Hello, all. I usually just lurk on this site, but I thought it could be fun sharing a story. (I typically post my stuff on Literotica). While I’ve written close to 30 stand-alone stories, this is my first time writing a series. I’ll aim to publish a new chapter each week until all ten chapters have been posted.
This is the story of a straight college intern who finds himself in close proximity to the most powerful man on the planet. Over the course of ten chapters, he learns more and more about his true nature. The story is packed with a variety of sexual activities and kinks, including an overarching “straight to gay” narrative and a dom/sub dynamic.
Yes, Mr. President – Ch. 01 (Part One)
“Senator Whitney’s office,” I said chipperly into the telephone handset, “how may I assist you today?”
The phrase had been hammered into my head over the course of the four days I’d been an intern. The chief of staff had heard me slip up once when I’d absent-mindedly said, “Charles Whitney’s office.” Based on his response, you would have thought that I’d dropped an F-bomb or something.
The caller told me that she was unhappy with Senator Whitney’s stance on environmental protections. She was upset that he’d voted to overturn a regulation limiting how corporations dispose of certain types of chemical waste. I reassured her that Senator Whitney cared deeply about the environment, including mentioning how he’d recently voted in favor of establishing a new national park. It wasn’t a total lie; Senator Whitney did seem to care about the environment – he just cared more about companies maximizing their profits. Ultimately, I told the constituent that I’d pass her concerns along to the appropriate people.
I was questioning if I’d made the right decision to participate in the Congressional Internship Program. I’d thought about taking the summer between my junior and senior years to backpack through Europe with some friends. In the end, my overly-practical parents had strong-armed me into “putting my future first.”
I was still trying to figure things out with my life. I’d been naïve enough in high school to think I actually had a shot at the NFL. I’d been good – very good compared to most high-schoolers – but still not nearly good enough to go all the way. I had, however, received a full athletic scholarship at the flagship university of my home state. It should have been where I ended up, but my great-uncle had had other plans for me.
I’d been raised solidly middle class in a suburb of Lincoln, Nebraska. My mom was a substitute teacher and my dad was the manager at a car dealership. I’d always heard stories about my grandpa’s semi-estranged brother, Great-uncle Dan. Unlike my grandfather, he’d gone to college and founded a pharmaceutical company that had ended up being worth more than the GDP of half the countries in the world.
Great-uncle Dan didn’t exactly throw his cash around. He often said he liked to “help those who help themselves.” I hadn’t received high-end video game consoles from him as birthday presents, but he had done things like send me to STEM summer camp and buy me the laptop I’d needed for high school. He was why I’d decided on Georgetown. He’d offered to pay for the whole thing if I could keep at least a ‘B’ average.
RING-RING! RING-RING!
“Senator Whitney’s office, how…”
“I may be old, son,” the Senator replied, “but I’m well aware that this is my office.”
My heart skipped a beat. I looked down at the phone, which I should have done earlier. It indicated that the call was internal, and it was coming from the Senator.
“I’m sorry, Senator. I should have…”
“Oh, I don’t care about that, boy. I’ve got bigger fish to fry than teaching some young buck how to be a glorified receptionist. How do you feel about that – being a glorified receptionist?”
“I… I’m learning a lot, Senator. Hearing the constituents’ concerns is really helping me get a better sense of the average Nebraskan’s needs. It’s been…”
“Bullshit,” the Senator replied curtly, “but not bad bullshit. How’d you like to get a promotion from glorified receptionist to glorified valet for a few hours?”
“Yes, I’d be happy to.”
I swiftly made my way from the reception area to the Senator’s designated office. When I walked in, he was standing by his desk, straightening his tie in front of a mirror.
Senator Whitney wasn’t exactly a spring chicken; he’d turned eighty-six a few months earlier. He looked much frailer than the pictures I’d seen of him from when he’d been the Secretary of State two decades earlier. There were liver spots smattered across his cheeks, and his stringy, gray hair only covered a small fraction of his scalp.
“Grab that briefcase,” he said, nodding towards his desk.
I was taken aback by how heavy it felt when I lifted it; it reminded me of a backpack filled with textbooks. I thought about commenting on the weight, but I didn’t know the Senator well enough to feel comfortable doing so. We’d only uttered a few sentences to one another in the few days I’d been there. Almost all of my interactions had been with his senior staff members.
