The Winner: Part Thirty-Two

I tense up and wince almost uncontrollably. My knees are shaking under the table. This is happening too soon. Way too soon. My life saving plan isn’t going to go into effect for another twenty minutes. Apple’s bus isn’t going to leave for another fifteen. I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked.

Then I calm down. No, I’m fine. Van Hertzwelder is way too close to me for Burke to detonate the bomb on my wrist. This is confirmed by how relaxed Van Hertzwelder looks as he stands up to greet the President. “Terrific to meet you again George. It’s been a hard year for you,” he says in a completely natural way.

“It’s been a hard year for America,” Bush says.

He makes his way around the group to Buck, who grabs Bush’s hand in his meaty paw and starts pumping it. “Glad to see ya ‘gain George. Hope life up in Washington hasn’t been too hard. I know how us Texas folk cotton to too much of that politickin’ and like wise.” I want to groan. I half expect Buck to fucking let loose a hee-haw after he says that.

Bush’s voice instinctively gets a twang when he responds. “Tell me ‘bout it. I got ‘nother two years of doing the Lord’s work before I can go home and clear brush in Crawford. Nothin’ is more relaxing. It’s like clearing the mind.”

“Provided that cunt Cindy Sheehan isn’t within twenty miles of the county,” Buck quips.

Bush chuckles. “Thankfully, she’s been leaving me alone for awhile. Off crying to her dead son at her communist party rallies I suspect.”

Another round of chuckles go around the table and I do so as well so I don’t look out of place. I’m the only person who hasn’t greeted the President yet. In fact, I’m still frozen in my chair. He comes around to me, smiling in a friendly, affable way. “And I think you’re the only one here I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

He holds his hand out to me and I shake it. I’m in a cold sweat, still wondering if the bomb is going to go off now that I’m right next to Bush.

“Boy, was you born in a barn or something?” Buck loudly barks at me. “Ain’t you got no manners? Stand when you greet the President of the U-nited States of ‘Merica!”

Fuck, he’s right. I’m looking totally flustered here. I get up, my knees still shaking. “I’m sorry.” Once I’m on my feet, I shake the President’s hand again. “Hello Mr. President, I’m Poopy Peanutz.”

The President gives me a kind, smile. “I’m only Mr. President to my staff and to the press. Here you can call me George…”

I probably shake his hand a little too long, but I quickly let go. “Sorry if I seem nervous here, Mr. Pres…I mean, George. It’s just I never imagined I’d ever get to meet you, you know…in person.”

“Don’t worry, Poopy. I can call you Poopy right? Behind all the pomp and circumstance, I’m really just a normal fellow just like you.”

“Just like me,” I repeat. “Yes. I apologize for acting so nervous.”

“Nervous?” Buck says. “More like shellshocked. You’re shaking like you just saw Hillary Clinton’s snatch. Have another brandy, willya?”

Bush shoots him a look, “Now Buck, be nice. Poopy here just isn’t used to running in the same circles as you and I.” He pulls out the chair next to mine. “Let’s all sit down and have a quick brandy before we go do our thirteen holes.”

I’m too fucking terrified to be seriously angry, but dammit, if this bomb does end up going off I really hope that faux cowboy Buck gets killed in the blast too. Or maimed. Yes, maimed would be better. Get half his face shredded off and maybe his hand fused into his thigh in the blast. Maybe get his balls blown off too…

I keep thinking progressively worse and worse fates for Buck, even though in the end I want none of them to happen since that would mean I’d have to die. Still, this cold anger is calming me, focusing me, which is something I dearly need. The President is sitting right next to me, ordering a brandy from that gangly waiter. Van Hertzwelder is still at the table with us. I hope hope HOPE he doesn’t get up to use the bathroom or anything, since Burke will surely set this thing off if he does. Please, at least not for another twenty minutes.

The next round comes to the table. The President lifts his snifter up, “Well, gentlemen, I’d like to propose a toast, namely to all of you who have contributed so much money to the cause of the freedom in this country when it is in such desperate peril from enemies foreign and domestic. Cheers…”

Bush then upends the entire snifter, swallowing the whole thing in one gulp. Everyone else does the same except me. The last four glasses are starting to catch up with me so I can only get down a quarter of an inch without gagging. Bush puts his snifter down and gives off a loud belch. He waves one of his aides over and says, “Have the waiter bring us another round. Whaddya all say, let’s get one more in before we hit the course?”

