by Dan Gutman
At precisely noon, the chief justice of the Supreme Court leaned into his microphone and asked, “Mr. Moon, are you prepared to take the oath of office as president of the United States?”
“I am, sir.”
The chief justice held up a Bible, the same one George Washington had used when he was sworn in as our country’s first president back in 1789. Shivers went up and down my spine as I raised my right hand and repeated those thirty-seven words that change history:
“I, Judson Moon, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
I wasn’t old enough to vote. I couldn’t legally drive a car. I couldn’t take a sip of my dad’s beer. But I was president of the United States. I felt like I had to be in the middle of a dream. It couldn’t really be happening. Only in America!
A twenty-one-gun salute echoed off the buildings and a cheer went up from the crowd. Balloons rose into the air. Doves were released. The Marine Band played “Hail to the Chief.”
The former president, who was now just an ordinary citizen, shook my hand. “Good luck, President Moon,” he said solemnly as he handed me a large brown briefcase. “This is for you. Take good care of it, young man.”
Nobody had told me the president was going to give me a gift. Considering that I had beaten him in the election, it was very gracious of him. I didn’t really like the color of the briefcase, but my mother always told me that when someone gave me a gift I should pretend I loved it, whether I really liked it or not.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” I said. “I can hardly wait to use it.”
The president looked horrified. The chief justice leaned over and whispered into my ear.
“That briefcase,” he said, “contains the instructions for launching nuclear missiles in case there is an attack on the United States. Keep it by your side always.”
Oops! One minute into my presidency and I had already goofed! I leaned back to the former president and told him that I hoped I would never have to use his “gift.”
When the crowd settled down and everyone in the stands took their seats, I stepped up to the microphone. Lane had worked hard on my Inaugural Address.
“My fellow Americans,” I said, hearing the words echo a second after I spoke them. “When I was running for president, I said you should vote for me because I didn’t know anything about politics. I didn’t know how to raise taxes. I didn’t know how to ruin the economy. I didn’t know how to get us into a war. I said you should vote for me because I didn’t know anything.”
The crowd chuckled in appreciation.
“Well, that was two months ago, and I’m very proud to say that … (Lane told me to pause here) I still don’t know anything!”
The crowd roared in approval.
“Let’s face it,” I continued, “I’m a kid. I’m going to need a lot of help from all of you. Kids and grown-ups. Men and women. Rich and poor. People of all races. Will you help me?”
“YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!” the crowd thundered.
“My fellow Americans. President Theodore Roosevelt gave the country what he called a Square Deal. President Franklin D. Roosevelt gave the country a New Deal. President Truman gave us a Fair Deal. Today I say this to America — Let’s make a deal.”
Everybody went nuts.
“Here’s the deal I offer America — I’ll help you all if you all help me. I’m not a Republican, so you Democrats have no reason to oppose me. I’m not a Democrat, so you Republicans have no reason to oppose me. But if we all work together, we can guide our nation together.”
There was too much applause to continue, so I let it die down until everybody could hear me.
“Together, we can clean up the environment,” I announced. “Together, we can educate children and take care of our senior citizens. Together, we can put an end to crime, an end to poverty, an end to unemployment, an end to substance abuse, an end to peace in the world.”
There was a gasp. I looked at my speech and saw that I had skipped a line.
“I mean, we’re going to have peace in the world.”
A thunderous ovation rolled across the Mall.
“The twentieth century is over, the twenty-first is well under way. We’ve got a lot of work to do. So, America, I ask you, ARE YOU READY TO RUMMMMMBLE?”
“YEAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
“Let’s get it on,” I concluded.
They didn’t stop applauding for twenty minutes.
Somebody ushered me into a ridiculously long limousine for the parade down Pennsylvania Avenue, which leads directly from the Capitol to the White House. My mom and dad were already inside the car.
“Great speech, sweetie!” Mom said, giving me a hug.
“Except for that part about ending world peace,” grumbled Dad.
I looked through the window as the limo pulled away. There were people everywhere. Military men in uniform saluted as I passed by. Kids had climbed trees along the route to get a look at me. I waved, and so did Mom and Dad. Their pictures had been all over the media, so just about everybody recognized them.
At 14th Street, a few blocks from the White House, I could hear people chanting, “Walk! Walk! Walk!”
Lane had told me that in recent years the new president usually got out of the limousine at some point and walked part of the way along the parade route.
I was prepared. I leaned down and picked up my skateboard.
“You’re not really going to do this, are you?” my dad asked.
“I sure am, Dad.”
“It’s not dignified for the president of the United States to skateboard down the street,” Dad complained. “I forbid you to do it.”
“Who’s the president, Dad?” I asked as I opened the door. “You or me?”
Dad looked stunned. I had never spoken to him like that. But this was my day, and I wasn’t going to let my parents ruin it.
The crowd roared when I hopped out of the limo and glided onto the pavement. Five or six Secret Service agents, who were in the car behind mine, quickly jumped out and jogged after me nervously.