“How tall are you, son?” the Senator asked.
“Six-five,” I responded, only partially confused as to why he’d asked.
“Sturdy, too. That’ll do.”
The Senator half-walked, half-hobbled over to the seat behind his desk. He grabbed an impressive walnut walking cane that had been leaning against the wall. He gripped it firmly and began to move across the room towards the door.
“Stay a step behind me. Make sure you hold the briefcase in the hand furthest away from me. If I start to go down, keep me from crashing. I don’t have time in my schedule for a hip surgery.”
I did as he instructed. I trailed him just enough, and I stayed focused on being ready to grab his upper arm if it looked like he was losing his balance to the point of falling down. It took us a solid twenty minutes to get out of the Russel Senate Office Building given his slow pace and decision to stop to talk with a few colleagues.
I helped him into the black town car waiting on the street. I paused for a second, not knowing what to do.
“Get in,” he said. “We could put ya’ in the trunk if you prefer, but I don’t reckon there’d be enough room.”
I strolled around to the other side and got into the backseat of the sedan. Before I’d even had time to look for a seatbelt, the driver had started moving. The Senator was already squinting at his phone, trying to read something that was presumably far above my non-existent paygrade.
I just stared out the window as he moved down Constitution Avenue. I thought about my girlfriend, Tessa. I figured it would be nice to be able to tell her I’d done something other than running office errands and answering calls all day. I could also finally inform her that I’d had a real interaction with the Senator, even if it wasn’t anything groundbreaking.
“Find me the Pickwick Report,” the Senator abruptly said.
“Ex… excuse me, sir? What?”
“The Pickwick Report. I’m sure I brought a copy with my papers. I need to look at it to confirm some numbers. Go into my briefcase and find it. It’s not exactly rocket science, son. Just look for the big letters on top that say ‘Pickwick Report.’”
I popped open the briefcase and pulled a huge stack of freshly-printed papers onto my lap. There must have been a hundred individually-stapled packets of information. I started flipping through them. When I got to the last one without finding what he wanted, I felt like I’d somehow fucked up. Instead of spiraling, I started from the beginning again.
As I frantically searched, I could feel the car turning corners and occasionally stopping at red lights. The ride wasn’t exactly my main focus, obviously.
About halfway through the stack again, the car came to a stop and the driver rolled down his window. I flipped through the pages faster, realizing that my time was running out.
“Find it yet, boy?” the Senator asked.
“I have Senator Whitney,” the driver said to whomever he was talking to. “He’s here for a meeting.”
“I… I haven’t found it yet,” I said. “I didn’t see it the first time, but I’m looking again.”
“Cleared,” the person speaking with the driver replied. “Head on through.”
“Well…” Senator Whitney groaned. “It’s too late now. Just pack all the documents back into my briefcase again.”
I flipped through the last few packets before calling it quits. It timed up perfectly with the car reaching its destination. I felt some relief in the fact that I was certain the report he’d requested hadn’t been in his briefcase, but I wasn’t sure if he was willing to accept that. The driver scrambled from the car and opened the Senator’s door as I was securing the latches on the briefcase.
“Get moving, son,” the Senator said as he took the driver’s hand for help getting out. “We don’t have all day.”
I popped out of the car as quickly as I could. I didn’t want to piss the Senator off any more than I already had.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, taking in the sight in front of me.
“I don’t think the First Lady would like that,” the Senator said, after letting out an abbreviated chuckle.
It was the White House. We were standing in front of one of the entrances that was always shown in the media photos. It took me a moment to remember that it was called a portico. It wasn’t exactly like porticos were an architectural staple in Nebraska.
The next few minutes passed in what felt like seconds. We went through a security checkpoint, but being with the Senator meant that we were practically waved through. My eyes darted around the building, trying to take in as much as possible while also coming back to the Senator every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t about to trip on anything.
“First time at the White House?” the Senator asked. “It’s a beaut, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, sir. It’s my first time. It’s… it’s amazing.”
We kept walking. I glanced at the majestic paintings of the Founding Fathers on the walls. It made me think about all of the powerful people who’d walked the same path as me. I hoped that I’d end up following in their figurative footsteps, and that following in their literal ones was the first… well… step.
