The White House Mess by Christopher Buckley

Author:Christopher Buckley [Buckley, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

PEACE BREAKS OUT

Resolve to concentrate on Metrification Initiative.

—Journal, Nov. 7, 1991

Major Arnold dressed my wounds, the javelin puncture being the most serious. Mrs. Metz retrieved my glasses from the residence, and I called Joan and told her I would be home early. I didn't go into details, but Joan knows me better than anyone. She said she'd make meatloaf that night, which was her way of saying, It doesn't matter. What a woman!

Feeley called, very worried. The First Lady had arrived in New York—on the Eastern Shuttle—and the press was demanding to know why they hadn't been advised, why she was there, etc., etc. "Buying shoes, getting a divorce," I said without interest. "Who knows?"

He arrived in my office in less than two minutes, panting and out of breath. I told him he really ought to cut down on his smoking. "Fuck that," he said. "What's going on?"

I explained.

"You can't resign," he said. "Not now."

I told him it wasn't a question of resigning.

"I'll fix it," he said.

I think I told him that I wasn't really sure I wanted my job, or any White House job, back. He told me I was being hysterical, and to leave everything in his hands.

That night on the news the First Lady's "surprise arrival" in New York was played prominently. She was holed up at the Sherry Netherland hotel on Fifth Avenue. Feeley was shown at a press briefing saying it was just some early Christmas shopping. The Greater D.C. Merchants Association spokesman was shown saying it was an insult to all the fine stores in Washington. The whole thing was a sorry spectacle. I was surprised that news of my "resignation" wasn't included—I'd have thought Lleland would have had it announced even before my wounds were seen to; no matter. But, for the first time since arriving at the White House, I felt comfortably numb, beyond the care of such concerns and intrigues.

The next morning I asked Mrs. Metz to help me put things in boxes. As we worked, the phone rang without stopping: press queries about the First Lady. Mrs. Metz held them off with exemplary Teutonic firmness. Throughout my ordeal she maintained the most correct bearing. Another woman might have given in to emotions, but not Mrs. Metz. I came to regard the German character very highly on account of her. (Of course she was a naturalized U.S. citizen. It was not our practice to employ foreign nationals.)

Lleland called. "Sorry to hear you're leaving," he said. "You'll be missed. But we can use the parking space."

The conqueror's smirk, the knife twisted in the wound. My West Exec parking space … they had tried to take it from me when I moved over to the East Wing. I'd fought them like a beast uncaged, and won. Who would get it now? Phetlock? Withers? I closed my eyes—it was too painful to consider. I'd become accustomed to the space.

If Lleland wasn't magnanimous in victory, I decided I would be in defeat. I told him

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