©2019 C. Henry Martens
Courtesy of Independentman
I'm not really sure how it started. But I'm sure it was over one too many drinks. I'd ranted to my friends often enough about social ills, economics, and what “shoulda been done,” and finally one of them, Billy “The Chadster” Foster, challenged me to put up or shut up. And one thing led to another, and somehow people were inspired by a guy that didn't care whether they voted for him or not. I mean, enough people were fed up that they were willing to listen to unvarnished truth... or at least the fantasies I conjured in my head as I looked out over the world and judged it.
Being elected was a million to one shot... hell, a billion to one shot... but somehow Thomas P. Lowry managed to be the choice of the electorate for the office of the Presidency of the United States of America. The first and only truly independent never-a-politician in the history of a great and fading nation.
I was destined to be the worst President in the history of Presidents, or an accidental... naw, that was wishful thinking.
But I got my revenge on Billy Foster. I made him promise early on that he would be my Chief of Staff if I won, and with all of his faults, The Chadster had always kept his promises.
 
We walked into the Oval Office together. Billy in jeans that had seen better days, and me in my favorite sandals. We didn't plan on putting on airs.
Kyle Dillon met us, he being the outgoing Chief of Staff. He was dressed in a dark suit, blue shirt, and broad tie, and probably the shiniest shoes I'd ever seen.
He pushed the box he was filling with knickknacks to the side of the Presidential desk and then placed it on the top of two other boxes stacked on a hand truck.
His eyes scoped me out, top to bottom, and if I didn't play poker I might have missed the micro-sneer that passed through his eyes as they met mine.
He covered it well, though, extending a surprisingly beefy hand and exuding what appeared to be genuine warmth as he proclaimed, “Jerry,” the former President, “left yesterday. He didn't have the stomach for watching you sit behind his desk.” There it was again, that flash of disdain masked by false cheerfulness.
“Prick never did have much for balls,” Billy said in a low voice as though what he said was only for my ears.
Both Dillon and I knew the ejaculation was meant to be heard by both of us, but he was beyond taking the bait from someone so far beneath him.
We had all met several times already, including the former President, making a show of a calm and orderly transfer of power. The truth was it was anything but. The status quo power structure had done everything it could, under the table, to delegitimize my win. Somehow the smart people in my campaign organization and the voters had foiled their attempts. That's what you get when the voters get angry enough. So now it was time for Kyle to leave, and I actually felt some sympathy for him. But not much.
“One last thing to do, Tom,” Dillon had steadfastly refused to call me by my title as proper protocol demanded. I didn't really care. We were going to shake up some of the ingrained procedures anyway. Might as well start with the respect I never felt I'd earned.
“What's that,” I asked, “a tour of the dish room?”
Dillon laughed. A surprisingly lighthearted exclamation that immediately made me wonder if I had hit some kind of hidden truth, which led me to wonder if there was a reason this staid and shackled-to-the-status-quo man suddenly felt like a weight was being lifted from him.
I supposed that was possible. I mean after all, he was leaving the big responsibilities behind.
The Chadster (a nickname inspired by Billy's ability to suck young women into his thrall) spoke up, not making eye contact but appearing to be intent on inspecting the Oval Office walls and construction.
“He probably wants us to carry his bags to his car.”
Again Dillon chuckled as though understanding an inside joke. As a guy that plays poker well enough that I usually go home with more money than I came with, his demeanor made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The former Chief of Staff shook his head and made a motion to invite us to the bookcase built into the wall to his right.
The curve of the office gave the walls empty spaces behind them, I supposed. A good place to build in a book case. Otherwise the empty space would be wasted. I looked around and noticed a door at the opposite side of the room, one of the empty spaces that had been converted into an adjoining bathroom when the White House was plumbed for modern conveniences.
But what the bookcase held I could not fathom.
Kyle reached up to take a book from the head high shelf and after removing it he reached into the space created as though pushing against the inside of the case.
Silently, the case swung out over the plush carpet.
I couldn't help noticing Kyle Dillon's eyes. He was enjoying this... but there was an odd sadness behind his eyes, too.
“There are only three people in the country that know about this room,” Dillon said ominously. “You two... and me.”
I had to ask as it occurred to me immediately, “What about Jerry?”
The exiting Chief of Staff looked me in the eye...


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