It's three a.m., January 25, 2009, and the phone in the White House is ringing. Cindy Lou McCain answers.
"Hello? Just a minute."
She rolls over, but the other side of the bed is empty.
"Is it important? He's sleeping. Um-hm. Okay, yes, that's important. I'll wake him."
She gets up. John has wandered off to the Lincoln Bedroom again. She has to be careful -- he's probably still asleep. The Ambien. Plus, the nightmares. Not the ones about Vietnam. Those stopped a long time ago. Rather, the nightmares about what he did to his first wife (Cindy really does feel bad about that, but, hell, she was twenty-four...what did she know about respecting another woman's marriage?), about what the Keating scandal might have done to his career, about the trauma of having the POW community turn on him, about the 2000 campaign, about sucking up to Jerry Falwell, about speaking at VMI, about well, so many things. No wonder he couldn't get the rest he needed, these days.
Cindy walks carefully down the hall.
"Barbie doll on the move," whispers the secret service agent into his walkie talkie. "Barbie doll on the move, chasing G.I. Joe. Again."
John isn't in the bed. Rather, he's standing beside it, looking down at that couple -- oh, what was their name again -- that paid for the night. Who knows what he's thinking.
Cindy approaches carefully, touches her husband on the arm.
"Waaaagh! Incoming! Incoming! Fire in the Hole! Torture! Torture! I was a POW! I was a POW!"
The couple in the bed doesn't stir. The meds. Oh, that's right. Rush and his boyfriend.
"Johnny, sweetie. It's me. You're in the White House."
"This isn't my home. None of our homes is my home. The longest I lived anywhere was a cell in Saigon."
"Well, sweetie. Did your cell in Saigon have a Lincoln Bedroom?"
"Are you getting snotty with me, you c***?"
"No, dear. It's just, this is the Lincoln Bedroom. You're in the White House. You won. The secret service guys really want you to stay in the residence."
"Well, who's the commander in chief? Me. I was the qualified one."
"Funny you should mention that. There's a phone call for you."
"What the f*** time is it?"
"3:12."
"Where's the phone?"
"Back in our room."
"Lead the way."
Cindy takes him by the arm and guides him step by step down the hall. John is calmed by the walk. "Boy, this is nice. You leading me through my own home. Just like old times, huh Carol?"
"Yes, sweetie. And I'm Cindy."
"Cindy, right."
They arrive at the bedroom. John picks up the receiver, palms the microphone. "Who is it?"
"Secretary of State."
"I need a name."
"I don't know it."
John thinks for a moment. "Is it a man or a woman?"
"A man, I think."
The president nods, then speaks boldly into the handset. "Yes, Mr. Secretary? Thanks. I need the sleep. You know how the election took its toll. If my hair hadn't been gray before, it would have been...oh, yes, yes, you must be calling for a reason."
John rolls his eyes at his wife, and she climbs back into bed.
"I see, I see," the president says. "Well, who do those f***s think they are? Now, I'm mad! Where's that nuclear football deal? Get that guy in here."
Cindy leans over to tap him on the shoulder. John palms the receiver again.
"Dear, they said they couldn't change the codes every night, so they stopped stationing the nuclear football close to your bedroom. If you want the football, you have to make another call."
"To who, dammit?"
"To the secretary of defense."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, hell." The president purses his lips, speaks back into the phone. "Okay, well, short of nukes, what can we do before I hang up? Uh-huh. You sure about that? I mean, I was a POW, so I know when violence is called for. I experienced it first hand -- on my hand. So I'm an authority. Of course, I don't remember it, but that's repression, that's evidence of trauma. If I remembered it, it wouldn't have been that bad, would it? Now, let's kick some ass."
Cindy exhales. It's been like this every night so far. She thought the White House would be different. She finds herself thinking about those painkillers in Rush's -- Lincoln's -- bedroom.
"Screw it, then! We'll do it live! Send the bombers! Why, because I ordered it! I'm the commander in chief. I know because I'm qualified to know. How can I have a positive impact on foreign policy if my much-rumored temper doesn't translate to the use of American firepower? That's what the world is expecting! That's why Iran backed down on those hostages. That's why Reagan hightailed it out of...oh, no, wait, forget that. I don't even remember that. I'm not sure what I remember. Do condoms protect against AIDS? I don't know. How many houses do I have? Seven -- no, eight now! Hell. Wait let me tell a joke...oh, no, wait, I can't. She's sitting right here."
Cindy reaches out to him. "John, this is just like last night. Give me the phone."
"No, I can do this once."
"No, sweetie. You lost your bearings again."
"Give a fella a minute. I'll find them."
"It's 3:22, sweetie. There's a crisis somewhere in the world. Someone has to handle it."
The president fumes for a moment, but hands her the phone. "Now, I'm really mad," he says.