We entered a small room. There was an older woman – in her seventies, I guessed – sitting at a desk. She looked up at the Senator and shook her head. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“That’s a lovely watch, Senator,” she said with a feigned sweetness to her voice.
“Jenny…”
“Is it purely ornamental? I assume it must not be functional; otherwise, you wouldn’t be ten minutes late.”
“Sweet as ever, Jenny. Lucky for you, I’ve always had a thing for the feisty ones. Should we just head on in?”
“They’re all waiting,” she replied.
I was curious who she was. She just didn’t seem like a high-level staff member for some reason, but she didn’t act like a woman who just fetched coffee either. There was something peculiar about her.
When I saw the Senator going to reach for the door handle, I hurried to grab it for him. I opened the door so that he could walk through it unencumbered. Then I followed him again.
Holy shit! I was too stunned to say it aloud, thank goodness. The presidential seal was embedded into the center of the floor’s blue carpet. Peering over the Senator’s shoulder, I could see the most famous desk in the world only twenty feet away from where I stood. We were in the Oval Office – the innermost sanctum of the White House.
I was doing my best not to freak out. I trailed the Senator as he exchanged pleasantries with the House Majority Leader and the President’s Chief of Staff. The Senator let out a sigh as he settled into one of the two cream-colored love seats. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed by his side, clutching the briefcase I’d been asked to carry.
“Still alive, Charles?” the House Majority Leader asked.
“I have a pact with the Devil,” he replied cheekily. “Or, at least that’s what you Dems are always saying about any of us who care about business owners. We’ve ‘made a pact with the Devil.’”
The House Majority Leader smiled. It didn’t seem fake or forced to me. They’d both been serving their districts for longer than I’d been alive. I assumed they must have found a way to work with one another, even if they were on opposite sides for the aisle.
“I see the diva has yet to arrive,” the Senator said.
“I’m sure he’ll come now,” she replied. “You know how they are – always have to be the last one in the room.”
I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been to not realize what was about to happen. It almost felt like my knees were about to shake. I took a deep breath.
A glass door opened on the other side of the room. Everyone suddenly stopped talking. The Senator stumbled to his feet. I offered him a hand, but he slapped it away.
“Who do we have here?” the President asked, flashing his signature crooked smile. “I thought I’d told Jenny to change the locks. Gotta keep the riff-raff out.”
There was a smattering of polite giggles from the dozen people in the room, including myself. I still couldn’t believe I was in the same room – not just any room, the Oval Office – with the leader of the free world. Tessa was going to lose her mind when I told her.
I looked at the President as he greeted all of the important people in the room. He looked a little shorter in person. I’d always thought he was six-one, but he couldn’t have been taller than five-eleven. He didn’t look chubby, though. It had been a huge thing in the tabloids: “Sources reveal that White House top chef is at his wit’s end over having to whip up late night desserts for the sugarholic President Kelley.” I’d expected him to be carrying an extra thirty pounds in his mid-section, but it was just a little padding. It seemed normal for a man in his mid-fifties.
It was an odd thing to notice, I suppose, but the President looked handsomer than I’d anticipated. His square jawline appeared sharper than it did on television. His bright blue irises popped more; they almost seemed too bright to be real. His silver hair was incredibly thick, and his hairline looked the same as it had in the photos I’d seen of him from his college days. I could understand why my mom’s friends had called him a “silver fox,” even though they hadn’t voted for him.
“Charles,” the President said, shaking the Senator’s hand. “How’s Kitty doing?”
“She’s doing great – back home for a few weeks. We just had our first great-grandchild – a little girl named Rosie. Cute as a bug’s ear.”
“Congratulations! I’ll tell Peggy to send a card and a onesie with the presidential seal on it. Should I have her reach out to Kitty?”
“Just have her call my office. I have a girl who handles that kind of stuff. I’m sure my grand-daughter will be thrilled to receive something from the White House – even if there’s a Democrat living in it.”
They both laughed. As much as Senator Whitney ranted about the Democrats in his interviews, he didn’t seem to hate them as people. It was a nice thing to see, since I’d assumed he did.
“Who’s the bodyguard?” he asked, glancing over at me. “Or, maybe… personal trainer?”
The President reached over and squeezed one of my biceps through my suit jacket. He smirked as his fingers dug into the fabric. My cheeks went red. I was flabbergasted by the fact that the most powerful person in the world had just learned of my existence.
