The Kid Who Became President (3 page)

The sweet old man who greeted me at the door of the White House introduced himself as Roger Honeywell. He said he was the chief usher of the White House. When I asked him what that meant, he said he did “a little bit of this and a little bit of that” to keep the household running.

Essentially, he told me, he was the president's butler and servant. That sounded pretty cool to me. I always thought it would be great to have a servant.

Honeywell had been working at the White House for many years, he told me. He was about as old as vice president Syers and maybe even older. It wouldn't have surprised me if he greeted George Washington after
his
inauguration.

“My only purpose, Mr. President, is to make you, your family, and your guests happy.”

“You need to get a life,” I told Honeywell.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” he asked. “My hearing isn't what it once was.”

“He said you need to get a
wife.
”

The voice came from Vice President Syers, who had wheeled herself up the ramp ahead of my parents. Mrs. Syers would be living in the vice president's mansion a few miles away in northwest Washington, but she wanted to tour the White House as much as any of us. “Perhaps I
will
get married someday,” Honeywell sighed, “if the right woman ever comes along.”

“She better hurry up,” I said.

“I beg your pardon, President Moon?”

“He said we better hurry up,” corrected Vice President Syers, shooting me a stern look I hadn't seen since she was my babysitter so long ago.

My parents arrived and then Chelsea Daniels and her parents finally made their way up the front steps. Chelsea had stopped to pose for some photographers outside the East Gate.

“Nice place,” my dad muttered. That was high praise, coming from my dad. He doesn't usually approve of anything.

“It's lovely,” Mom gushed. Mom thinks everything is lovely.

“If everyone is here, we'd better get going,” Honeywell announced. “The White House has a hundred and thirty-two rooms and you'll want to see them all.”

Honeywell grabbed Vice President Syers's wheelchair and began to push it. He led us through the first floor, which he called the State Floor. This is where the president entertains guests. It's the only part of the building tourists are allowed to visit.

“George Washington was the only president who didn't live in the White House,” Honeywell informed us as he led us into the Blue Room. “It was being built when he was president.”

The Blue Room was oval and decorated with long blue drapes. “The president greets guests here,” Honeywell said. “The seven gilded Bellangé chairs were ordered from France by Monroe.”

“Marilyn Monroe?” I marveled.

“
James
Monroe, sir,” Honeywell replied dryly. “Our fifth president. Though I understand Miss Monroe did visit the White House on several occasions.”

“The chairs are lovely,” my mom said.

“I might have them reupholstered,” Chelsea mused.

Honeywell led us into the Red Room next. “This is a sitting room,” he said. “That's silk imported from the far east. Harrison put it in.”

“George Harrison?” I asked. “The Beatle?”

“
William Henry
Harrison, sir,” Honeywell corrected. “Our ninth president. But George Harrison also visited the White House, when President Ford lived here.”

The Green Room was next, decorated with green silk on the walls. Honeywell said that Garfield put it in.

“Garfield the cat?” I asked.

“
James
Garfield, sir,” he replied. “Our twentieth president.”

“Just busting your chops,” I whispered to Honeywell.

In all these rooms, portraits of past presidents covered the walls. I recognized a lot of them from school. Some of them weren't familiar.

“Who's that, Honeywell?” I asked.

“Rutherford B. Hayes,” he replied. “He was the first president to speak on the telephone.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“What?” replied Honeywell.

“What were his first words on the phone, Honeywell?”

“What. He said what, sir.”

“On the
phone,
” I demanded. “What were his first words?”

“What, President Moon.”

“Forget it,” I said. “That was the
second
thing he said,” Honeywell informed us. Then he leaned over to me and whispered, “Just busting your chops, Mr. President.”

An eighty-year-old guy who still busts chops is okay by me, I decided.

There were two enormous rooms on the State Floor — the East Room and the State Dining Room. Both had floor-to-ceiling windows, fireplaces in all the corners, and enormous chandeliers. Honeywell told us the two rooms were used for receptions, balls, and press conferences. I couldn't help but notice that either room would be just the right size for a halfpipe.

“I can throw the most divine parties here!” Chelsea gushed.

As we walked around, I noticed that there were clusters of people standing around, bowing and smiling politely.

“Are these people
always
here?” I asked Honeywell.

“The White House has almost a hundred employees,” he informed me. “Ushers, maids, butlers, cooks, waiters, window washers. Every piece of furniture gets polished daily.”

“What do
you
do?” I asked a guy in a military uniform who was holding an American flag.

“I carry a flag around and put it behind you, Mr. President.”

“What for?”

“So every photo of you has a flag in it, sir.”

“What's
your
job?” I asked a lady.

“I clean the toilets, Mr. President,” she replied. “There are thirty-two of them in the White House.”

“And they say the
president's
job is tough!” I cracked. “And what do
you
do?” I asked a man my father's age.

