President Jock dismissed the aides with a flip of the wrist.
The meeting had not gone well. The latest polls indicated that the president would be in a dead heat for reelection against an unnamed candidate if the vote were held today. The people believed that almost anyone would at least be just as good as the leader they had.
If campaigns really were all about the economy, stupid, the numbers made no sense. All the indicators that were supposed to be up were up: GDP, productivity, corporate profits, stock markets, wages, retail sales, exports. The numbers that were supposed to be down were down: Inflation, unemployment, interest rates, imports.
The White House circle of top advisers had no answers.
"We've been here two and a half years -- thirty months of economic progress, peace and prosperity. Not a single member of our military has even been wounded in combat. Hell, they haven't even had to raise a weapon in anger. What the fuck is going on, people?"
The head of the economic council suggested, "People base the health of the economy on their own household situation."
"But according to the numbers you've given me, the average household should be doing quite nicely, thank you very much," the president said.
"Well, some of the opposition keeps harping on the trope that you're soft of China," the national security chief offered.
"Well, fuck that. Let's gas up the Enola Gay and go bomb fucking Beijing into oblivion," the commander in chief yelled. "Then we'll confiscate all the Chinese-made things Americans have bought because stuff made in America costs too much because we pay some of our people an actual fucking living wage."
The chief domestic adviser posited that the opposition movement had convinced half the population that the president was un-American, a socialist, an enemy of religion and traditional family values, whatever the hell they were.
The chief executive scoffed. "I've said I want people to live their own lives, make their own decisions. You want an abortion, get an abortion. You don't believe in abortion, don't get an abortion. You don't like an author, a speaker invited to your campus, don't read the book, don't attend the speech. When those precious, delicate Berkley students didn't want Ann Coulter to speak at their pristine college, none other than Bernie Sanders said, 'What are they afraid of, her ideas?'
"Jesus Christ. I mean, you want to be a Jew, a Christian, a Muslim? Be a Christian, a Muslim or a Jew. Just don't try to impose your will, your religion, your way of life on others. The Constitution is supposed to provide protection not just of religion but also from religion. But too many people pledge allegiance to those who spout racism, anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, homophobia. Anyone who's different from them, who doesn't share their views isn't just wrong, they're evil.
"Well, live and let live, folks. It's the fucking American way."
The president took a deep breath, stood up from behind the Resolute Desk. "Give me something I can work with. When we got here, even the fucking Wall Street Journal said I'd amassed a formidable brain trust. So, people, go forth and be formidable."
That's when she flipped the wrist to dismiss them.
Sure, Christina Marie Matthews Jock had been elected by the slimmest of margins, both in the popular vote and the anachronistic, undemocratic Electoral College. But all you need to win is fifty percent plus one. Or less than that in a three-way race, like old Abe Lincoln himself. She had promised just what she'd delivered: A steady hand on the helm. Civil approach to friend and foe. A keen negotiator who knew when to stand pat, when to call, when to fold.
"I should be beloved," she murmured. She fell back into the executive chair, spun around and gazed out the Oval Office windows. She felt like heaving the "Broncho Buster," which had been returned to the Oval during Joe Biden's second term, out those windows.
On his way out after the president's dismissal, Chief of Staff Reggie Bennett stopped at the desk of the president's executive secretary, Brenda Fitch. "Get Mick in there. Now. She's on a tear. She needs to calm down."
Brenda picked up the phone and called the president's personal assistant, Mick Hannon. Mick was never far away from his boss. He had his own room upstairs in the residence. He went where she went. She confided in him, trusted him almost as much as she did her husband, first gentleman Jerry "Strap" Jock.
Strap, though, was ... where? Somewhere back in their native Midwest, she thought. Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City? Business of some sort. He never burdened his wife with details of his life. When they were together, it was all about her. Always had been, through her rise in the political ranks -- city council, state senate, governor's office, U.S. Senate, Oval Office.
But he wasn't at the White House or even near the District now. So, they summoned Mick.
She knew it had to be him approaching her from behind as she stared out the windows. No one else would dare enter the Oval without so much as knocking. He stood behind her, gently massaging her tight shoulders. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She sighed.
"You know you let it get to you too much," he said.
"Yes. You've told me that many, many times. But I care, Mick, I really fucking care. And I don't get it. How could I be tied with a fucking player to be named later?"
"I don't know, Tina. People are fickle? They expect too much? Demand too much? I can't make sense of it either. They should be bowing down and kissing your feet."
"They can kiss my ass," Christina said.
"No, they can't." He leaned forward and eased his hands down to her breasts. "That's my job."
The president pressed her head back against her personal assistant. Strap best knew how to make her body thrill all over. Mick knew best how to comfort and console her. And remind her that she was a woman with needs.
"You really shouldn't be feeling up the president of the United States in the Oval Office," Christina said, contradicting herself by placing her hands on top of his to hold them in place on her bosom.
"I don't have a choice," Mick said. "The Oval Office is where the president is right now, and the president desperately needs some personal assistance."
He tenderly pushed her upper body forward so that he could draw down the zipper on her dress. He pulled it off her shoulders and down to her waist. She stayed in place, raising no objection, no presidential veto as he unhooked her bra and tossed it aside.
Christina's nipples were hard, aching for him to return his hands to them. He grazed his palms over them, lightly bounced her breasts. He kissed her on the top of her head again.
