You're a Good Boy, Smitty
by C. Brian Smith

It's 5:30pm on June 12th, 2001. I'm 22 years old and have been sitting at the intersection of 14th street and Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC for fifteen minutes. It's raining, hard. I'm in the first car I've ever owned, my family's old navy blue Jeep Cherokee with nearly two hundred thousand miles on it. There's less than a quarter tank of gas left and hopefully it will last until Friday because my entire net worth is rattling around the sticky change holder next to the emergency break.

A couple of days ago, the tailgate window mysteriously dislodged itself from the car's molding, and through the rear view mirror I notice that rain is now definitely entering the vehicle with ease – a pretty good indication that duct tape doesn't solve everything.

I'm also reminded that, due to one of many character flaws, "driving-my-car-into-stationary-objects-while-intoxicated", the fender which typically rests on the front of the vehicle is now awkwardly rocking back and forth in the trunk. It was discovered near the 18th green at my father's country club in Fairfield, CT on Christmas morning and for over six months I have intended to get it fixed. I have also intended to buy an iron because often my shirts and pants and sweaters are very wrinkled. As a neurotic, yet lazy young man, "intentions" generally get me to sleep at night and generally piss me off the rest of the day. So I berate myself with derisive questions as I inspect my wrinkled collar in the visor mirror.

"Why is it that the most satisfying part of your day is finding the thing you misplaced hours earlier, you fucking moron?!…"

My rant is interrupted by the dashboard clock changing from 5:58 to 5:59 which actually means it's 5:46… which means it's time to leave the intersection of 14th street and Pennsylvania Avenue. I take a deep breath, flick my cigarette out into the rain, cross over the intersection and turn left.

Into the east entrance of The White House.

I graduated from Yale University in May and have been in Washington, DC for two weeks. I moved here to start a band with my best friend. Besides him, the only person I know in this city is Barbara Bush, the daughter of George and Laura Bush. As it turns out, I'm the only person Barbara knows here as well -- her family recently relocated from Austin, Texas because her father was elected President of The United States of America.

Barbara and I met about a year ago at a party I was having in my apartment in New Haven. We had a similar fondness for getting wasted and became friends right away. We also both really enjoyed "Ally McBeal" -- which saved me the trouble of telling her I was gay – so every Wednesday at nine she'd come over to drink some beers, eat kit-kats and watch an exceptional hour of television.

It was a strange bond, but one we both enjoyed, and apparently one that she missed because this afternoon she invited me over to her house to have dinner and watch a movie.

"My parents sort of eat on the early side so can you come over around six?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll finish up work at five, grab my dry cleaning and come over to your place around six."

Your place. What an odd way to refer to The White House.

My stubborn, irrelevant windshield wipers seem to only remove water when they goddamn feel like it, so the driving rain is making it difficult to determine exactly where the East Gate checkpoint is. I roll to a quick stop as a man in a black suit and a heavily armed marine step in front of the car.

They don't know that my driver's side window doesn't work when it rains and are somewhat startled when I open the door to greet them. The Man in a Black Suit raises his hand.

"No, Mr. Smith, please don't get out of the car. We just need to see your identification and check the trunk."

I am happy to stay in the car, because the sight of metal detectors reminds me that I am carrying one half of a marijuana cigarette in my Camel Lights pack.

I hand The Man in a Black Suit my expired Drivers License and he returns to the security hut, while The Heavily Armed Marine motions for me to unlock the trunk. I shout back to him --

"Actually it is unlocked -- it's a little tricky, you sort of have to pull and push at the same time –"

I realize he can't hear me because I'm talking to him through closed windows and torrential rain and just as I begin to mistakenly exit the car for the second time, The Heavily Armed Marine, demonstrating why he is a heavily armed marine, effortlessly opens the liftgate, to reveal:

three weeks of dry cleaning I intended to drop off earlier that day, one rusty front fender, a half case of warm beer from a camping trip I took two months ago and a couple dozen harmonicas which, at first glance, look a lot like pocket knives.

"I was in an accident. And I play the harmonica. They're harmonica's."

The Marine shakes the fender a couple of times, nods back at me, and shuts the liftgate. As he does, the remaining adhesive elements of the duct tape give way and the rear windshield releases itself from the rest of the car. Miraculously, The Heavily Armed Marine manages to catch the glass in mid air and positions it back on the tailgate. I open the door and mistakenly attempt to leave the car for a third time when The Man in a Black Suit rushes out, assesses the situation, and once again instructs me to stay in the car.