“I'm the new food taster, Mr. President,” he said. “I taste all your food to make sure it hasn't been poisoned.”

“Where's the old food taster?”

“He died, sir.”

“Died?!”

“From natural causes, Mr. President.”

“Well, that's good,” I said before asking another lady what she did.

“I'm a secretary,” she said.

“Whose secretary?” I asked.

“The secretary of defense.”

“The secretary of defense has a secretary?”

“Oh yes, sir,” she replied. “And so do I.”

“So your secretary is the secretary of defense's secretary's secretary?”

“Yes, sir.”

Honeywell led us to an elevator, which took us down to the White House basement. There, we saw a barbershop, a doctor's office, a machine shop, a plumber's shop, and a kitchen with a refrigerator so big that you could walk into it. I had no idea the White House had all this stuff in it.

Also downstairs was the Map Room. There are enormous maps on the walls. Honeywell told us that this is where President Franklin D. Roosevelt followed the progress of our troops in World War II.

We all got back into the elevator, which took us up to the second floor. That's where the president's living quarters are. Between my family and Chelsea's family, we would fill every bedroom on the second floor except for one. Honeywell saved that one for last.

“And this is the Lincoln Bedroom,” he said reverently as he opened the door.

The room was decorated simply, with just a small desk and a bed. The bed was huge, maybe eight feet long.

“Lincoln was one of our tallest presidents,” Honeywell told us. “Six feet four inches.”

“The bed is lumpy,” muttered my dad.

“Even so, it's lovely,” Mom insisted.

“Actually, Lincoln never slept in this bed,” Honeywell claimed. “It was being built for him when he was assassinated. But he was embalmed in this room.”

“Creepy,” Chelsea said. “That desk has got to go. It's hideous.”

“With all due respect, Miss Daniels, I believe the desk belongs here.”

“Why?”

“Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation on it — the document that put an end to slavery in this country.”

That shut Chelsea up. I noticed that a framed copy of the Gettysburg Address on the wall was slightly crooked. I went over and straightened it.

“I guess he's been here again,” Honeywell sighed.

“Who?” Vice President Syers asked.

“Abraham Lincoln,” Honeywell said in a hushed voice. “The president's ghost, some believe, lives in this room. Teddy Roosevelt claimed he saw it. So did Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands. And President Eisenhower said he sensed its presence.”

“That's spooky,” Chelsea said. “Let's get out of here.”

Up on the third floor, Honeywell showed us the White House laundry, servants' rooms, dental clinic, tailor shop, carpentry shop, sun room, guest bedrooms, and what was sure to be Chelsea's favorite room — the beauty salon. By the time we got back on the elevator, everybody was exhausted.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Honeywell said, lurching for the second-floor button as the elevator made its way down. He led us to the West Wing of the White House and opened the door to a room he hadn't shown us earlier.

“This,” he said dramatically, “is the Oval Office.”

I was almost afraid to go inside. The Oval Office is the working office of the president of the United States. Kennedy had used this very room. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, too. Some of the most important decisions in history had been made in this room.

“Go ahead, Moon,” Mrs. Syers urged me. “Sit in the chair. See how it feels.”

Hesitantly, I walked around the big wooden desk, which was flanked by flags and large potted plants. There was a huge blue rug on the floor with the Seal of the President of the United States in the middle of it.

I gazed out the window. The Washington Monument was straight ahead. I sank into the big chair and looked at everybody.

“He's not my little boy anymore,” my mom said, sniffling like she was about to cry.

“Lookin' good,” Mrs. Syers said, beaming. “You da man, Moon. The most powerful man on the planet.”

“Actually, there is
one
person who can tell the president where to go and what to do.”

“Who's that?” I asked.

“He's waiting outside,” said Honeywell.

The door to the Oval Office opened. In walked a guy who I can only describe as a giant slab of beef with a head on top. He was an enormous bald-headed African-American man with posture so straight, he must have had a steel bar running up and down his back. Three hundred pounds, easy. He was wearing a blue blazer and carrying a large cardboard box, which he put on a shelf. He looked to be in his thirties.

This monster of a man marched stiffly toward me, saluted crisply, and stuck out his hand. I shook it. Or, to be more accurate, it shook
me.
His hand was about the size of a catcher's mitt.

“Secret Service Agent John Doe, sir,” he said in a quick, clipped voice. “Presidential Protection Division.”

“John Doe?” I asked. “That's not your
real
name, is it?”

“Yes it is, sir.”

“Come on,” I kidded him. “The Secret Service just
gave
you that name for security reasons, right?”

“No, Mr. President, John Doe is my real name.”

“You're not even allowed to reveal your real name to the president, are you?”

“Sir, I am duty-bound not to lie. John Doe is my real name.”

