Mr. Peregrin Goes To Washington

Ronald R. Peregrin was the kind of man that would let a good idea go to waste, happy in the creation of the idea itself.

Elwood G. Wooster, however, was not.

That’s how this whole mess started. Ronny and Woody were sitting around the clubhouse at The Greens watching the McLaughlin Group, laughing at the talking heads. They both felt the same ambivalent contempt for politicians and pundits alike, and when it was raining on their tee time of a Sunday afternoon, this was the next best sport.

“I swear, Woody, I wish just once those boys would say what they mean and mean what they say”.

“It was good enough for Horton the Elephant, wasn’t it?”

“Who?”

“Horton the Elephant . . . Dr Seuss? Are you serious? ‘Horton Hears A Hoo’, It’s a classic of American literature. ‘I meant what I said, and I said what I meant; an Elephant’s faithful, One-hundred per cent?’ Come awwn . . .”

“Hmm . . they teach you that at OU?”

“How can you not know ‘Horton Hears A Hoo’?”

There was a brief lull in the conversation as they listened listlessly to the heavy rainfall and McLaughlin’s heavy baritone. It was oddly peaceful.

“What were we talking about, Woody?”

“Horton”.

“No, before that.”

“Uh… we were talking about a politician speaking his mind with fear of neither spin nor poll. That sounds poetic, doesn’t it, ‘with fear of neither spin nor poll’?”

Ronny gave a short, yet sincere laugh. “Doesn’t rhyme; you’d have to find something that rhymes with ‘poll’ to lead up to that.”

“Yeah, like you know from poetry.”

“Yeah, like you do. Wouldn’t it be funny if some guy ran for President without giving a damn what anybody thought? No poll watching, no focus groups, just straight from the hip all the time? I suppose He’d have to be a guy who didn’t really expect to be president.

“What, you don’t think the truth would sell?” said Woody, raising an eyebrow and focusing in just ever so slightly more on Ronny’s words.

“For that matter, he’d probably have to be guy who didn’t even want to be president. God that’d be fun to watch. He’d never make it, but it’d be fun to watch.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a winning plan. Besides, you’re scaring me. I’ve been thinking the same thing lately. Just like that. I can’t quit thinking about it. I was actually thinking you’d be the perfect guy for that. Smart, opinionated, doesn’t want the job. Doesn’t even care about the job. Don’t you think?”

A genuinely amused smile spread across Ronny’s face, which was normally quite smiley anyway. “That’d be a blast, wouldn’t it? But man, you’re right. What an awful gig. Worse than teaching, but slightly higher pay. Makes me shiver just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, but you get free room and board for four years. Eight years if you’re good at it. No more traffic; just motorcades and helicopters. And when you’re time’s up you get a big fat pension and you build your own library. Sounds like all your dreams come true.”

“Heh. Good point. Maybe I’ll do it”.

“You should. Really”.

Ronny smiled at his best friend. “Not in this lifetime, pal.”

“Last time you said that, you ended up married.”

“Shut up. You know, we’re never going to get a start time today; let’s go to Jimmy’s and have three-egg omelets, and then pretend we exercised enough to justify it.”

“See, that’s what I mean, you’re a genius. You’d be a great President.”

By the time they got to their cars, Ronny had completely forgotten about the whole thing. Woody, on the other hand, well, Woody’s mind was spinning. And it would keep spinning.

Of course, it didn’t really matter at the time, because back then they were both broke; at least what passes for broke in suburban America. They weren’t missing any meals, certainly, and they weren’t homeless, car-less, or even cable-less or high-speed internet-less. But they were both in debt, if not up to their noses, than at least up to about the shoulder blades.

Ronny was a wage slave to a teaching job he hated but couldn’t afford to quit, while Woody was an entrepreneur in the “just about ready to get rich” stage of his start-up. But he’d been there for a decade, at least.

And then something funny happened: Woody got rich. His company went public, and a consortium of German high tech companies promptly bought him out. All the sudden, in his 42^nd year, he was a restless billionaire. And he had never quite forgotten about that conversation in the clubhouse.

----------

Ronny was sitting in the bar at the Westin on the morning of the last day of the primary season. In 12 hours he’d more than likely be the Democratic nominee for President of the United States.

After reminiscing a bit, he began an internal monologue that went something like this:

“Stupid Woody and his stupid ambition. Stupid energy. Stupid knack for planning. Stupid billion dollars in the bank. Stupid lucky at scrabble jerk who beat me the only time in his life when we bet on whether not I’d run at all and got me into this whole stupid mess. Stupid me and my stupid ‘God-given public speaking skills, native charm and common sense plain talk’. Stupid Time Magazine for writing that crap right before New Hampshire. Stupid Hazelberry for having a stupid nervous breakdown. How did I get INTO THIS?”

That last part must not have been internal because Cal the Secret Service guy almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden quiet-shattering outburst.

“Sorry, Cal. Wanna drink?”

“No sir I'm on duty.”

“How many times’ve I asked you that now, you suppose?”

“Mmm, ‘bout every single day since I got you, I suppose, sir.”

“How many times you figure I’ve told you to quit calling me ‘sir’?”

“Mmm, ‘bout the same . . . sir.” But as he said that, one might have barely noticed what might definitely have been a grin.

“Cal I swear to God if I’m ever President you’re gonna drink with me in the mornings and call me Ronny.”

“Yes sir.”

“And you know how bad I don’t want to do it, but by God I might just keep going and get myself elected just to screw you, you know that, right?”

Now Cal actually did smile. “Yes sir, I believe you just might.”

Ronny’s face fell, as if actually feeling the weight of what he was getting into. It was a burdensome and unwelcome thought, and his whole body followed suit and sank down on his barstool.

“Cal, you think it could happen?”

For the first time in the conversation, Cal actually looked at Ronny, but not before whispering into his sleeve to have someone cover his corner of the room. He spoke softly, because he knew his words were going to hurt.

“Yes, sir, I surely do.”

Silence. Then, “You suppose there’s any chance I’ll get lucky and somebody'll blow my brains out?”

Cal smiled the widest smile in the history of the Secret Service.

“No, sir, not a chance in hell.”

“You’re a hard, hard man, Cal. You know that don’t you?”

“Yes sir. Yes I do.”

------------

Later that night, after the balloons were all popped and the confetti was all swept, Ronny and Woody were sitting at the same bar at the Westin.

“Damn you, Woody. This was supposed to be a goof. I wasn’t supposed to be nominated.”

“Cheer up, son. Maybe you’ll get lucky and someone’ll blow your brains out on the campaign trail.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, jerkface. Besides, Cal already made it clear my longevity and well being are assured at all times. I’m safe as a kitten.”

“Sorry. Just a thought.”

“What am I going to do? What if I actually win? I can’t be President of the United States.”

“I got news for you son, you not only can be president, you’re the odds on favorite. What you mean is you don’t want to be President of the United States. That’s why you’re probably going to win.”

Ronny’s response was unintelligible, but almost certainly contained vile oaths directed at Woody and certain of his ancestors.

“Do you really not remember sitting at the Greens and saying that a guy like you would have to not want the office in order to win it?”

“I told you I don't”

“Never mind. Cheers, Ronny. You did good.”

“I’m a complete idiot and I never should have let you get me into this.”

“Yeah, well, you’re half right.”

“Shut up.”

“That's not very presidential.”

“Seriously, shut up.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just this once.”