He and The Heavily Armed Marine have a brief conference by the trunk, and then The Man in a Black Suit points in a general direction --

"Drive slowly over to the south entrance and we'll make sure it doesn't fall off."

I give him a "thumbs up" and ease through the gate.

The rain has officially defeated my wipers, which have packed it in for the night. Visibility is poor. But, ahead of me, through magnifying puddles of water on my windshield, is the most beautiful, whitest house I have ever seen. I'm humbled in it's presence and, as a result, tap the breaks a couple times.

But The Man in a Black Suit urges me to press on, and for a moment I enjoy the image of a Marine and a Secret Service Agent trailing my incapacitated Jeep as it rolls past the south lawn of The White House. I'm embarrassed by the situation, but not as embarrassed as Richard Nixon probably was when he waved goodbye to the presidency from the Marine One helicopter … which lifted off right over there.

I come to a stop directly in front of South Entrance and another man in a black suit greets me with an umbrella and a smile. He asks me to follow him, so I step out of my car and am immediately struck by how soft The White House's driveway is. There's an inexplicable spring in my step – maybe it's the adrenaline combined with the rain…

I glance down toward my feet as The Friendlier Man in a Black Suit explains –

"President Clinton's running track."

I follow the trace of his finger as it reveals the black, rubber path along the perimeter of the south lawn.

I smile back, "It probably didn't get much use, eh?"

The Friendlier Man in a Black Suit must not be allowed to laugh at fat jokes about former presidents because he just smiles and leads me toward a large door while the Heavily Armed Marine continues to hold my rear windshield in place.

Back in the fifth grade I was assigned to make a shoebox diorama of The White House. In my rendition, Ronald Reagan was greeting Mickail Gorbechov (both portrayed by GI Joe's) in The Diplomatic Reception Room, where, fifteen years later, I am now attempting to whisk rain from my wrinkled khakis. To the left of the ovular room is a large marble fireplace at the side of which Franklin Roosevelt chatted to the nation throughout World War II.

Fireside chats combined with the realization that I forgot to put on deodorant this morning steals my attention away from The Friendlier Man in a Black Suit who is waiting for me in a cherry wood paneled antique elevator. Once I am aboard he pushes an unmarked blue button and we begin to slowly ascend in silence.

Generally, when an elevator door opens, I step out into the hallway and casually determine the direction of my final destination. I rely upon this time because often my fly is down or I've just farted and need a couple strides to air things out.

But in this case, the elevator door opens directly into a sitting room, and before I can even check for pit stains, I hear a familiar laugh.

"Sounds like you had some trouble with your windshield down there at the gate!"

The President of The United States greets me in a blue sweat suit with the presidential seal on its breast. Somehow he has already heard about my shitty car.

"Hello, Mr. President. Brian Smith. Yes, sorry about that. I was in an accident" –

He interrupts.

"Well the girls are getting ready and I'm supposed to give you a tour, Smitty. Let's get you something to drink first. How about a beer?"

He shouts to the Marine Steward, "One beer for Smitty, and I'll have a non-beer."

I haven't been called "Smitty" since little league, but nevertheless, with a Heineken in my hand and a "non-beer" in his, The President of the United States begins to guide me around the residence of The White House.

We start at The Lincoln Bedroom, which is covered in white sheets. He explains that it is currently being renovated, which I find to be somewhat oxymoronic, but the tour is moving quickly so there's no time for questions.

Once again I refer back to my fifth grade diorama as we enter the "Treaty Room". It was so named by John F. Kennedy to reflect the many important deliberations made in the room, including the Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty signed by President Kennedy in 1963. That treaty, and many others before and since, was signed on what is known as the "Treaty Table," a magnificent Victorian desk originally used as a cabinet table by Ulysses S. Grant.

"This is my upstairs office."

And we're moving on, through the residence's stately central hallway. We pause briefly to look at where the President and first lady sleep night, and then he smiles as we walk out onto the rainy Truman Balcony.

"Here's my favorite part. Quite a sight, usually, when the sun sets passed the Washington Memorial."

I instinctively begin to reply "Washington Monument," but decide that it is a bit early in our relationship to be correcting The President.