“Your parents couldn't think of anything else?”

“They considered many alternatives, sir. Decided they liked John Doe best.”

“Well, if they like it, I like it, too.”

“Thank you, sir. I'm going to have to ask Chief Usher Honeywell and your family to exit the Oval Office at this time, sir. Vice President Syers, too. Security, you understand.”

Honeywell escorted everyone out of the Oval Office and shut the door behind him. Agent Doe and I were alone.

“You look like you must have been a football player, Agent Doe.”

“Never played the game, sir. Decided it wasn't physical enough, sir.”

“Is that a joke?” I asked.

“I never joke, sir.”

“Do you end every statement with the word
sir
?”

“Usually, sir.”

“Do you ever smile?”

“Rarely, sir.”

I made a mental note. If I could make this guy laugh — just once — my presidency would be a success.

“Maybe you should relax a little,” I suggested. “Being so stiff like that can't be good for you. Lighten up. Have a little fun.”

“Not advisable, sir,” he replied. “For the next four years, I have one specific goal — keeping you alive, sir.”

“Do you really think somebody would try to hurt me?” I asked.

“Sir, the Secret Service has files on hundreds of individuals who have made threats against the president. Some people will disagree with your policies enough to want you dead. Others are mentally unbalanced. Some just think they will become famous by killing you.”

“I'm not worried,” I laughed.

“Sir, four of our presidents — Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy — were assassinated. Attempts were made on the lives of several others.”

“If anybody tries to kill me, I'll just hide behind
you
,” I joked.

“That's why I'm here, sir. Actually, the Secret Service is more concerned about kidnapping. If somebody were to kidnap the president or a member of his family, it would bring the United States to its knees. Cannot be too cautious, sir. You'll need to listen carefully to everything I say for your protection and the protection of the nation.”

“I understand.”

“Whenever you leave the White House, you will be accompanied by myself and about ten other agents. In public, when people put out their hands to shake, it is important that you just
touch
hands with them, sir. Don't clasp.”

“Why not?”

“Someone could grab you and pull you into the crowd, sir. Very dangerous.”

“Okay.”

“Do not accept
anything
that anybody hands you in a crowd, sir. I don't care if it's a teddy bear. Don't take it.”

“It could be a bomb, huh?” I guessed. “An exploding teddy bear?”

“Right. Move through crowds as quickly as possible. If you're a target, be a moving target. See this window behind your desk? Don't stand in front of it. A sharpshooter perched on the roof of that building across the street would be within firing range.”

“Wow,” I said, peeking through the curtains.

“Sir, you should be aware that outside the White House are a series of five-thousand-pound concrete barriers that should stop any suicide truck bomb. If they don't, the White House is surrounded by an eight-foot iron fence. The gates are crashproof. If an enemy somehow made it past the fence, there are pressure sensors on the lawn. Ground-to-air missiles are hidden nearby. If we give the order, the missiles will be launched and will destroy a tank. We also have dogs that sniff for explosives. And all guests entering the White House must pass through a metal detector.”

“Is that it?” I asked.

“No, sir. If an enemy submarine was hidden off the East Coast, it could launch a nuclear missile that would level Washington in six to eight minutes. We have satellites orbiting hundreds of miles above the earth with cameras so powerful they can photograph objects on the ground the size of a large horse. If our satellites detect missiles heading for the White House, you will be led to the bomb shelter in the basement under the East Wing.”

“What if somebody attacks on very small horses?” I quipped, trying to get Agent Doe to laugh. He didn't.

“Missiles are more likely, sir. If there is time, you will be evacuated. We will get you to a 747 jet at Andrews Air Force Base that has been specially reinforced to absorb the heat and impact of a nuclear blast. It is on alert twenty-four hours a day. In the event of a nuclear war, it will serve as the temporary headquarters of our government.”

“So I could watch as Washington gets blown to bits?”

“No, sir,” Agent Doe replied. “The plane has no windows.”

He pointed to a red telephone on the desk.

“Sir, this telephone is the hotline. It is a two-way system that links the White House and the Kremlin in Moscow. If there is an international crisis, the leaders of both the United States and Russia can communicate directly. You do not have to dial. Just pick up the receiver and there is an instant connection. Hopefully, this will reduce the risk of war because of a misunderstanding. Any questions, sir?”

“Do you carry a gun?” I asked.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Did you ever shoot anyone?”

“I have never fired my weapon, no, sir.”

“Do you know jujitsu and kung fu and stuff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you, like, paralyze a guy in ten seconds?”

“Three seconds, sir, if necessary.”

“Wow! You have the coolest job in the world.”

“Some would say the same of you, sir.”

“Can you show me how to do that? Paralyze a guy in three seconds?”

“I will have to check regulations, sir, to see if that is allowed. Right now, there is one more thing to go over. I have to show you how to use the football. Where is it?”

