office. Surveying the room, it’s shocking to see how a Type A, driven, neat person can work in these conditions. “This place has really become a rat hole. Want me to ask Laura to straighten it up?”
President Jones has removed his tie and suit jacket. His normally pressed white shirt is untucked, and it appears rumbled. Are his shoes off? This is a bad sign.
He’s sitting in the left-hand corner of his peacock-blue velvet sofa holding a high-ball glass of whiskey over ice in his right hand. “I know where everything is.” He gestures towards the piles of paper and file folders that are stacked to about chin height on his desk. Reference books are scattered across the taupe carpet as if he were frantically looking for something, found it, and then tossed the remaining books aside. “Besides, no one comes in here but me, you, and Laura. Who cares what it looks like if I can find whatever I need when I need it,” he says as he snaps his fingers.
There were seven of us in here including you, Mr. President, and one of us talked to the Sons of Liberty.
I sit down in the blue-print chair across from him and take the glass of high-ball that he has already poured for me from the coffee table. This is our nightly ritual if he’s in the White House, and I’m not at a networking function. It’s our downtime. The staff is gone for the evening. The place is ghostly quiet in the West Wing. Of course, there are still Secret Service agents lingering in the hallways, but they generally only speak when spoken to, so after a while it’s easy to forget that they exist.
The President’s private office is just off of the Oval Office. The most famous workspace in the world is really not used for much more than a reception room. The President rarely even enters that office. The toughest decisions that he makes are analyzed here in his private area. It’s really a lovely space. He has a large L-shaped desk and credenza that looks out onto the White House’s pristine gardens. His couch and chairs are very comfortable. I know for a fact that Shelby tested many before she chose the perfect ones for her husband. His fireplace is carved out of mahogany wood. It’s a shame that the public can’t admire it, because it’s really a treasure.
I have prepared an agenda for tonight’s discussion, but I quickly table it after reading his body language. He’s a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Wow! That analogy truly applies to him.
Instead, of rambling off my nightly to-do list, I take a sip of my whiskey and wait for him to speak.
Music is playing in the background. I don’t recognize his evening choice, but it’s a sad, depressing number. The piece is familiar. He’s played it before. I wrack my brain, trying to match up the music to what was going on in the world, hoping to find a clue as to what’s bothering him specifically this evening.
Fortunately, he doesn’t make me wait long to find out. “You know what today is?” he asks as he sips his drink.
I nod. Of course I know what today is. The reason I’m still the White House Chief of Staff is because I’m paid to know everything. “First Monday in November, sir.”
“Ah … Drop the sir crap, Rachael. Tonight, I’m not the President of the United States. I’m just a guy without a job in a year.” He looks so forlorn. His usually styled salt-and-pepper colored hair is a mess, as if he’s been dragging his fingers through the waves. The lines on his face, which give him a distinguished air, look deeper tonight. His five o’clock shadow is also dotted with more grey. These seven years have not been kind to his features.
I toe off my running sneakers and tug my legs under me. This is going to be a long evening. Fortunately, I’ve changed into yoga pants and my Wharton sweatshirt, anticipating a night run after our meeting. Not going to happen tonight. I settle into the plush cushions of the chair, making myself comfortable.
“I understand that
President Jones has removed his tie and suit jacket. His normally pressed white shirt is untucked, and it appears rumbled. Are his shoes off? This is a bad sign.
He’s sitting in the left-hand corner of his peacock-blue velvet sofa holding a high-ball glass of whiskey over ice in his right hand. “I know where everything is.” He gestures towards the piles of paper and file folders that are stacked to about chin height on his desk. Reference books are scattered across the taupe carpet as if he were frantically looking for something, found it, and then tossed the remaining books aside. “Besides, no one comes in here but me, you, and Laura. Who cares what it looks like if I can find whatever I need when I need it,” he says as he snaps his fingers.
There were seven of us in here including you, Mr. President, and one of us talked to the Sons of Liberty.
I sit down in the blue-print chair across from him and take the glass of high-ball that he has already poured for me from the coffee table. This is our nightly ritual if he’s in the White House, and I’m not at a networking function. It’s our downtime. The staff is gone for the evening. The place is ghostly quiet in the West Wing. Of course, there are still Secret Service agents lingering in the hallways, but they generally only speak when spoken to, so after a while it’s easy to forget that they exist.
The President’s private office is just off of the Oval Office. The most famous workspace in the world is really not used for much more than a reception room. The President rarely even enters that office. The toughest decisions that he makes are analyzed here in his private area. It’s really a lovely space. He has a large L-shaped desk and credenza that looks out onto the White House’s pristine gardens. His couch and chairs are very comfortable. I know for a fact that Shelby tested many before she chose the perfect ones for her husband. His fireplace is carved out of mahogany wood. It’s a shame that the public can’t admire it, because it’s really a treasure.
I have prepared an agenda for tonight’s discussion, but I quickly table it after reading his body language. He’s a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Wow! That analogy truly applies to him.
Instead, of rambling off my nightly to-do list, I take a sip of my whiskey and wait for him to speak.
Music is playing in the background. I don’t recognize his evening choice, but it’s a sad, depressing number. The piece is familiar. He’s played it before. I wrack my brain, trying to match up the music to what was going on in the world, hoping to find a clue as to what’s bothering him specifically this evening.
Fortunately, he doesn’t make me wait long to find out. “You know what today is?” he asks as he sips his drink.
I nod. Of course I know what today is. The reason I’m still the White House Chief of Staff is because I’m paid to know everything. “First Monday in November, sir.”
“Ah … Drop the sir crap, Rachael. Tonight, I’m not the President of the United States. I’m just a guy without a job in a year.” He looks so forlorn. His usually styled salt-and-pepper colored hair is a mess, as if he’s been dragging his fingers through the waves. The lines on his face, which give him a distinguished air, look deeper tonight. His five o’clock shadow is also dotted with more grey. These seven years have not been kind to his features.
I toe off my running sneakers and tug my legs under me. This is going to be a long evening. Fortunately, I’ve changed into yoga pants and my Wharton sweatshirt, anticipating a night run after our meeting. Not going to happen tonight. I settle into the plush cushions of the chair, making myself comfortable.
“I understand that
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