I am not
what I am.
Under the
guise of cameras and flashbulbs, I am your leader. President of the United States,
a nation founded upon free-thinking, democracy, and... corruption. Calmly
authoritative, I relay the same old shtick my predecessors have fervently
promised and fervently reneged on: tax cuts, a decrease in unemployment, and
the like.
But,
truthfully, politics at the top transcends such menial issues. It’s a chess
game, with high stakes and even higher consequences, and I am the Grand Master.
My father,
also at the top of this heady pedestal in his day, forewarned me of power and
its unscrupulous influence. He’d grip me, a plucky young kid, by the shoulders,
his wizened old eyes burning into mine: ‘Power does untold things, son,’ he’d
say, a sense of urgency in his tone. I was then ushered out of his office, my
office, left to explore some other indistinguishable hall, corridor or office
of the Presidential home, never quite sure of his meaning. He was right, by the
way. Only now do I now know that, Exhibit A to support his argument.
“No leader
wants a war to blight their reign”, said no one ever. That desire for one’s
name to be etched into the history books as that President is such that
the slightest provocation engendered me into full-throttled battle. There is
that chivalrous notion- but then there’s money, the chance to make lots and lots
of it.
We were up
against some Dictator-ruled hole in the Middle-East. Oil equals money. Money
equals power. Remember that.
A distant
hand counted down the seconds till transmission...
3
...I
straighten my tie, the excitable hush of the production crew noticeably
dimming...
2
...A single
cough is heard, seemingly miles away, the bright lights blinding...
1
... I
prepare to tell a bold-faced lie to billions...
“Our nation
is fighting a war on terror”, I uttered gravely into the lens of the camera.
The ease of my duplicitousness was almost scary.
I continued,
stony-faced, as if there wasn’t some huge chunk of the picture I was
purposefully withholding. I obligingly stared ahead, reading off the autocue,
clinging onto the words like a child holds a teddy-bear, inwardly scolding
myself.
“Annnnnnnd...
CUT!” A voice said distantly, but I couldn’t hear, didn’t want to hear.
This was the
scene five years ago, when I played first move to this ill-fated game of chess,
this war. I had irrevocably, indubitably lied.
But no
matter, I told myself as I finally shut the
door on the Office, sweat on my brow, on my own again and rid of the outside
world. I was President of the United States of America. No one
can stop me.
Turns out
you can be stopped. Five years on, and I’d been called checkmate: the New
York Times had leaked some story, and I was held accountable.
Days
blurred, and then there I was: sat before the elders, with whom my fate was
held in their hands. Sat before a sea of faces, it felt strangely
comforting that I was utterly powerless. They too, along with the rest of the
world, were victims to this scandal I’d instigated- consequently, I would like
to think my apology was sincere. But then again, I wasn’t sure.
The decision
had been finalised- I was to resign the following morning, as soon as I’d
finished my last public engagement, a Charity Ball. ‘Will do you some good, the
chance to answer your critics directly’, the oldest one said with a look of
revulsion over the top of his half-rims.
I left,
unsure whether to laugh or cry.
·
Tonight, it
seems, the novelty of meeting the President has kept the naysayers at bay. It’s
like being held in a time vacuum.
The
fundraiser’s held every year at the Presidential winter gardens, a gaudy
edifice that lets the moonlight through, giving a ghostly pallor to
proceedings. Shake hands, ‘Good Evening?’, ‘’How are you?’, move on, repeat.
I feel a million miles away.
The party
(if you could call it that) had wore on, and I was allowed a brief respite,
swilling a half-glass of whisky on the middle of the dancefloor. Winnie
appeared.
‘Hey, First
Lady,’ I say, deadbeat. It’s a stupid nickname I’d come up with as a young
governor with big dreams, back when I’d assumed politics was about democracy
and equality and justice and helping others and a whole load of other rubbish.
‘Hey,
yourself.’ Winnie’s slow Southern drawl stops time. She’s my muse, and yet I
hadn’t told her The Big News, so this weighed heavily on my mind. ‘You’re
looking tired, hun...’
The Jazz
players start a slow number, so we move slowly, mournfully, whispering in
hushed undertones. I looked at her. The comment was meant teasingly, but she’s
right. My reflection against the moonlit window nearby conveys heavily-set
eyes, skin held taut against cheekbones.
‘What’s
wrong?’ She enquires, and I lie of course, because I am a deceiver, corrupt in
war and marriage.
‘Nothing,
nothing...’ I mumble thickly, clenching the material of her black gown tightly,
breathing heavily with all intentions of being truthful, when she’s called away
to take a photo.
She leaves,
First-Lady-Smile firmly affixed upon her face.
A phrase
comes to mind, and I’m not sure where I heard it: All’s fair in love and war.
I’m broken
from my reverie by the screaming, and I hear snatches of sound-
“There’s a
man with a gun!”
I think.
“Red Alert,
Mr. President we have to move!”
I think and
I scoff. The phrase suggests that anything goes, that all is “fair”. I think of
my late father, Winnie, and the angry elder with the horned-rim glasses. It’s
not all fair, it’s not. There are consequences.
I feel what
I think is a sharp pang of guilt hit my heart, and then I sink to my knees, catching
the dazzling red on my once-white silk scarf.
It’s not all fair.
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