THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES and the director of Central Intelligence were sitting on the floor of the White House residence living room, eating pizza, drinking beer and watching The West Wing. A commercial break arrived.
“You know,” Will said, “Jed Bartlet has an easier time being president than I do.”
“What? With his getting shot in an assassination attempt and his daughter getting drugged by her boyfriend and kidnapped and having to let John Goodman be president and throw him out of the Oval Office? You think that’s easier?”
“Well, not that stuff, maybe, but he seems to have an easier time being right than I do. And Leo, his chief of staff, seems to do all the hard work, too. My chief of staff doesn’t do all the hard work.”
“You don’t have the slightest idea what she does when she’s out of your sight,” she said. “She probably works three times as hard as you do.”
“Are you questioning my work ethic?” Will asked. “You wound me.”
“Oh, horseshit! Sure, you work hard, well, pretty hard anyway. And anyway, there are compensations when you’re president.”
“What compensations?” Will demanded. “I don’t see any compensations. I mean, you could say I get driven everywhere, but I’d really rather drive myself, but the Secret Service won’t let me, except on the farm, and even then they get all nervous.”
“Poor baby,” she cooed, patting his knee.
“And why can’t I ever get a pizza through security while it’s still hot? I hate cold pizza, except at breakfast, and why won’t Domino’s leave the green peppers off the Extravaganza special, like I ask them to?”
“Well, maybe if they knew the Extravaganza was for the president instead of the guard at the main gate, they’d pay more attention.”
“I thought of that, but the Secret Service won’t let me tell them it’s for me; I guess they’re afraid there’s somebody at Domino’s who would poison me if they knew. And why can’t I own a Porsche instead of a Suburban? I always wanted a Porsche.”
“Then why didn’t you have one before you were president? I like Porsches.”
“Because I was a senator, and I had to drive a Suburban, because it was built in Georgia—at least, I think it was. And even if it wasn’t, I couldn’t be seen driving a foreign car. Can you imagine what the Republicans could make of that? ‘A white wine–drinking, quiche-eating, West Wing–watching, Porsche-driving president?’ They’d go nuts.”
“I think the American people might like a pizza-eating, beer-drinking, Porsche-driving president,” she said, handing him another beer. “Wouldn’t the NASCAR dads like that, if they knew?”
“A Heineken-drinking president who wouldn’t eat good American green peppers on his pizza? I doubt it. They’d barbecue me at a tailgate party, or something.”
“Poor baby,” she said, patting his knee again.
“And another thing: why can’t I just let Teddy Fay run amok? He’s doing a better job of killing America’s enemies than a certain intelligence agency I could name. Why do I have to sic the law on him?”
“Tell you what,” she said. “You give me a written authorization to kill America’s enemies, regardless of their diplomatic status or location, and I’ll run amok for you. I’d like nothing better than machine-gunning fake diplomats in sidewalk cafes in Paris or planting bombs in the cars of the terrorists’ Swiss bankers.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Will laughed. “You’d be out there shooting them yourself, wouldn’t you?”
“Damn straight, I would!”
“Would you settle for heating up this pizza? It’s getting pretty clammy.”
Kate got to her feet and grabbed the box. “Oh, all right. I guess heating pizza will have to do,” she said as she disappeared into the kitchen.
The commercials ended, and Will went back to watching The West Wing. He resolved to try to be more like Jed Bartlet.