“That’s Dan Randall’s grandson. He’s one of my interns for the summer. You know how it is – when Dan calls up, you listen. Seems like a good kid… even if he can’t read.”
“Can’t read?” the President said, finally releasing my bicep. “I have a hard time believing one of our congressional interns can’t read. Surely, he must be in college. I don’t think they let in young men who are still learning to master the alphabet.”
It felt incredibly bizarre. I was standing right next to both of them, but neither of them was speaking directly to me. It was like I was no different from any of the inanimate objects in the room – a grandfather clock in a fancy suit.
“Dan said he’s attending Georgetown. Probably majoring in ‘Underwater Basket Weaving’ or some such nonsense. You know how kids are these days. Isn’t your eldest studying poetry?”
“What have you got against poetry, Charles?” the President asked with a bemused laugh. “I could force her to study economics – like I did – but, ‘what happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?’”
Langston Hughes, I thought to myself. I’d had to write a paper about the poem he was quoting for my AP English class in high school. I don’t know why, but I started smiling. It was kind of fun seeing him tease curmudgeonly Senator Whitney.
“What are you on about?” the Senator asked while he tapped the President on his nonexistent paunch with the back of his hand. “All that diet food they got you eating now must be getting to you.”
“Maybe so,” the President said with a twinkle in his eyes. “But let’s give…”
“Truett,” I said as he stared deep inside of me.
“Let’s give Truett a break. Can’t be easy working for an old sourpuss like you.”
The meeting started shortly after that. I was shooed away to stand in the back of the room with a few other nonessentials – each and every one of whom were still way more important than I was.
Every now and then, when the Senator was saying something especially fiery, the President and I would lock eyes. It was like he was trying to form an allyship with me – a nobody. The Commander in Chief was down-to-earth enough to treat a small-town kid from Nebraska like a real person.
I didn’t realize it until I felt my cheeks were aching when the meeting was about the wrap up, but each look from the President had made me smile so widely it was like I was getting my picture taken. I realized I wanted him to like me, even if we never saw one another again. Regardless of me being a Republican and him a Democrat, he was still the President. Any twenty-one-year-old guy in my shoes would have felt the same way being around the most powerful man in the world.
************
This is the story of a straight college intern who finds himself in close proximity to the most powerful man on the planet. Over the course of ten chapters, he learns more and more about his true nature. The story is packed with a variety of sexual activities and kinks, including an overarching “straight to gay” narrative and a dom/sub dynamic.
Yes, Mr. President – Ch. 01 (Part One)
“Senator Whitney’s office,” I said chipperly into the telephone handset, “how may I assist you today?”
The phrase had been hammered into my head over the course of the four days I’d been an intern. The chief of staff had heard me slip up once when I’d absent-mindedly said, “Charles Whitney’s office.” Based on his response, you would have thought that I’d dropped an F-bomb or something.
The caller told me that she was unhappy with Senator Whitney’s stance on environmental protections. She was upset that he’d voted to overturn a regulation limiting how corporations dispose of certain types of chemical waste. I reassured her that Senator Whitney cared deeply about the environment, including mentioning how he’d recently voted in favor of establishing a new national park. It wasn’t a total lie; Senator Whitney did seem to care about the environment – he just cared more about companies maximizing their profits. Ultimately, I told the constituent that I’d pass her concerns along to the appropriate people.
I was questioning if I’d made the right decision to participate in the Congressional Internship Program. I’d thought about taking the summer between my junior and senior years to backpack through Europe with some friends. In the end, my overly-practical parents had strong-armed me into “putting my future first.”
I was still trying to figure things out with my life. I’d been naïve enough in high school to think I actually had a shot at the NFL. I’d been good – very good compared to most high-schoolers – but still not nearly good enough to go all the way. I had, however, received a full athletic scholarship at the flagship university of my home state. It should have been where I ended up, but my great-uncle had had other plans for me.
I’d been raised solidly middle class in a suburb of Lincoln, Nebraska. My mom was a substitute teacher and my dad was the manager at a car dealership. I’d always heard stories about my grandpa’s semi-estranged brother, Great-uncle Dan. Unlike my grandfather, he’d gone to college and founded a pharmaceutical company that had ended up being worth more than the GDP of half the countries in the world.
