The White House
Two years before the day of
President Sheppard stared through the windows behind his desk in the Oval Office, lost in thought.
“Ready, sir?” Press Secretary Preston asked.
President Sheppard turned and nodded. Then he, Vice President Phillips, and the chief of staff followed the press secretary out the rear door of the Oval Office, turned left, and walked along the West Colonnade to the entrance to the White House Rose Garden.
Despite scant advance notice, the chairs on the lawn’s briefing area were packed with cellphone-wielding reporters, and in the back and along each side, cameramen. There was literally standing room only.
The press secretary walked through the double doors first, took two steps, stopped, and stood at semiattention, then announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
The crowd rose as the press secretary moved to the left, the vice president to the right. The president stepped to the lectern in the center, empty-handed, his face uncharacteristically grim. “Please, take your seats,” he said brusquely.
As the press members took their seats, President Sheppard grasped the lectern with both hands. He took a deep, audible breath and looked slowly from his left to his right at those sitting in the front row. “My fellow Americans, I know today’s press conference comes without a lot of notice and even less fanfare. That was my intent, the reasons for which you will learn in the next few minutes.
“The information I must share with you today came the same way to me, as a total and complete surprise. Only my wife and five other people are aware of what I’m going to announce. Not my chief of staff, not Vice President Phillips, and not the news agencies that are broadcasting this conference.
“You, the American people, the people who put me in office, deserve to be the first to know. And you deserve to hear it straight from the source. Unfiltered, without political commentary, and without pulling any punches.”
Silence. Almost as one, the crowd stopped taking notes and focused on the POTUS.
“Actually, I have two announcements. I’ve been struggling over when and how to make the second ever since I learned of the first. I made the decision to announce both literally the second I stepped in front of the camera and looked, figuratively speaking, at three hundred million American citizens.”
The president straightened his stance, tightened his grip on the lectern, and gazed across the crowd of anxious reporters. “First, and perhaps the least important of the two. Last week, I learned that I have stage-four pancreatic cancer.”
The room erupted into a cacophony of shocked murmurs and clicking cellphone cameras. Anticipating this reaction, the POTUS paused for a few seconds. Then he raised his hands in a nonverbal request for silence.
“This is a particularly virulent strain of cancer. Mine is totally incurable. In fact, it has advanced to the point that it is untreatable. I have, at best, only a few weeks to live.”
Stunned silence, stifled gasps, and welling eyes swept across the press corps and most of the administrative staff.
The vice president showed no emotion.
“On July 4, 1939, Lou Gehrig, perhaps the greatest first baseman to have ever played the game, addressed a sold-out crowd in Yankee Stadium. There is no way I can better convey what I feel than by quoting the Iron Horse.
“Lou had been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, ALS, or, as it came to be known, Lou Gehrig’s disease, a horribly destructive, incurable disorder that is always fatal. His condition had been front-page news. On that day, standing behind a microphone that had been set up near the pitcher’s mound, Lou, ever a pillar of strength and courage, addressed the crowd with these words: ‘Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth.’ He went on to heap praise on his parents, his teammates, his wife, and even his bitter rivals, the New York Giants. Then he ended his illustrious career and brought tears to the eyes of everyone in the stadium when he stated, ‘So I close in saying that I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for.’
“That about sums up my first and, as I said, the least important announcement. I’m dying. We’re all going to die. But I’m here to tell you that, like Lou Gehrig, I’ll be going out as the luckiest man on earth. So today I’m announcing my resignation as the president of the United States of America. My term of office will officially end at midnight tomorrow.”
There was complete silence, but only for a heartbeat. Then pandemonium broke loose. Hands shot into the air, and an unorchestrated chorus of questions erupted.
Again, the president raised his hands, asking for silence. “As I said, ladies and gentlemen, I have a second announcement to make, and in my opinion, it is the most important of the two. I would ask that you hold your questions until the end. I don’t want to bog us down in a Q and A just yet.
“As most of you know, last Thursday I received a letter of resignation from our secretary of state, David Stakley. David and I have been close friends for several years. He has done an absolutely remarkable job as secretary of state, and I’ve grown to respect and admire him in that role. His resignation took this nation’s political leadership totally by surprise and will leave a gaping hole in the State Department and our diplomatic mission.
“What you don’t know is that David’s letter also stated his intention to run for this office in the next general election.”
Once again, an audible gasp swept over the Rose Garden. The packed crowd of reporters stood up almost in unison. Hands shot into the air, signaling a tsunami of questions.
But the POTUS continued: “There is some logic behind my decision to combine these two announcements. Part of it is to downplay the significance of my own resignation. Mostly, however, it is to publically announce my unequivocal support for David Stakley as your next president of the United States of America.”