The First Councel

“Kiss my ass, homegrown.”

“Not on the very best day of your life,” she says as I head for the door.

I pull open the heavy oak door of our office and step into the anteroom that leads to three other offices. Three doors: one on the right, one in the middle, one on the left. I’ve nicknamed it the Lady or the Tiger Room, but no one ever gets the reference. Barely big enough to hold the small desk, copier, and coffee machine we’ve stuffed into it, the anteroom is still good for a final moment of decompression.

“Okay, fine,” Pam says, moving toward the door on the right. “If it makes you feel any better, you can put me down for two boxes of the thin mints.”

I have to admit the last one’s funny, but there’s no way I’m giving her the satisfaction. Without turning around, I storm into the room on the left. As I slam the door behind me, I hear Pam call out, “Send her my love.”

By OEOB standards, my office is a good one. It’s not huge, but it does have two windows. And one of the building’s hundreds of fireplaces. Naturally, the fireplaces don’t work, but that doesn’t mean having one isn’t a notch on the brag belt. Aside from that, it’s typical White House: old desk that you hope once belonged to someone famous, desk lamp that was bought during the Bush administration, chair that was bought during the Clinton administration, and a vinyl sofa that looks like it was bought during the Truman administration. The rest of the office makes it mine: flameproof file cabinets and an industrial safe, courtesy of the Counsel’s Office; over the fireplace, a court artist’s rendition of me sitting in the moot court finals, courtesy of Michigan Law School; and on the wall above my desk, the White House standard, courtesy of my ego: a signed picture of me and President Hartson after one of his radio addresses, thanking me for my service.

Throwing my briefcase on the sofa, I head for my desk. A digital screen attached to my phone says that I have twenty-two new calls. As I scroll through the call log, I can see the names and phone numbers of all the people who called. Nothing that can’t wait. Anxious to get back to Nora, I take a quick glance at the toaster, a small electronic device that bears an uncanny resemblance to its namesake and was left here by the office’s previous occupant. A small screen displays the following in digital green letters:

POTUS: OVAL OFFICE

FLOTUS: OEOB

VPOTUS: WEST WING

NORA: SECOND FLOOR RESIDENCE

CHRISTOPHER: MILTON ACADEMY

There they are-The Big Five. The President, the VP, and the First Family. The principals. Like Big Brother, I instinctively check all of their locations. Updated by the Secret Service as each principal moves, the toaster is there in case of emergency. I’ve never once heard of anyone using it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not everyone’s favorite toy. The thing is, I’m not concerned with the President of the United States, or the First Lady, or the VP. What I’m really looking at is Nora. I pick up the phone and dial her number.

She answers on the first ring. “Sleep okay last night?”

Clearly, she’s got the same caller ID we do. “Somewhat. Why?”

“No reason-I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Again, I’m really sorry I put you in that position.”

Sad as it is to admit, I love hearing the concern in her voice. “I appreciate the thought.” Turning toward the toaster, I add, “Where am I calling you anyway?”

“You tell me-you’re the one staring at the toaster.”

I smile to myself. “No, I’m not.”

“I told you last night-you’re a bad liar, Michael.”

“Is that why you were so intent on washing my mouth out?”

“If you’re talking about my tongue down your throat, that was just to give you something exciting to think about.”

“And that’s your idea of excitement?”

“No, excitement would be if that little contraption you’re staring at showed you exactly what I’m doing with my hands.”

The woman’s ruthless. “So this thing really works?”

“Don’t know. They only give them to staff.”

“So that’s it, huh? Now I’m just staff?”

“You know what I mean. I usually… the way it works… I’ve never had the chance to watch myself,” she stutters.

I can’t believe it-she’s actually embarrassed. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m only joking.”

“No, I know… I just… I don’t want you to think I’m some spoiled snob.”

I pause, lost in the almost scientific curiosity of what she finds important. “Well get it out of your head,” I eventually say. “If I thought you were a snob, I wouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place.”

“That’s not true,” she teases. She’s right. But the playfulness in her tone tells me she admires the attempt. Being Nora, her recovery’s immediate. “So where does it say I am?” she adds, turning my attention back to the toaster.

“Second Floor Residence.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“I have no idea-I’ve never been up there.”

“You’ve never been up here? You should come.”

“Then you should invite me.” I’m proud of myself for that one. The invitation should be just around the corner.

“We’ll see,” she says.