Great-uncle Dan didn’t exactly throw his cash around. He often said he liked to “help those who help themselves.” I hadn’t received high-end video game consoles from him as birthday presents, but he had done things like send me to STEM summer camp and buy me the laptop I’d needed for high school. He was why I’d decided on Georgetown. He’d offered to pay for the whole thing if I could keep at least a ‘B’ average.
RING-RING! RING-RING!
“Senator Whitney’s office, how…”
“I may be old, son,” the Senator replied, “but I’m well aware that this is my office.”
My heart skipped a beat. I looked down at the phone, which I should have done earlier. It indicated that the call was internal, and it was coming from the Senator.
“I’m sorry, Senator. I should have…”
“Oh, I don’t care about that, boy. I’ve got bigger fish to fry than teaching some young buck how to be a glorified receptionist. How do you feel about that – being a glorified receptionist?”
“I… I’m learning a lot, Senator. Hearing the constituents’ concerns is really helping me get a better sense of the average Nebraskan’s needs. It’s been…”
“Bullshit,” the Senator replied curtly, “but not bad bullshit. How’d you like to get a promotion from glorified receptionist to glorified valet for a few hours?”
“Yes, I’d be happy to.”
I swiftly made my way from the reception area to the Senator’s designated office. When I walked in, he was standing by his desk, straightening his tie in front of a mirror.
Senator Whitney wasn’t exactly a spring chicken; he’d turned eighty-six a few months earlier. He looked much frailer than the pictures I’d seen of him from when he’d been the Secretary of State two decades earlier. There were liver spots smattered across his cheeks, and his stringy, gray hair only covered a small fraction of his scalp.
“Grab that briefcase,” he said, nodding towards his desk.
I was taken aback by how heavy it felt when I lifted it; it reminded me of a backpack filled with textbooks. I thought about commenting on the weight, but I didn’t know the Senator well enough to feel comfortable doing so. We’d only uttered a few sentences to one another in the few days I’d been there. Almost all of my interactions had been with his senior staff members.
“How tall are you, son?” the Senator asked.
“Six-five,” I responded, only partially confused as to why he’d asked.
“Sturdy, too. That’ll do.”
The Senator half-walked, half-hobbled over to the seat behind his desk. He grabbed an impressive walnut walking cane that had been leaning against the wall. He gripped it firmly and began to move across the room towards the door.
“Stay a step behind me. Make sure you hold the briefcase in the hand furthest away from me. If I start to go down, keep me from crashing. I don’t have time in my schedule for a hip surgery.”
I did as he instructed. I trailed him just enough, and I stayed focused on being ready to grab his upper arm if it looked like he was losing his balance to the point of falling down. It took us a solid twenty minutes to get out of the Russel Senate Office Building given his slow pace and decision to stop to talk with a few colleagues.
I helped him into the black town car waiting on the street. I paused for a second, not knowing what to do.
“Get in,” he said. “We could put ya’ in the trunk if you prefer, but I don’t reckon there’d be enough room.”
I strolled around to the other side and got into the backseat of the sedan. Before I’d even had time to look for a seatbelt, the driver had started moving. The Senator was already squinting at his phone, trying to read something that was presumably far above my non-existent paygrade.
I just stared out the window as he moved down Constitution Avenue. I thought about my girlfriend, Tessa. I figured it would be nice to be able to tell her I’d done something other than running office errands and answering calls all day. I could also finally inform her that I’d had a real interaction with the Senator, even if it wasn’t anything groundbreaking.
“Find me the Pickwick Report,” the Senator abruptly said.
“Ex… excuse me, sir? What?”
“The Pickwick Report. I’m sure I brought a copy with my papers. I need to look at it to confirm some numbers. Go into my briefcase and find it. It’s not exactly rocket science, son. Just look for the big letters on top that say ‘Pickwick Report.’”
I popped open the briefcase and pulled a huge stack of freshly-printed papers onto my lap. There must have been a hundred individually-stapled packets of information. I started flipping through them. When I got to the last one without finding what he wanted, I felt like I’d somehow fucked up. Instead of spiraling, I started from the beginning again.
As I frantically searched, I could feel the car turning corners and occasionally stopping at red lights. The ride wasn’t exactly my main focus, obviously.