Grunts of agreement go all around the table. Something doesn’t feel right. I look over at him and ask, “Say, I thought you didn’t drink. Didn’t you have to stop because you got a DUI or something?”

Bush raises his eyebrow, “I don’t drink?” He looks around the table, pauses, and then breaks into a hearty peal of laughter. “Listen here, Poopy. It is almost physically impossible for someone to be President and not drink. The demands of the job are such that if I didn’t let off some steam and get drunk on a daily basis, I’d have nuked half the countries in the world just for the fuck of it. Of course, I tell the public that I’m a teetotaler, but that’s just because the evangelicals are uncomfortable with the conspicuous consumption of alcohol.”

I think I get that. “Oh-kay.”

“Okay. You tell anyone you saw me drinking, of course, I’ll deny it. Then I’ll sic Rove on you, have you smeared in the press, put on the no-fly list, and have your taxes audited every year for the rest of your life. Not to mention you won’t get invited to any more of our little golf outings,” he claps his hand on my back. “But you’re a smart fellow, Poopy. I’m sure I don’t need to spell this all out for you.”

“Right,” I say. “Don’t worry, Prez. You’re secret is safe with me.”

Now drink up so we can play. I’ve gotta be in Fresno for a dinner with the South Korean Ambassador by tonight, so we can’t dawdle in the club for too long.”

I sip at my brandy some more, mostly just enough to coat my lips. Van Hertzwelder speaks up, “Yes, we should finish and get on the course quickly. Gentlemen, I’m afraid that my incompetent secretary managed to schedule a board meeting two hours from now, forgetting that I had this game today. I’ll be able to play one hole with you fellows, then I’ll have to be going.”

“Oh Jesus, Carl,” the President whines. “Couldn’t you have told them you were meeting with the fucking President? I’m sure they’d reschedule for that.”

“I would, but these guys are on a flight to Beijing to talk to work on the contract tonight. I absolutely can’t get out of it. Don’t worry, I’ll probably have some free time in August and we can meet again down at your ranch.”

Bush lifts his refreshed snifter to his mouth. “Well, it’s up to you. As long as the party can keep the donation you gave us.”

“But of course,” Van Hertzwelder says. He looks at me and smirks. This is good to know though. He is going to be close enough to me that Burke won’t be able to detonate the explosive without getting him in the blast as well. At least until we finish up the first hole. This actually is good news since I’m sure my mom will come into play before we even reach the first hole.

Then I feel something buzzing. I’m certain it’s the bomb being primed to explode, but it’s coming from my pocket, not my wrist. Yes, it’s just my cellphone. I pull it out and the caller ID says it’s the phone from the bus station. I flip open the phone, put it to my ear and turn away from the table so I can talk semi-discreetly.

“Poopy,” It’s Apple’s voice on the other end. She sounds calmer than she did when I spoke with her in the locker room. “I’m calling you, just like you said you wanted me to.”

“Yes. Did you make it over there all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine. All three of us made it over here okay.”

“Do you still have the bus tickets?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Get on there now and don’t talk to anyone until you get to Oklahoma City.”

“I will.”

Something doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t sound normal.

“Apple, are you sure no one followed you to the bus station?”

“Yes. I’m sure, Poopy. Everything is all right.”

I’m not convinced, but I don’t know what else I can do. “Okay, well. Good luck Apple. And I’m truly sorry about everything that has happened to you and your children. I never meant for you all to get caught up in my mess.”

“It’s okay, Poopy. I forgive you. I’ll see you on Friday.”

I’ll see you on Friday. Oh shit…

“Wait, Apple, what did you just say?” but she’s already hung up and I’m just talking to dial tone. I slowly snap the phone shut and stick it in my pocket. Buck seems to notice my change in demeanor.

“You look a little green around the gills there, Poopy,” he says. “You drink too much brandy, or did you just get a bad call from your hedge fund manager?”

I suddenly feel sick. Things are spinning out of control, but I take a deep breath and get a handle on myself. “I’d…rather not say. It’s personal.”

“Suit yerself,” he says, then goes back to talking with the President.

Van Hertzwelder raises his brandy to me and smiles.

“Cheers, Mr. Peanutz.”