The cool breeze felt great. I waved to everybody. I couldn’t resist hamming it up a bit. I grabbed the back bumper of the limo and let it pull me down the street. I did a kick-flip and waved to the people behind me. I skated over to the line of people at the curb and put out my hand for them to slap. Then I circled back and did the same thing with the people on the other side of the street. I was having a ball.
Soon, the White House came into view. I had seen pictures of the building, but I’d never been there. Up close, it was even bigger and more beautiful than I had imagined.
A bunch of soldiers with rifles saluted me and I saluted them back. The president, Lane had reminded me, is the commander in chief of the Armed Forces. The soldiers led me up the East Gate steps. The huge front door opened. A very distinguished-looking elderly gentleman with perfectly combed white hair and a dark suit stood at attention.
“President Moon,” he said with a bow, “welcome to your new home.”
The sweet old man who greeted me at the door of the White House introduced himself as Roger Honeywell. He said he was the chief usher of the White House. When I asked him what that meant, he said he did “a little bit of this and a little bit of that” to keep the household running.
Essentially, he told me, he was the president’s butler and servant. That sounded pretty cool to me. I always thought it would be great to have a servant.
Honeywell had been working at the White House for many years, he told me. He was about as old as vice president Syers and maybe even older. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he greeted George Washington after his inauguration.
“My only purpose, Mr. President, is to make you, your family, and your guests happy.”
“You need to get a life,” I told Honeywell.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” he asked. “
My hearing isn’t what it once was.”
“He said you need to get a wife.”
The voice came from Vice President Syers, who had wheeled herself up the ramp ahead of my parents. Mrs. Syers would be living in the vice president’s mansion a few miles away in northwest Washington, but she wanted to tour the White House as much as any of us. “Perhaps I will get married someday,” Honeywell sighed, “if the right woman ever comes along.”
“She better hurry up,” I said.
“I beg your pardon, President Moon?”
“He said we better hurry up,” corrected Vice President Syers, shooting me a stern look I hadn’t seen since she was my babysitter so long ago.
My parents arrived and then Chelsea Daniels and her parents finally made their way up the front steps. Chelsea had stopped to pose for some photographers outside the East Gate.
“Nice place,” my dad muttered. That was high praise, coming from my dad. He doesn’t usually approve of anything.
“It’s lovely,” Mom gushed. Mom thinks everything is lovely.
“If everyone is here, we’d better get going,” Honeywell announced. “The White House has a hundred and thirty-two rooms and you’ll want to see them all.”
Honeywell grabbed Vice President Syers’s wheelchair and began to push it. He led us through the first floor, which he called the State Floor. This is where the president entertains guests. It’s the only part of the building tourists are allowed to visit.
“George Washington was the only president who didn’t live in the White House,” Honeywell informed us as he led us into the Blue Room. “It was being built when he was president.”
The Blue Room was oval and decorated with long blue drapes. “The president greets guests here,” Honeywell said. “The seven gilded Bellangé chairs were ordered from France by Monroe.”
“Marilyn Monroe?” I marveled.
“James Monroe, sir,” Honeywell replied dryly. “Our fifth president. Though I understand Miss Monroe did visit the White House on several occasions.”
“The chairs are lovely,” my mom said.
“I might have them reupholstered,” Chelsea mused.
Honeywell led us into the Red Room next. “This is a sitting room,” he said. “That’s silk imported from the far east. Harrison put it in.”
“George Harrison?” I asked. “The Beatle?”
“William Henry Harrison, sir,” Honeywell corrected. “Our ninth president. But George Harrison also visited the White House, when President Ford lived here.”
The Green Room was next, decorated with green silk on the walls. Honeywell said that Garfield put it in.
“Garfield the cat?” I asked.
“James Garfield, sir,” he replied. “Our twentieth president.”
“Just busting your chops,” I whispered to Honeywell.
In all these rooms, portraits of past presidents covered the walls. I recognized a lot of them from school. Some of them weren’t familiar.
“Who’s that, Honeywell?” I asked.
“Rutherford B. Hayes,” he replied. “He was the first president to speak on the telephone.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“What?” replied Honeywell.
“What were his first words on the phone, Honeywell?”
“What. He said what, sir.”
“On the phone,” I demanded. “What were his first words?”
“What, President Moon.”
“Forget it,” I said. “That was the second thing he said,” Honeywell informed us. Then he leaned over to me and whispered, “Just busting your chops, Mr. President.”
An eighty-year-old guy who still busts chops is okay by me, I decided.
There were two enormous rooms on the State Floor — the East Room and the State Dining Room. Both had floor-to-ceiling windows, fireplaces in all the corners, and enormous chandeliers. Honeywell told us the two rooms were used for receptions, balls, and press conferences. I couldn’t help but notice that either room would be just the right size for a halfpipe.
“I can throw the most divine parties here!” Chelsea gushed.