About halfway through the stack again, the car came to a stop and the driver rolled down his window. I flipped through the pages faster, realizing that my time was running out.
“Find it yet, boy?” the Senator asked.
“I have Senator Whitney,” the driver said to whomever he was talking to. “He’s here for a meeting.”
“I… I haven’t found it yet,” I said. “I didn’t see it the first time, but I’m looking again.”
“Cleared,” the person speaking with the driver replied. “Head on through.”
“Well…” Senator Whitney groaned. “It’s too late now. Just pack all the documents back into my briefcase again.”
I flipped through the last few packets before calling it quits. It timed up perfectly with the car reaching its destination. I felt some relief in the fact that I was certain the report he’d requested hadn’t been in his briefcase, but I wasn’t sure if he was willing to accept that. The driver scrambled from the car and opened the Senator’s door as I was securing the latches on the briefcase.
“Get moving, son,” the Senator said as he took the driver’s hand for help getting out. “We don’t have all day.”
I popped out of the car as quickly as I could. I didn’t want to piss the Senator off any more than I already had.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, taking in the sight in front of me.
“I don’t think the First Lady would like that,” the Senator said, after letting out an abbreviated chuckle.
It was the White House. We were standing in front of one of the entrances that was always shown in the media photos. It took me a moment to remember that it was called a portico. It wasn’t exactly like porticos were an architectural staple in Nebraska.
The next few minutes passed in what felt like seconds. We went through a security checkpoint, but being with the Senator meant that we were practically waved through. My eyes darted around the building, trying to take in as much as possible while also coming back to the Senator every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t about to trip on anything.
“First time at the White House?” the Senator asked. “It’s a beaut, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, sir. It’s my first time. It’s… it’s amazing.”
We kept walking. I glanced at the majestic paintings of the Founding Fathers on the walls. It made me think about all of the powerful people who’d walked the same path as me. I hoped that I’d end up following in their figurative footsteps, and that following in their literal ones was the first… well… step.
We entered a small room. There was an older woman – in her seventies, I guessed – sitting at a desk. She looked up at the Senator and shook her head. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“That’s a lovely watch, Senator,” she said with a feigned sweetness to her voice.
“Jenny…”
“Is it purely ornamental? I assume it must not be functional; otherwise, you wouldn’t be ten minutes late.”
“Sweet as ever, Jenny. Lucky for you, I’ve always had a thing for the feisty ones. Should we just head on in?”
“They’re all waiting,” she replied.
I was curious who she was. She just didn’t seem like a high-level staff member for some reason, but she didn’t act like a woman who just fetched coffee either. There was something peculiar about her.
When I saw the Senator going to reach for the door handle, I hurried to grab it for him. I opened the door so that he could walk through it unencumbered. Then I followed him again.
Holy shit! I was too stunned to say it aloud, thank goodness. The presidential seal was embedded into the center of the floor’s blue carpet. Peering over the Senator’s shoulder, I could see the most famous desk in the world only twenty feet away from where I stood. We were in the Oval Office – the innermost sanctum of the White House.
I was doing my best not to freak out. I trailed the Senator as he exchanged pleasantries with the House Majority Leader and the President’s Chief of Staff. The Senator let out a sigh as he settled into one of the two cream-colored love seats. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed by his side, clutching the briefcase I’d been asked to carry.
“Still alive, Charles?” the House Majority Leader asked.
“I have a pact with the Devil,” he replied cheekily. “Or, at least that’s what you Dems are always saying about any of us who care about business owners. We’ve ‘made a pact with the Devil.’”
The House Majority Leader smiled. It didn’t seem fake or forced to me. They’d both been serving their districts for longer than I’d been alive. I assumed they must have found a way to work with one another, even if they were on opposite sides for the aisle.
“I see the diva has yet to arrive,” the Senator said.
“I’m sure he’ll come now,” she replied. “You know how they are – always have to be the last one in the room.”
I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been to not realize what was about to happen. It almost felt like my knees were about to shake. I took a deep breath.
A glass door opened on the other side of the room. Everyone suddenly stopped talking. The Senator stumbled to his feet. I offered him a hand, but he slapped it away.
“Who do we have here?” the President asked, flashing his signature crooked smile. “I thought I’d told Jenny to change the locks. Gotta keep the riff-raff out.”
