12-031
SITTING ON THE THRONE OF AMERICAN HISTORY
I was recently invited
to the White House to meet President Barack Obama. While I was waiting in the
reception area, an aide asked me if I needed anything. “Can I bring you some water,
juice…”
I was quite nervous
for my big meeting. “No thanks… but could I use the restroom?”
The aide led me down a
corridor to a door labeled MEN (so far so good). I slipped inside and fastened
the lock. Inside was just enough space for a toilet and a sink. I turned on the
cold water and suddenly wondered if this modest men’s room was the one which the
president puts to work. As far as I could tell, it was the commode closest to
the Oval Office. So this is where the man, who also happens to be Leader of the
Free World, enjoys his scarce minutes of true privacy. As I sat, chin on my
fist, elbow on my knee, I reflected on the great leaders who had once graced
this porcelain throne: John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, Martin Sheen...
OK, time to get it
together. I was just minutes from meeting the President of the United States of
America. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, counted to ten one, two, thr-aaaaay
what’s this?
I reached for the toilet
paper and couldn’t believe my eyes. In case you’re wondering what kind of TP
the POTUS uses (and who isn’t?), let’s just say it’s not as... charmin’ as you’d
think. In fact, it’s basic two-ply government-issue tissue. It’s the same basic
stuff the army private uses in Afghanistan and the black bear uses in
Yellowstone. So the next time you’re complaining of taxes taken from your
paycheck, remember, the president feels your pain when he does his duty. So the
next time you’re mulling brands in the toilet paper aisle, remember, neither quilted
nor aloe for this administration!
I pulled up my pants
and met President Obama. Our chat went well. I meant to ask him what kind of
paper he uses in the East Wing but strangely it slipped my mind. When I left
the Oval Office I wasn’t offered any White House key chains, pens, bottle
openers, or official birth certificate holders. But I did walk out patting my
breast pocket, which held one small souvenir: a neatly folded square of two-ply
government-issue toilet paper.