“Football?” I asked. “What football?”

“The football,” he said, his voice rising with urgency. “The brown briefcase you were handed right after you were sworn in. We call that the football.”

“Oh yeah!” I recalled. “The briefcase. The president gave it to me.”

“Where is it, sir?”

“I, uh … guess I left it at the podium.”

Agent Doe grabbed for his walkie-talkie like he was reaching for his gun.

“Code red!” he barked. “Repeat! Code red! We have a fumble situation! Repeat! Fumble situation! Live ball near podium at Capitol Building! Code red! Return immediately! Urgent!”

Instantly, a siren went off outside. A bunch of cars gunned their engines and screeched away. Agent Doe spat out a curse word in his disgust and immediately apologized to me.

“I'll go back and get it!” I said frantically. “I can skateboard over there in a minute.”

“You're not to leave this room!” Agent Doe warned forcefully. “This is a matter of national security, sir. If the football has fallen into the wrong hands, you will be needed here.”

“What do you mean by the wrong hands?” I asked.

“Terrorists, sir. Mentally disturbed persons. Unfriendly governments.”

“I'm sorry!” I moaned. “Oh man, I messed up big time! How could I have been so stupid?”

“What's done is done, sir,” Agent Doe said. “Let's just hope our team can recover the fumble.”

I sat there sweating for a few minutes as the siren got farther away. Any idiot on the street could have picked up the suitcase and launched a bunch of nukes for the fun of it. Millions of people could die. I couldn't breathe. Agent Doe paced back and forth. He wouldn't look at me. I was afraid to look at him. Then his walkie-talkie beeped and he had it on his ear in a flash.

“Fumble recovered!” he shouted excitedly.

I exhaled.

“A janitor found it behind the podium, sir, and turned it over to the police.”

“We should give him a medal or something,” I suggested.

“Wouldn't advise that course of action, sir. Better to keep this incident quiet. If word gets out that you misplaced the football, it will make you look bad. Nasty headlines have ended more presidencies than bullets.”

In seconds, another Secret Service agent entered the Oval Office, carrying the brown briefcase. He handed it to me, saluted, and left without saying a word.

“This is of vital importance, sir,” Agent Doe said, staring intently at me. “The football must be with you
at all times.
It must go with you
everywhere.
It must be with you when you eat, when you sleep.”

“I won't let it out of my sight,” I promised.

“Good,” Agent Doe said as he moved toward the doorway. “It has been a long day for you, sir, and you have a busy night ahead of you. I'm going to leave you alone now. I will be right outside the door if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Agent Doe.”

“Oh,” he said, picking up the box he had left on the shelf. “This is for you.”

“You didn't have to get me a gift!” I said, embarrassed.

“It's from the Defense Department, sir,” he said. “Bulletproof clothing.”

“I've got to wear bulletproof clothes?” I asked, opening the box. The suit inside looked like a regular men's suit but heavier and stiffer.

“It would be advisable, sir, for your protection.”

“Bulletproof
underwear
?” I asked, holding up a pair of briefs. “Do you really think some lunatic's going to try and shoot me in the butt?”

“They'll probably try to shoot you in the head,” he replied. “But they might miss and hit you in the butt, sir.”

The things a guy's gotta do for his country! I thanked Agent Doe and walked him to the door.

“Agent Doe,” I said, putting out my hand again to shake, “what do you think would have happened if the football fell into the wrong hands?”

“Sir, there are enough nuclear weapons in the world to incinerate it and leave it uninhabitable. Right now, half the planet could have been destroyed. Man has the power to destroy mankind.”

“Thank you, Agent Doe.”

“You're welcome, President Moon.”

I was exhausted, but my day wasn't over yet. On the evening of the inauguration, the new president and First Lady have to attend a ball. When I knocked on Chelsea's door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, she almost fainted.

“You're supposed to wear a tuxedo, Moon!” she shouted. “It's a ball, not a ball game!”

“I don't have a tuxedo,” I explained.

I went back to my room and put on a suit I had gotten for a friend's confirmation last year. It didn't fit that well, but it was okay.

As it turned out, I didn't have to go to a ball that night. I had to go to a
dozen
balls that night. Basically, they were fancy dinner parties where rich and powerful people get to dress up and hang out with other rich and powerful people. Chelsea and I would enter the ball arm in arm, say hello to everybody for five minutes, and then get back into the limo and go to the next ball. By the second ball, I was sick of it.

Chelsea loved every second, though. She looked great. Lane told me Chelsea had spent $10,000 on her gown. That was hard to believe. Chelsea hadn't given me the bill yet, so I couldn't say for sure. I didn't even know you could
find
a dress that cost so much money.

When I finally got back to the White House, I was so tired I didn't even put my pajamas on. I just lay on my bed in my suit and fell asleep.