An Election of Words

“Are you ready, Mr. President?” the driver asked as the secret service agent closed the limo door. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror at the leader of the free world and his assigned security sitting next to him on the back row. The president belched, slid slightly down on the bench seat, and unbuttoned his pants, exhaling a satisfying moan. “Much better. Don’t know why the wife keeps making me wear pants so small for me. And, yes, driver, please. Get a move on.” “Right away, Mr. President.” The driver shook his head in disgust and averted his gaze to the roadway as he pulled into traffic, the limo flanked by a convoy of black vehicles adorned with the nation’s flag, all flapping in the breeze. The president tapped on the side-window glass next to his head. “You sure these have been reinforced?” “Yes, Mr. President. With the highest-grade bulletproof material there is,” the secret service agent said. “And no one can see inside. It’s a one-way mirror.” The president leaned forward and opened the cover to the minibar. He removed an unopened bottle of Serbian plum brandy and raised it to the agent. “Would you like some?” “No, sir. No drinking on duty.” He scanned all the windows for any signs of approaching trouble. “Well, I’m always on duty, and sometimes I like to drink.” The president opened the bottle and, forgoing a glass, put the lip to his mouth and took three long swallows. The driver grimaced at the thought of the taste. “You know I can’t lose, right?” The agent took his attention from the empty sidewalks and eyed the president. “My job, sir, is to keep the sitting president alive at all costs. That is all.” The president stuck half his hand into his opened waistband, like Al Bundy from Married with Children. “Relax! In a few hours, the people would have spoken, and you will be stuck with me for another term. Cheers!” He tipped the brandy bottle into his mouth again. “All these people”—he waved at the window to an empty street, some brandy sloshing onto his white shirt—“they love me. It’ll be a landslide.” The driver stopped at a red light and noticed a horde of people crowding the sidewalks about two blocks ahead. He glanced in the rearview mirror to see if the agent had spotted the possible threat. The light turned green, and he accelerated through the intersection. The president’s cellphone rang in his blazer pocket. He set the bottle of brandy in the large cupholder. “Hello? Most important person on the planet speaking.” The driver rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. … Which channel is running that story? … Right. … Well, do we have anyone who can stop the broadcast? … It’ll be fine. The worms are too stupid to believe it anyway. They’ll still make that checkmark next to my name. … If you can, that would be great.” The president slipped his cellphone into his pocket and looked out the window at the passing buildings. The driver noted that the crowd lining the street were all holding something—some had signs; some looked to have chains and bats and other forms of weaponry. The driver inhaled deeply through his nostrils and glanced at the agent through the mirror. He ran his tongue over his teeth and rolled forward, toward the angry mob. The agent craned his neck to get a glimpse of the roadway ahead. “Driver, is that a mob ahead?” The president grabbed the bottle of brandy, took a long swig, and placed it between his legs. “Where?” “Up ahead,” the agent said. “Ahh, those are just my supporters. They’re rolling out the red carpet for our win tonight!” “Yes, sir,” the driver said loudly to be heard in the rear of the limo. “Looks like people on both sides of the street. They have signs and look angry.” “That’s right, driver! They’re angry at what this fine country was put through before I became president! They should be angry! God bless them for expressing their feelings, and God bless our country for allowing them to.” The agent touched his earpiece and spoke softly into his shirt collar. The driver watched the crowd ahead step off the curb but not quite block the street. Then he heard their angry chants. The president’s phone rang again. “Hello? Most important person on the planet speaking. … We see them too. … You’ve already spoken with him?” The president eyed the agent sitting next to him. “Hostile? Nah, they’re just invigorated! They’re passionate about this great country, and so am I! They want to thank us for giving them what they’ve always needed.” The driver slowed the limo as he approached the first line of the mob. “Ah, s**t!” the president said into his phone as the bottle of brandy slipped from between his knees and tumbled to the floorboard, ga-lump-ing a few times as the liquid spilled into the carpet. He snatched the bottle from the floor, spilling some on his hands. “Yeah, I’m still here. Just dropped my coffee.” The driver eyed him in the mirror, one eyebrow raised. “No, I don’t think we should take the alternate route. Let’s give the people what they want. Let’s show them we work for them, that they voted for the winning team.” The president tucked his phone into his pocket and put his hand to his mouth to suck the spilled liquor from his fingers. The nose of the limo reached the first line of spectators, and the people moved in on the car. The car rocked, swaying its occupants, as the crowd pushed and kicked the sides of it. The president clicked the window switch, but nothing happened. “Driver! Do you have the child-safety lock on the windows? Roll down my window so I can talk to the people!” “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” the