by Doug Walker
“And, Mr. President, doesn’t that come right back to the job creators?”
“If you mean the superrich, Senator, they are sitting on their collective asses in South Florida, Palm Springs, wherever, collecting dividends and interest on their investments, except for a motivated few, doing very little for their country. In fact some reside abroad and a portion of their money is hidden away offshore and in various financial institutions around the globe.”
“I would repeat that those investments are being used to create jobs.”
“Did you know, John Joe, that unemployment among the working and middle classes actually causes deaths?”
“How so? They can apply for your favorite programs – food stamps, welfare. People are dropping dead. But the fact is some folks actually enjoy unemployment.”
“There have been highly professional studies. Mortality rates climbed sharply the years after the 1981-82 recession among workers who lost their jobs. Mortality rates among laid-off workers were much higher than average twenty years later. Also, consider this, jobless workers have no income and aren’t paying taxes.”
John Joe seemed to be enjoying the encounter. “So, what are you doing about it, Mr. President?”
“There’s not much I can do about it with you blocking every initiative I send to the Hill. But long-term unemployment can erode job skills thus making those folks less employable. Also, the public will get the idea that a high unemployment rate is natural. The crisis will no longer seem like a crisis. It will simply be the way things are. Certainly you do care about your country, don’t you?”
“I care very much, Mr. President, and we have certain bills we would like enacted.”
“Of course, tax cuts for the one percent. One would think the Congress and the Federal Reserve would be working full time to end the job crisis. Take Germany, they’ve developed a system of job subsidized sharing which is gradually bringing down long-term unemployment.”
John Joe was on his feet. “Of course subsidized. You think big government can do everything. But I don’t buy your socialist programs.”
“At some point government has to step in to stimulate the economy by whatever tools it can manufacture. You could help.”
“I can help myself back to my office. If you come around to my way of thinking, the only way you’re going to get anything done, you can come to my office for the next chat.” With that he turned and left the room.
I tried, Brooking thought, and then wondered if Tarot was in truth on to something. He buzzed his secretary and inquired, “Penny what time is that Medal of Freedom presentation?”
CHAPTER TEN
Tarot returned from Panama and huddled with the President. He tried to avoid the Oval office, so they chatted while seated on a gym mat in a corner of the exercise room. There was one backboard and basket, a few mechanical exercise machines against a wall. Weights and large inflated balls were scattered on the floor.
Brooking was not only pleased, but also absolutely startled by Tarot’s revelations. He had done a bang-up job, first in New Hampshire, then in Washington and finally in Panama. Stealth had been important, but digging for the facts produced unforeseen results.
The President pondered Tarot’s findings overnight, attempting to avoid a reckless decision. Finally, he returned to the obvious. He must meet again with John Joe, even though the senator had said the President must come to him. That was out of the question.
Midmorning the following day he asked Tina to come to his office and apprised her of a few of the facts Tarot had given him. Then he suggested she invite John Joe to the Oval office. Part of her job was to preside over the Senate, casting a vote only as a tiebreaker. She seldom took the presiding platform, but moved about the Senate side of the Capitol with ease.
Rather than seek John Joe out she contrived to bump into him in the hall and casually mentioned that the President would like him to drop by for a visit. The Senate minority leader actually laughed in her face. “I told your President he would have to come here if he wanted a second meeting. Maybe to do a little pleading.”
“Perhaps that’s true, Senator. But he thinks it wise to meet very privately in his office. It’s free of bugs and prying eyes.”
Joe John retained his jocular demeanor and quipped, “You can tell your President I’m going to get him.”
Tina looked him squarely in the eye and said, “You get him once, he gets you twice,” then added, “there’s something puzzling him about your son.”
Joe John’s eyes flared with anger. “You tell him he can keep my personal life out of this. Dalton’s a good boy and he’s doing well at Dartmouth. He has my brains.”
Tina laughed. “I think that’s what puzzles the President. If he has your brains, he assumes you don’t have any.” Joe John started to glow red with anger, but Tina quickly added. “Just joking. But the boy does favor you. I suggest you accept the White House invitation. If it were known you were invited and declined, what would your colleagues think? You might enjoy throwing your weight around, but you remain the minority leader and you can be replaced.”
John Joe was also puzzled. He didn’t know just what the President was up to, but it didn’t sit well with him. Reluctantly, he agreed to the meeting.
Brooking had spent most of the morning and the bulk of the afternoon screening candidates for a vacancy on the Supreme Court knowing full well that he would have to battle Joe John tooth and nail to get even a halfway decent candidate nominated. The advice-and-consent privilege accorded the Senate had been carried to ridiculous extremes.
Toward evening, Senator Conner’s secretary called to say her boss would be down directly for the requested meeting. Brooking sighed and wondered how long he must wait for the arrogant lawmaker to show up. The call must have been made while the senator was already on his way. He popped into the office five minutes later. Brooking suspected John Joe had hoped the President would be tied up and unable to meet with him, such was the maneuvering of the day.