So we enjoy a few moments in the shadows of the Washington "Memorial" before returning to the West Sitting Room, where, thankfully, my friend Barbara is waiting. I give her a kiss and she introduces me to her sister and her mother. I lead with my left side because I'm suddenly concerned that my rain-soaked wrinkled khakis have awakened the odor of the joint in my right pocket.

I am immediately charmed by Mrs. Bush, who is exactly delightful and so sorry to hear about my recent car accident.

Everyone agrees that it's time for dinner, so we head into the dining room, where I am seated next to The President. It becomes glaringly obvious that I have finished my beer in less than two minutes and the steward brings over a second. As if to keep up, The President orders another "non-beer," and before long we are served some delicious White House chicken pot pie.

As my plate arrives, a separate, horrible odor emerges from the table. I am nervous, because if the pot pie is emitting this odor, I am quite certain I will be unable to eat it. I'm so caught up in debating the proper etiquette for refusing food offered by Heads of State that I hardly notice everyone is looking under their seats. The President scolds Barney, the Scottish Terrier, for farting at the dinner table. I thank him for not pinning the smell on me.

Mrs. Bush congratulates me on my recent graduation from Yale, and The President quickly asks in which direction my chair was facing. He was given an honorary degree at the ceremony and during his speech, in a remarkable act of disrespect, over half of my graduating class turned their seats 180 degrees to face their backs to The President.

"I'm really sorry about that. It was an embarrassment to our class and to the university."

The President, a life-long Yale Man from a family of life-long Yale men, bows his head for a moment. "Yeah, that was a tough one."

Barbara's sister Jenna severs the tension by asking her father how many words he screwed up in that speech. He responds by asking Jenna how many shots of tequila she had on spring break. I add that I am a horrible speller and a bit of a lush. Everyone is laughing. It's a normal family eating chicken pot pie, poking fun at one another, blaming farts on the dog. In The White House.

I mention to the President that we have a mutual friend, the father of my classmate, Jim Lockhart. I've barely got the name out before the President starts shouting,

"The Juice Man?!"

I later learn that my friend's father was The President's freshman roommate at Andover Academy and often suffered from horrible diarrhea. So, ever the nick-namer, the 14 year-old president-to-be dubbed him "Jimmy The Juice Man". He explains that Juice is now the deputy director of Social Security, and "doing great work for us."

The President eats quickly, and apparently when he is finished, we're all finished, as the Marine Steward swiftly retrieves my half-full plate. It's decided that popcorn will serve as dessert in the White House Movie Theater, where The President, the twins, and I watch the film "Unfaithful," with Diane Lane.

You know, it's the one where she gets pummel-fucked every ten minutes. In the stairwell, on the kitchen counter, on the train. So I am relieved when it ends. We reach the elevator and it's time to say good night.

I make plans to go shopping with Barbara and Jenna tomorrow which really means "saki bombing." I jokingly invite The President to join us but he's off to Russia to see "Put'n." He gives me a playful pat on my cheek and says "You're a good boy, Smitty."

And just like that, they're off. And I'm alone in The White House… a remarkable feeling. I decide to exit out The East Wing and stroll through Jacqueline Kennedy's Herb Garden before finding my car, right where I left it.

The Heavily Armed Marine is waiting for me. He hands me the keys and points to the liftgate, which is no longer held on by duct tape.

"We had some adhesive in the back – it should get you home no problem."

I thank him profusely and hop into my car – satisfied that I can now check off "fix rear windshield" from my list of this week's intentions.

I leave the White House grounds and return to normalcy. To my net worth in the change compartment, to my bedroom only large enough for a futon.

And it goes on like this all summer. Spontaneous invitations to The White House. Every other week another manila envelope arrives in my mailbox. Return address: "The White House." That's it. Just "The White House". Enclosed are photos from the most recent visit which are quickly framed and wrapped and offered as birthday presents to my parents, much to their glowing delight. Brian's tails from the Rose Garden are big hits at the family reunion – an occasion I generally loathe because I'm neither planning a wedding nor joining the country club nor sleeping with women.

But as my visits to the White House increase, so does the contempt from most of my friends.

"You are a progressively thinking gay man, Brian. How can you continue to accept invitations from George W. Bush?"

I try to explain that The President is just my friend's father and regardless of his politics, he's been very nice to me. He calls me Smitty. Says I'm a "good boy." And besides, I'm broke -- no one else in Washington is offering me free dinner, beer and unlimited bowling.