As we walked around, I noticed that there were clusters of people standing around, bowing and smiling politely.
“Are these people always here?” I asked Honeywell.
“The White House has almost a hundred employees,” he informed me. “Ushers, maids, butlers, cooks, waiters, window washers. Every piece of furniture gets polished daily.”
“What do you do?” I asked a guy in a military uniform who was holding an American flag.
“I carry a flag around and put it behind you, Mr. President.”
“What for?”
“So every photo of you has a flag in it, sir.”
“What’s your job?” I asked a lady.
“I clean the toilets, Mr. President,” she replied. “There are thirty-two of them in the White House.”
“And they say the president’s job is tough!” I cracked. “And what do you do?” I asked a man my father’s age.
“I’m the new food taster, Mr. President,” he said. “I taste all your food to make sure it hasn’t been poisoned.”
“Where’s the old food taster?”
“He died, sir.”
“Died?!”
“From natural causes, Mr. President.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said before asking another lady what she did.
“I’m a secretary,” she said.
“Whose secretary?” I asked.
“The secretary of defense.”
“The secretary of defense has a secretary?”
“Oh yes, sir,” she replied. “And so do I.”
“So your secretary is the secretary of defense’s secretary’s secretary?”
“Yes, sir.”
Honeywell led us to an elevator, which took us down to the White House basement. There, we saw a barbershop, a doctor’s office, a machine shop, a plumber’s shop, and a kitchen with a refrigerator so big that you could walk into it. I had no idea the White House had all this stuff in it.
Also downstairs was the Map Room. There are enormous maps on the walls. Honeywell told us that this is where President Franklin D. Roosevelt followed the progress of our troops in World War II.
We all got back into the elevator, which took us up to the second floor. That’s where the president’s living quarters are. Between my family and Chelsea’s family, we would fill every bedroom on the second floor except for one. Honeywell saved that one for last.
“And this is the Lincoln Bedroom,” he said reverently as he opened the door.
The room was decorated simply, with just a small desk and a bed. The bed was huge, maybe eight feet long.
“Lincoln was one of our tallest presidents,” Honeywell told us. “Six feet four inches.”
“The bed is lumpy,” muttered my dad.
“Even so, it’s lovely,” Mom insisted.
“Actually, Lincoln never slept in this bed,” Honeywell claimed. “It was being built for him when he was assassinated. But he was embalmed in this room.”
“Creepy,” Chelsea said. “That desk has got to go. It’s hideous.”
“With all due respect, Miss Daniels, I believe the desk belongs here.”
“Why?”
“Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation on it — the document that put an end to slavery in this country.”
That shut Chelsea up. I noticed that a framed copy of the Gettysburg Address on the wall was slightly crooked. I went over and straightened it.
“I guess he’s been here again,” Honeywell sighed.
“Who?” Vice President Syers asked.
“Abraham Lincoln,” Honeywell said in a hushed voice. “The president’s ghost, some believe, lives in this room. Teddy Roosevelt claimed he saw it. So did Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands. And President Eisenhower said he sensed its presence.”
“That’s spooky,” Chelsea said. “Let’s get out of here.”
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sp; Up on the third floor, Honeywell showed us the White House laundry, servants’ rooms, dental clinic, tailor shop, carpentry shop, sun room, guest bedrooms, and what was sure to be Chelsea’s favorite room — the beauty salon. By the time we got back on the elevator, everybody was exhausted.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Honeywell said, lurching for the second-floor button as the elevator made its way down. He led us to the West Wing of the White House and opened the door to a room he hadn’t shown us earlier.
“This,” he said dramatically, “is the Oval Office.”
I was almost afraid to go inside. The Oval Office is the working office of the president of the United States. Kennedy had used this very room. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, too. Some of the most important decisions in history had been made in this room.
“Go ahead, Moon,” Mrs. Syers urged me. “Sit in the chair. See how it feels.”
Hesitantly, I walked around the big wooden desk, which was flanked by flags and large potted plants. There was a huge blue rug on the floor with the Seal of the President of the United States in the middle of it.
I gazed out the window. The Washington Monument was straight ahead. I sank into the big chair and looked at everybody.
“He’s not my little boy anymore,” my mom said, sniffling like she was about to cry.
“Lookin’ good,” Mrs. Syers said, beaming. “You da man, Moon. The most powerful man on the planet.”
“Actually, there is one person who can tell the president where to go and what to do.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“He’s waiting outside,” said Honeywell.
The door to the Oval Office opened. In walked a guy who I can only describe as a giant slab of beef with a head on top. He was an enormous bald-headed African-American man with posture so straight, he must have had a steel bar running up and down his back. Three hundred pounds, easy. He was wearing a blue blazer and carrying a large cardboard box, which he put on a shelf. He looked to be in his thirties.
This monster of a man marched stiffly toward me, saluted crisply, and stuck out his hand. I shook it. Or, to be more accurate, it shook me. His hand was about the size of a catcher’s mitt.