the runs for a week, Mr President.’
‘Really? And is it true you would take a bullet for me?’
‘Yes, Mr President.’
‘What about other duties? For example, would you fire a bullet on my behalf?’
‘If it is in Mr President’s and the nation’s best interests, I would, Mr President.’
‘And you’d keep such a request confidential between yourself and your president?’
‘Yes, Mr President.’
‘That’s good to know, Agent Orange. I think you’ll go far in the Secret Service. That’ll be all tonight. Thank you for your service. Good night.’
‘Good night, Mr President.’
Agent Orange exited the presidential kitchen.
As Mr President nibbled his cookie and sipped from his glass, he stared at his reflection in the oven door and lamented the bags under his eyes from sleep deprivation.
As the oven clock ticked over to 11.59, Mr President popped the last of the cookie in his mouth and drank the remaining milk. Smacking his lips, he decided to have another half glass. He picked up the carton, sniffed inside its open mouth, checked the use-by-date and half-filled the glass. He walked over to the fridge and went to place the carton on the shelf inside the door.
‘Happee Birthday, Mista Prez-ee-dent,’ a voice purred from the other side of the kitchen.
Mr President looked around, gasped and dropped the carton of milk. Neither from fear nor surprise, but awe, for there before him stood the most beautiful female he had ever seen.
‘Who … who … who are you?’ Mr President said.
‘I Miss Juanita, Mista Prez-ee-dent,’ she said.
‘Where did you come from?’
‘I Miss Juanita from Uruguay, Mista Prez-ee-dent. Men in dark suits, dark sunglasses, let me through service door. I here for your prez-ee-den-shul pleasure, help you sleep at night.’ Miss Juanita pouted her lips and flicked her thick mane of pink, glossy hair from side to side.
Mr President doubted he would get a wink of sleep while spending a night with Miss Juanita. What with her long lashes fluttering over her huge oval eyes, her luscious tongue rambling over her perfect ivory teeth, her long, taut legs and her seductive alabaster curves, well, a man would be bleeding mad to waste a second blinking, let alone sleeping, when gazing at the divine Miss Juanita.
‘You are truly beautiful. You’re equine, aren’t you?’
‘Si, Mista Prez-ee-dent.’
‘You Appaloosa? Azteca? Criollo, I suspect, with that accent.’
‘I u-nee-corn, last my kind, Mista Prez-ee-dent.’
‘How long have you been living in America?’
‘Two days, Mista Prez-ee-dent. I working visa. Wait Green Card.’
‘Do you have family back home?’
‘Only my Juan, Mista Prez-ee-dent. Juan Genita. He too fat, too lazy to work.’
‘Any children?’
Miss Juanita’s silver horn swished from side to side as she shook her head. ‘No, Mista Prez-ee-dent.’
Silence filled the kitchen as Mr President ran his eyes over Miss Juanita’s body. She returned a lascivious pout.
‘Oh, but where are my manners?’ Mr President said. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’
‘No, thank you, Mista Prez-ee-dent.’
‘To eat? I have some lovely fresh carrots here in the fridge.’
‘No, thank you, Mista Prez-ee-dent.’
‘Is there anything that you want?’
‘Si, Mista Prez-ee-dent.’
‘What?’
‘You, Mista Prez-ee-dent!’ And with three long strides, Miss Juanita cantered over to and leapt upon Mr President.
***
A knock sounded on the door of the presidential suite.
Mr President, prone and buck naked on the presidential bed, opened a bleary eye, blinked and stared out into the presidential suite until the presidential duchess and the presidential lamp came into focus. It always took him a moment in the morning to get his bearings, to search for familiarity, and then he would jolt upright and have that ‘Holy shit, I’m the President of the United States’ moment. Such self-recognition registered a little slower this morning, hampered by an aching body and a bursting bladder. Singing came from the presidential en suite, and his eye refocused and saw Miss Juanita wearing a shower cap and rubbing shower gel over her shiny, soapy body and crooning what sounded like a mournful rendition of “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”. Mr President smiled as he recalled making love with Miss Juanita. God, it was the best sex he’d ever had! He was convinced that no other partner could satisfy him how Miss Juanita could. That it was the first time he had sex was beside the point. She’d set the bar high, and no amount or variety of limbo dancing with lesser mortals would do. And it wasn’t lust. No, this was love, and he swore he would do anything to keep Miss Juanita in his life, in his heart and in his bed. As he closed his eye, he caught the glint of the morning sun on an upturned champagne bottle in the presidential ice-bucket.
Morning sun! He jumped from the presidential bed. Hell, what time was it? He looked over at the presidential clock. 10.20! Good God, he’d slept for eight hours. He hadn’t done that since, well, high school.
The knock repeated at the door. Outside, a throat cleared and a female voice said, ‘Mr President?’
Mr President rushed to the en suite and closed the door as Miss Juanita crooned, ‘Goodbye from me, Juan Gentina … <gargle> … our drab ways … <gargle> … our sham subsistence … <gargle> … <gargle> …’
He grabbed his dressing gown, composed himself and called, ‘Enter.’
Georgie Gallop, the power-suited, golden-haired media adviser and personal confidante of Mr President, opened the door, and as she entered, she caught a glimpse of the gape in Mr President’s robe and questioned whether the opinion polls would still agree Mr President was the most powerful man in the world if they saw what she saw.
‘Good morning, Mr President,’ she said. ‘Certainly is a bit chilly this morning, isn’t it?’ She stole another glimpse at his gape. ‘Did you sleep well, Mr President? I trust Miss Juanita was to your liking, Mr President.’
Mr President blushed.
‘Mr President, I pushed back your Cabinet meeting to two-thirty to allow you to ease your way into the day.’
‘Thanks, Georgie.’
‘Is there anything else you would like me to arrange for you this morning, Mr President?’
Mr President cast a nervous glance towards the en suite, where Miss Juanita’s hoof-thumping and water-sloshing accompanied what sounded like a stirring rendition of “Livin’ la Vida Loca”.
‘Actually, Georgie, there are a couple of matters.’
‘Yes, Mr President?’
‘First, could you please run the numbers to see how big a hit my presidential preference rating would take if I announced my engagement.’
‘Certainly, Mr President. And my congratulations, Mr President.’ When Georgie finished tapping on her tablet, she said, ‘And the other matter, Mr President?’
‘Ah, yes. That is a slightly more delicate matter that requires discretion. Could you please arrange for Agent Orange to pay an urgent visit to Uruguay to eliminate a minor impediment I have down there.’
‘Certainly, Mr President.’ Georgie noted the request on the tablet. ‘Is that all, this morning, Mr President?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Enjoy your morning, Mr President. I’ll see you at two, Mr President.’
Georgie excused herself and exited the presidential suite.
Mr President disrobed, entered the en suite and joined Miss Juanita in the shower as she belted out, ‘Once you’ve horsed around with her, you’ll never ride another. Yeah, she’s just one horny lover. Juanita! Making la POTUS loca, oh yeah, making la POTUS loca …’
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