He was greeted cordially and took a comfortable chair. Brooking had come from behind his desk and took a seat immediately across from him. “You know, John Joe,” the President began, “What’s going on in the Congress has become a type of legalized bribery.” The senator started to respond, but Brooking held up his hand so he could continue. “The big money, the one percent and their army of lobbyists are all over that hallowed body. They reward work they want done with endless campaign funds and other perks, and get revenge on those who turn against them with the harshest negative campaign attacks.”
“So, what else is new?” John Joe asked.
“The life has been choked out of a formerly viable political system. The court’s ruling that corporations are people was a disaster. I need your help in getting the ship of state back on an even keel.”
“Play ball with me and I’ll play ball with you,” the senator replied.
“I’m afraid that’s too one sided for me. I may begin playing hardball with you.”
“You and how many marines?”
“That’s just an expression. I really didn’t mean it. You know, John Joe, your life has been remarkable. A bizarre twist propelled you into public office. Now let me recite what I know. You were born a girl. As a teenager you realized you were a boy in a girl’s body, at least that was your thought.”
“Exactly my thought,” the senator agreed.
The President continued. “You had a close female friend in high school. Your father, a doctor, explored sex change operations at your request. He idolized you.” The senator nodded in agreement.
“So it came to pass that there was a noted clinic in Panama that had great success in sex change operations. You traveled to Panama, had such an operation, and after a period of recuperation married your girlfriend from high school, right?”
“Yes. Marriage as it should be, between a man and a woman. This according to my Christian ideals, by the words set down in the Bible, much approved by Christians everywhere. I had
gone that extra mile and stood up for my beliefs. But that was long ago and the story is well known.”
“Very well known. But one question was not asked. Can a person born female, then changed to a male by surgery, produce sperm and father a child?”
John Joe shrugged. “What if I could or could not produce sperm. The fact is my wife and I, we wanted a child and we got a very fine one. There are sperm donors, a common practice.”
“Yes, there are sperm donors, but your son, Dalton, is in fact your son.”
“Of course he’s my son. My wife and I raised him from birth.” John Joe was showing signs of becoming uneasy.
“What I’m saying, Senator, is you’re not Dalton’s father, you’re his mother. There was never any sex change. You and your wife are a pair of lesbians. No harm in that, as you say, a common practice.”
John Joe rose from his chair and shouted. “How can you make such an accusation?”
“Two major things,” the President said calmly. “First there is no record in Panama of your having a sex change operation. Second DNA proves beyond a doubt you are either Dalton’s mother or father. I pick mother.”
“You have no right to invade my privacy!” John Joe shouted.
“I have a country to run, Senator. You are a small fly in a very large bowl of ointment. You are cock of the walk today on the Senate floor, disdainful, arrogant with your filibusters and your Senate holds on my appointees. Tomorrow you could be hounded and laughed out of this gridlocked city.”
“You intend to expose me then?” John Joe was almost hopping around the office, still highly excited. Brooking wondered if he might throw some relic, or possibly injure himself.
“Of course I don’t want to expose you, or threaten you in any way. I simply called you here to see if we could work together. And to admire that fake comb over you have, which must indicate you’re undergoing male pattern baldness. What a battle you must have had over the years hiding your true sex.”
John Joe sat down, seemingly relieved, and said, “It hasn’t been easy. I’m almost happy you found out. We can share my secret, we can bond, we can do great things together.” The senator seemed on the verge of tears.
The President rose and patted the senator on the shoulder. He guessed what had happened. Two misfit girls in high school, both short and a little dumpy, who found one another. What to do. Surrounded by Christians and right wingers . There was no coming out as lesbians. So they tricked up a devious path. “It’s late. Time for a drink.”
John Joe stretched and yawned. “Make mine a triple.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A peculiar conundrum faced the President two days later. He was invited to a wedding in the small town of Algona, near the family farm. What to do? He knew both sides of the match from high school. It was the second marriage for both.
So should he descend on that small town with a bevy of Secret Service? There was some history there. It seems because of immigration, New York had too many orphans in the late 1800s and shipped 100,000 of them west to make new lives with American families. Algona received almost one hundred, and many spent their lives and founded families in that community.
There was also a prisoner of war camp nearby during WWII with 10,000 German prisoners, many of whom worked on nearby farms. In 2003, thanks to a local DJ, the town boasted the world’s largest cornmeal snack in an effort to promote tourism.
A President attending a local wedding might rival the world’s largest cornmeal snack. This was into the election season, and any trip out of Washington not on government business might be labeled political. Brooking would be seen among the common folk of Iowa, exactly where his roots were the deepest
Vice President Geer had already been criticized for speaking engagements in Florida and Chicago. So, what of it, Brooking finally decided. He would fly to Des Moines, leave by car before dawn for Algona, be there well before the wedding, talk to as many people as he could, most of them at least nodding acquaintances, then depart after the cutting of the cake and the comic photos of the bride and groom stuffing each other’s mouths.
