64
Wednesday, March 17, 2021, 5:15 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The Presidential Physician, Dr. Vincent Bloombach, had been sitting for three and a half hours in the waiting area, a time during which he was resolutely ignored by Mrs. Johnson, the Presidential Receptionist.
In those hours, Dr. Bloombach, in his starched military uniform, smiled and nodded as various people were shown into the office ahead of him: reality television stars, the Irish ambassador, a wheeled dessert tray from the White House kitchen staff, a female evangelical minister, a girl scout troop from Arkansas, a delegation from the Jesus Athletic Fellowship, the Attorney General, a delivery person from Tennessee Fried Chicken, and finally, a famous commentator from Wolf News.
The President himself finally appeared at the door as his last visitor left the Oval Office. He did not shake hands with the commentator; he merely stood in his odd accustomed way facing him, leaning forward slightly, arms at his sides, palms facing backwards.
“Great to speak with you as always, Ian,” the President said. “I’ll call in to your show some time soon.”
“Do you validate parking?” Flannelly said to the receptionist, as if mugging for a camera. From her utter lack of response, it was clear that this was not the first time he had tried this gag on her. He turned back to his host.
“Well, thank you so much, Mr. President. Our special on the third term will be airing soon. Give ‘em hell, sir!”
“That’s great,” the President said, a bit distractedly. “You too.”
“You can depend upon it, sir,” Flannelly said, a bit too enthusiastically. The President motioned for him to go, and Flannelly turned, still grinning, and walked with one of the aides away down the corridor.
“Okay, Doc, I guess you’re next,” the President said. “I told you I’d rather do this on a weekend.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I know this is a little inconvenient.”
Dr. Bloombach rose as the President turned and began to walk into the office. He hastened to catch up.
The President walked around the Resolute desk and sat down.
“What do you want? We just had the checkup.”
“Mr. President, how are you feeling?” the doctor asked, as he took a seat in a chair facing the desk.
“What do you mean? Why are you wasting my time? I’m a busy guy. I don’t have the virus again, do I?”
“No, sir. It’s not that. Sir, it’s just that some of your other results were a little non-standard this time.”
The President stared at him for a moment.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, sir,” the doctor said, clearing his throat, “the MRI picked up some abnormalities. We’d like to do some more tests to make sure.”
“Abnormalities? More tests? What are you trying to say? Abnormalities?”
“Well, sir, normally we would be able to catch this earlier, due to the jaundice that accompanies it, but that symptom was, uh….” Here the doctor struggled to find the correct words. “…We were unable to detect that symptom for certain dermo- chromatic reasons. But we can’t be sure until we, uh….”
“Spit it out,” the president said.
“Well, sir…it appears you may, and I emphasize the word may, since we need to do those further tests, you may have an advanced case of pancreatic cancer.”
The President was silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he got to his feet.
“FAKE NEWS!” he said.
“Sir?”
“FAKE. NEWS.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t have anything. Your tests are wrong.”
“Sir, there are treatment options…”
“No treatment. No options. You said I was going to live to be 200!”
“That wasn’t me, sir… I think that was your previous physician. If you want to get a second opinion…”
“No opinions! I have the only opinion that’s needed. I beat the virus, so now I’m fine. Or it’s your fault. Now get out of here.”
“Sir… I think you need…”
“You think? Get out of here.”
“Mr. President, it’s my duty…”
“Your duty? I’m the customer here! I say your duty! And your duty is to get the hell out of here!” The President pointed to the door angrily.
Dr. Bloombach got to his feet unsteadily and started to back away, hitting the couch behind him and almost falling. He turned and walked toward the exit, ashen-faced.
The President then yelled, “Stop!”
The doctor turned, confused.
“I want you to remember, you signed a non-disclosure agreement,” the President said.
“A non-disclosure agreement? Uh, yes,” the doctor said.
“If I hear you say a peep about this fake-news pancreatic thing, I’ll destroy you and your whole family,” the President said.
The doctor simply looked at him, stricken. He turned again and walked with increasing velocity out the office door.
The President picked up the phone and barked, “Mrs. Johnson?”
“Yes, sir?”
He could hear her outside the door as well as through the phone.
“Mrs. Johnson, who do I talk to to find a new presidential doctor?”
“I’ll get right on it, sir.”
The President hung up the phone and sat down. He felt around his ample waist. Where was the pancreas, even? Did he even have one? Hadn’t it been removed?
Both hands still on his midriff, he looked across the office at the portrait of George Washington.
“‘I cannot tell a lie,’” he murmured. “Well, neither can I. Nothing I say is a lie. I said it, it’s true. I do it, it’s the law.”
He stared at the portrait for a moment longer, then at the portrait of Honest Abraham Lincoln.
Then he picked up the phone again.
“Mrs. Johnson? …I want to swap out some of the pictures in here.”
© 2020 Nolan O’Brian