It's about 9am on a stunningly sunny September morning. I am hungover (shocker), listening to Imus in the Morning while driving over the 14th St. bridge on my way to work in Fairfax, Virginia.

The traffic is particularly frustrating today but the technicolor rays of sun darting from the Potomic River almost make it worth the wait.

My cell phone rings, and it's Ben, my boyfriend, calling from the roof of his apartment in Greenwich Village, Manhattan.

"One of the twin towers is on fire. It's… incredible."

Almost immediately, the call is dropped. I look up from the phone and notice, for the first time, a large cloud of smoke rising from the Pentagon. Attempts to redial Ben fail, and I realize, alone, on the fourteenth street bridge, that the country is under attack.

An extremely difficult month follows. Nothing is the same. Like everyone around me, I am confused and angry and lost. I suffer from panic attacks and begin drinking as much as my father – something I swore I'd never do.

I figure my days at The White House are over. But, amazingly, on October 11th, I'm invited for dinner. I accept, figuring that an evening with the First Family might alleviate my post 9/11 anxiety. Before leaving, I finally remove the front fender from the back of my trunk, pack away the harmonicas, and check for loose joints. It's the least I can do.

And it's a good thing, because as I arrive, I notice that The Heavily Armed Marine is now just one of dozens of even more heavily armed marines stationed at the checkpoint. The Man in a Black Suit greets me and almost intuitively puts his hand on my rear windshield as I drive to my normal parking spot.

After dinner, I begin to excuse myself, figuring it's inappropriate to overstay at such a sensitive time for The First Family. But before long I'm once again seated next to The President in the White House Movie Theater.

From 1953 to 1986 a man named Paul Fischer was the Official White House projectionist and kept a log of every film screened in the theater. JFK watched "From Russia With Love" the night before he died. Richard Nixon requested "Patton" in times of crisis. And on October 11th, 2001, exactly one month after the worst attack in U.S. history, George W. Bush watched a two hour Anthony Hopkins film called "Hearts of Atlantis."

It's a fucking awful movie and I become extremely uncomfortable as it drags on. Surely there is something else The President should be doing. Occasionally he gets a phone call from Andy Card, his Chief of Staff, who is currently meeting with the head of the FAA in the West Wing to determine when Washington's Reagan National Airport will be safe to re-open. Each time the phone rings, I hope The President excuses himself to join them. But he doesn't. In fact, by the end of the film Andy Card and the head of the FAA have joined us and are now sitting right next to me, enjoying some popcorn. When the movie ends, The President tells the men to "get that airport opened up!" and heads to bed.

It's all really fucked up.

I leave The White House feeling far more anxious about our national security than when I arrived.

And I carry this skepticism with me to The White House Christmas party a couple months later. (SHRUG) Wave hello, park the car, toss the keys, the same old routine. But the novelty of the place has worn off, like Vegas on a Sunday afternoon. Almost immediately I feel out of place, surrounded by Texas Republicans eating ham and singing Christmas carols. I walk alone into The East Room and stare at portraits of Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, and George W. Bush.

A couple months ago, dog farts and diarrhea nicknames made me laugh, too. But as the remains of the World Trade Center continue to smolder I find myself longing for a real president. Or at least one who occasionally uses his "upstairs office" instead of watching movies and drinking non-beers.

I find Barbara and tell her I'm really not feeling well. I wish her and her family a Merry Christmas and leave The White House for the last time.

It's June, 2002. The President unveils "The Bush Doctrine of Preemptive War" and acts upon it. Soon after, I stop telling silly stories about my visits to The White House.

It's May, 2003. The President lands on an aircraft carrier in a flight suit and declares the mission in Iraq "accomplished", even though kids much younger than I are dying every day. Soon after, I ask my parents to remove my White House photos from their walls.

It's February 24th, 2004, and I'm passively watching TV in my Ben's apartment. A rare press conference from The President grabs my attention and I hope for good news from The Middle East. Instead, he announces that The Constitution of The United States will soon be amended to ensure that I will never get married to the man I love. Soon after, I am once again sad and confused.

Confused as to why someone who considers me to be "good boy" is making me feel like half a man.

I guess my graduation chair was facing the wrong direction, after all.

But the president did fix my trunk. And brother, that aint hay.