So it was done. Beginning the evening after a workday, back at the White House before nightfall the following day. His office and staff on Air Force One during the flight. No fund-raising dinners, no political speeches. Of course he was criticized anyway, which annoyed him. Thus annoyed, he huddled with Tarot at his next workout.
“Are you aware of that glitzy neighborhood, basically 14th Street between P and U Streets?”
“Mr. President, I try to be aware of everything. I’ve strolled that route. Fashionable lofts, new condo structures with lots of glass, trendy shops, the smart set promenade with dogs or strollers, some high class dolls in skin-tight outfits. I’ve even stopped in for a snack at Masa 14.”
“Masa 14,” the President said in awe. “Tarot, I think we might be paying you too much.”
The ninja grinned. “I have my slush fund. No questions asked.”
“Right. You certainly don’t sound Japanese.”
“I’m not Japanese. I was raised a ninja, but I’ve been in this country a long time. Gaijin blood flows through my veins.” The President recognized the Japanese word for foreigner.
“It’s those high-class dolls with skin-tight attire that have drawn my attention. You know we’re overwhelmed with lobbyists. They vie among themselves. I’ve mentioned before that it’s a case of legalized bribery. But in politics, as in the lobbying profession, one hand washes the other and neither hand gets clean. So how to bring a politico to heel? Some may have resorted to sexual entrapment.”
“Prostitution,” Tarot said. “Of course, what of it? It’s more or less legal in Japan.”
“But not here.”
“I know that.”
“And these Hill people are hard-core Christians. Unless they’re a Muslim or a Hindu. There may be a few oddballs among them. Some of them hop on an intern or a page now and again and get away with it. Some bang their secretary, male or female. But sex for pay is a no-no.”
Tarot had listened intently. Now he questioned. “Do you have a plan?”
“You know I think the FBI or the CIA may monitor that sort of thing, they have the resources, but they play it close to the vest for their own purposes.”
“I understand. They could be dropping not-so-subtle hints to certain key members to talk up their budgets or programs. Where does that leave us?”
“At first it would seem way out in left field. But to go to the heart of the matter, these hookers may be organized to one extent or another. That would mean a madam or a tour guide, whatever you might want to call him or her. They might have names, phone numbers, dates, clients and johns.”
“Probably deeply buried in a computer.” Tarot conjectured.
“Just your meat,” the President said, then added, “I think I’ll hit the steam room, then the sauna.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
President Brooking paid a surprise visit to the pressroom hoping to discuss the plight of New England fishermen. There had been complaints that trawlers dragging nets across the ocean floor were over-fishing and could possibly wipe out whole species. Atlantic cod was the example given.
But octopus, tautog, halibut, sturgeon, turbot and some species of tuna, swordfish and rockfish had also been cited, not all from New England waters. He explained that several agencies of the government were examining the issue.
Because no news people from that area happened to be in the pressroom, there was little interest in the subject. But the President was peppered with shouted questions on other topics. He managed to quiet the ravenous crowd by announcing that he was thinking of acquiring a cat.
“A cat!” the Cox newspaper reporter shouted. “What’s a cat got to do with running the government?”
“Cats are calm and deliberate,” the President responded. “The Congress might use some of that.”
“They are so deliberate that nothing gets done,” another said. “Maybe a cat should replace
the American Eagle as the symbol of government.”
“Get real,” the Cox reporter said.
However, most of the newshounds were excited. They were on to something. A presidential cat. What a break for a dull news cycle.
“What kind of cat?” The LA Times asked.
“When I was a boy down on the farm in Iowa we always had cats and dogs. Feral animals mostly. They wandered in. Or maybe the town folks were tired of them and dropped them off in the country. You know, a cat has a litter and what to do with the kittens.”
“They were Lord knows cats,” a woman columnist suggested.
“I’m sure that’s right. We used to say fifty seven varieties. Maybe that’s gone out of vogue.”
“But your cat, the White House cat, what kind do you have your eye on?”
“I don’t know. I thought you, the cream of the press gathered here, might be of some service.”
“It shouldn’t be a purebred.” The woman columnist said.
“Long hair or short hair?” The St. Louis Post questioned.
Brooking shrugged. “I might be slightly allergic to cats. On the farm most of them were kept outside. There were outbuildings where they could hole up. We did need the occasional mouser inside. You know winter brings the mice inside for the warmth.”
“Then despite your possible allergy, you have your heart set on an ordinary cat,” the LA Times said.
“But a healthy, clear-eyed cat,” The Washington Post tossed in.
“Definitely healthy,” the President agreed.
“Do you have anything against a sick cat, a rescue cat?” the woman columnist inquired.
The President could sense trouble brewing. “You haven’t been a great help. Now some of you don’t think this is worthy to be called news. But some of you do. So if you report that I’m seeking a regular cat for the White House, maybe the public will come to my rescue.”
“Do you have any idea how many breeds of cat exist?” the woman columnist asked.
“No. Thanks for your time.” Brooking retreated to the privacy of his office, totally unaware of the hornet’s nest he had stirred up. In the ensuing days the White House was buried under an avalanche of mail, e-mail and visitors attempting to talk their way in.