There was a smattering of polite giggles from the dozen people in the room, including myself. I still couldn’t believe I was in the same room – not just any room, the Oval Office – with the leader of the free world. Tessa was going to lose her mind when I told her.
I looked at the President as he greeted all of the important people in the room. He looked a little shorter in person. I’d always thought he was six-one, but he couldn’t have been taller than five-eleven. He didn’t look chubby, though. It had been a huge thing in the tabloids: “Sources reveal that White House top chef is at his wit’s end over having to whip up late night desserts for the sugarholic President Kelley.” I’d expected him to be carrying an extra thirty pounds in his mid-section, but it was just a little padding. It seemed normal for a man in his mid-fifties.
It was an odd thing to notice, I suppose, but the President looked handsomer than I’d anticipated. His square jawline appeared sharper than it did on television. His bright blue irises popped more; they almost seemed too bright to be real. His silver hair was incredibly thick, and his hairline looked the same as it had in the photos I’d seen of him from his college days. I could understand why my mom’s friends had called him a “silver fox,” even though they hadn’t voted for him.
“Charles,” the President said, shaking the Senator’s hand. “How’s Kitty doing?”
“She’s doing great – back home for a few weeks. We just had our first great-grandchild – a little girl named Rosie. Cute as a bug’s ear.”
“Congratulations! I’ll tell Peggy to send a card and a onesie with the presidential seal on it. Should I have her reach out to Kitty?”
“Just have her call my office. I have a girl who handles that kind of stuff. I’m sure my grand-daughter will be thrilled to receive something from the White House – even if there’s a Democrat living in it.”
They both laughed. As much as Senator Whitney ranted about the Democrats in his interviews, he didn’t seem to hate them as people. It was a nice thing to see, since I’d assumed he did.
“Who’s the bodyguard?” he asked, glancing over at me. “Or, maybe… personal trainer?”
The President reached over and squeezed one of my biceps through my suit jacket. He smirked as his fingers dug into the fabric. My cheeks went red. I was flabbergasted by the fact that the most powerful person in the world had just learned of my existence.
“That’s Dan Randall’s grandson. He’s one of my interns for the summer. You know how it is – when Dan calls up, you listen. Seems like a good kid… even if he can’t read.”
“Can’t read?” the President said, finally releasing my bicep. “I have a hard time believing one of our congressional interns can’t read. Surely, he must be in college. I don’t think they let in young men who are still learning to master the alphabet.”
It felt incredibly bizarre. I was standing right next to both of them, but neither of them was speaking directly to me. It was like I was no different from any of the inanimate objects in the room – a grandfather clock in a fancy suit.
“Dan said he’s attending Georgetown. Probably majoring in ‘Underwater Basket Weaving’ or some such nonsense. You know how kids are these days. Isn’t your eldest studying poetry?”
“What have you got against poetry, Charles?” the President asked with a bemused laugh. “I could force her to study economics – like I did – but, ‘what happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?’”
Langston Hughes, I thought to myself. I’d had to write a paper about the poem he was quoting for my AP English class in high school. I don’t know why, but I started smiling. It was kind of fun seeing him tease curmudgeonly Senator Whitney.
“What are you on about?” the Senator asked while he tapped the President on his nonexistent paunch with the back of his hand. “All that diet food they got you eating now must be getting to you.”
“Maybe so,” the President said with a twinkle in his eyes. “But let’s give…”
“Truett,” I said as he stared deep inside of me.
“Let’s give Truett a break. Can’t be easy working for an old sourpuss like you.”
The meeting started shortly after that. I was shooed away to stand in the back of the room with a few other nonessentials – each and every one of whom were still way more important than I was.
Every now and then, when the Senator was saying something especially fiery, the President and I would lock eyes. It was like he was trying to form an allyship with me – a nobody. The Commander in Chief was down-to-earth enough to treat a small-town kid from Nebraska like a real person.
I didn’t realize it until I felt my cheeks were aching when the meeting was about the wrap up, but each look from the President had made me smile so widely it was like I was getting my picture taken. I realized I wanted him to like me, even if we never saw one another again. Regardless of me being a Republican and him a Democrat, he was still the President. Any twenty-one-year-old guy in my shoes would have felt the same way being around the most powerful man in the world.
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