WASHINGTON, Jan. 20 - aS you might imagine, the ScreedMe Copy Boy In-Chief receives numerous prestigious invitations, some of them hilariously disguised as a collection notice or legal summons. Shockingly, George W. passed me over for his inaugural celebration. No matter. Weeks earlier, I managed to slide in the back door of the final Clinton White House Christmas party, nattily dressed as a glad-handing fat-back politico in requisite blue suit and matching tie.
My first Clinton Christmas party invitation
eight years ago found me at grad school. I rsvped in person, shaving the
stubble that passed for my beard, showing up in earrings and a nominal
attitude. Free food is free food when you hang by student loan strings.
Eight years later as lofted Copy Boy In-Chief, free food is still free food. But this time I appeared without earrings, less hair in general, and an attitude revision. Much has changed, yet I still hang by those same student loan strings. No matter.
Upon greeting the first couple for the routine photo op, I told the President, " the country will miss you sir." He agreed, thanked me, and I moved on to Mrs. Clinton, telling her that as a New York resident I wish her the best as my new Senator. She thanked me, promised to "work hard," and politely ushered me out the door with my comely date of the night - a woman other than my wife.
Not ten steps later, a better, revised scenario flooded my brain. Turning to my comely date - copy boys can have their pick - I began to relate what I meant to say, first to the President, then to his First Senator.
"Mr. President," I would start, looking him hard in the eye, firmly taking his outstretched hand in both of mine, "I voted for George Bush in 1992 (a lie designed to set Clinton up), voted for Buchanan in '96 (a bigger lie to indicate that I suffer dementia), voted for Nader this year, (nearly true, except that as an alien I really shouldn't vote in the United States) but now realize this country has no clue yet how much it will miss you."
Under my better, revised scenario, Bill - we would now be on a first name basis - would agree, thank me, then clasp my two hands in both of his and pull me into a lung-extinguishing bear hug with a force that only LBJ could equal.
Now locked in tight embrace I would awkwardly, and meekly at first, strike up both the words and tune to "We Shall Overcome".
He would pick up my beat and begin to hum along as the two of us swayed back and forth. After a few bars, while a startled First Lady and my comely date haplessly looked on, the president would take my shoulders squarely, push me back to within eyesight, wipe a tear - from my face then from his - and whisper "thank you" in his signature Arkansas rasp.
At this, I would turn to the First Lady, who would recoil with eyes wide as secret service protectors began speaking rapidly to their watches and setting their phazers to vaporize.
"And Mrs. Clinton, m'am É"
"Yes!" she'd blurt in alarm.
"Thank you too. Thank you m'am for winning New York away from Rick Lazio, possibly the only politico man-boy alive who could lose a game of Scrabble to George W.
Gathering her breath in mild relief, Hillary would smile nervously, nod thanks, and promise to "work hard" for me. As I searched for my comely date - who according to unreliable network exit polls had already fled - I would make my way to the door, turning one last time to see the president-in-fading.
"Hey," he'd call after me nostalgically.
"Yes sir," I'd reply outside in the mist, my oversized raincoat flapping as an inexplicably waiting prop plane along Pennsylvania Avenue started its engine.
"I'm going to miss you too," he'd holler, waving one last time before sliding a White House wall phone into his pocket.
"Maybe you'll be back one day," I'd call back brightly.
"Not unless they get better furniture," Bill would huff as he struggled to lug two giant Oval Office couches into a nearby van labeled "Marc Rich Movers".
Climbing aboard my prop - tripping on my raincoat then quickly wheeling around hoping no one noticed - and flying one last time over the Capital, I would see below what appeared to be the president in-fading dragging several TV sets into that waiting van, then scampering to collect hundreds of tiny "W" computer keys accidently spilled in his haste across the circulare White House driveway.
Soon clouds and darkness would cover Bill and the White House. After a few more moments in the air, I noticed a People Magazine wedged into the jump seat ahead. "George W's Six-Step Economic Plan: A Six-Pack in Every Garage."
I was somewhere around step-three when I remembered those mirthful days of yore, fretting over thoughts of government under Dan Quayle.
Yours Truly,
Xandor
Copy Boy In-Chief
Copyright © 2001