agent said, pressing his finger against his earpiece again. The president leaned back to empty half of what remained in the bottle down his throat, then released a long aaaaahhhhh! “You don’t tell me what is or is not a good idea. All my ideas are f*****g great!” Spittle flew from his lips and landed on the agent’s tactical pants. The president tried the switch again. “Driver! I order you!” “Mr. President, please calm down and let me handle this,” the agent said. “You tellin’ me to calm down, like I’m some f*****g stay-at-home housewife who’s pissed at her husband? I’m the goddamn president!” The driver kept the limo inching forward as safely as he could, without running over any toes or clipping any torsos with the sideview mirrors. When a loud thwap! sounded at the rear of the vehicle, the driver ducked his head. All three occupants darted their gaze to the back window, finding a burly man with a baseball bat, winding back to take another swing at the glass. “Now do you think they are friendly, sir?” the agent asked through clenched teeth. Another thwap! made them startle. The man was keeping pace with the limo, winding up for another swing. The crowd from the sidewalk filled the street behind the car, like water rushing from a broken dam. “I don’t see the other cars,” the president said. The agent looked out the rear window just as the bat struck the bulletproof glass again and could not see anything past the horde following the limo. He pressed a small button on his shirt collar and whispered into it. After nodding a few times, he faced the president, who had the brandy bottle tipped again into his mouth. “Sir, we are alone on the street. The convoy couldn’t follow. The crowd wouldn’t let them pass.” The driver’s eyes shot to the rearview mirror to spy the two men in the back row. The he refocused on the roadway, getting narrower by the second. As people shook their fists in anger at the window next to the president’s head, he triumphantly and joyfully shook his fist back at them. “Yes!” he yelled at the closed window, even though they couldn’t hear or see him. “Yes! I’m excited too! We’re taking this county back! You have all made the right choice and are sending your message to the rest of this great land’s people!” His voice sounded uncomfortably loud in the otherwise quiet cabin interior. “Sir, we need to get you out of here,” the agent said and pressed his finger to his earpiece. “Driver, don’t stop moving but turn right at the next intersection. We can pick up the convoy again there.” The president harrumphed and turned over the empty bottle to watch a single drop of liquor dangle from the lip, then fall to the already saturated floorboard. He hiccupped and belched simultaneously, then placed a hand over his mouth. “Oh, excuse me. Please don’t tell the first lady about all”—he wagged a finger at the mess at their feet—“that.” “My only job is to keep you safe, sir. Nothing further.” “Good man, good man.” The president slapped the agent’s shoulder as his head bobbled slightly. “You comin’ to the party tonight? The victory party?” The agent took his gaze from the side window and looked the president in the eyes. “I have been assigned to you for the next eighteen hours.” “Fantastic! Promise me that you’ll share at least one drink with your president tonight at the party, after we squash”—the president drove a fist into an open palm—“that sad excuse for an opposition. Was he just dreadful in those debates or what? Landslide, I tell ya! I killed it up there. It warms my heart to know this country feels it in their bones who is right for them and that they refuse to be devoured by the fake.” A storm of clacking and pounding sounds against the windows filled the limo. Angry faces pressed themselves against the glass; their open mouths as they screamed obscenities left smear marks. Empty fists and weapons-clenched fists beat on all the windows. Wild-eyed citizens kicked and rocked the car as it rolled through the angry mob. “Yes! I love the passion of my people!” The president flashed an obscured thumbs-up to the mob squished against his window and screamed as if they could hear him. “Your voices have been heard!” He kicked the empty brandy bottle across the floorboard, and it rolled until it struck the back of the driver’s seat as the president looked at the agent. “Isn’t democracy fantastic?” The driver noticed a man standing motionless on the left-hand side of the street a few yards ahead, looking like a pillar among chaos. The nose of the limo inched past the man, and he remained like a statue. As soon as the driver’s side window was directly in front of him, he raised his arms and slapped a sign made from a ripped piece of cardboard against the driver’s side passenger window. In blue Sharpie, it read Out To Lunch. The driver nodded at the man and glanced in his rearview mirror to check the visibility in the rear. Satisfied that the limo was completely and unequivocally surrounded, with no chance of being seen from any vehicle in the cut-off convoy, he took one last look at the f*****g president, undid the child-safety door locks, and opened his door. He shifted into Park, leaped from the driver’s seat into the sanctity of the mob, and disappeared into their ranks, leaving his door open. The agent barely got his firearm unholstered before the horde opened the limo’s remaining five doors and flooded the interior from all entrances, swarming the president and overpowering the agent. The sound of the president’s garbled and drunken screams faded as the driver manuevered to the outskirts of the mob and vanished from sight.