At first, I have to admit, I was a little worried about the gun.
Not long ago, it was revealed that the president of the United States had taken as a souvenir the pistol found on Saddam Hussein when American forces pulled him, blinking and bearded, out of the earth. It was reported further that the president kept the confiscated firearm in the Oval Office. I became concerned.
In the first place, this is a president that has in the past been overpowered by, in order, a pretzel, a Segway scooter, and a bicycle. (Note that I do not include here the fact that he is also regularly overpowered by the facts, by the office of the vice president, and by the rules of English grammar. These are abstract things, and it is as unfair to criticize him for being wrestled to the ground by abstract concepts as it would be dumb to, say, launch a "war" against one.) Anyway, there seemed to be trouble brewing here with tangible, mechanical objects.
(And I do not in any sense mean to start mucking about with the Freudian aspects of capturing the "gun" of the man who'd been left in power by the father whom you once attempted to take down on the front lawn. In the first place, it is always better when King Oedipus is kept the hell out of politics, even in Thebes. And, anyway, well, ick.)
I feared possible White House hijinks. Perhaps a little quick-draw practice at a loose moment between meetings and, blammo!, a portrait of TR gets a third eye. Or maybe there's some flashy spin-it-on-your finger fun coming down one of the halls and, suddenly, there are a couple fewer people working in legislative affairs. Meanwhile, Karl Rove has to put together numbers on the fly on how accidentally ventilating members of the staff plays with the base (answer: not badly at all) and embattled press secretary Scott McClellan has to get up and explain how guns firing in the White House began with Bill Clinton anyway.
(Damn that Freud! You lock all the doors and he sneaks in through the window!)
So I was concerned for a while, but then I began to take the longer view. I don't recall offhand the last president who came to work every day strapped. I suspect it was probably Andy Jackson, but I'm going to need one of those TV star historians to know for sure. I do know that having a president who's packin' could result in a refreshing lack of sycophancy on the part of the White House staff.
I mean, imagine how different history would have been had poor old Lyndon been able to sight down between McNamara's eyes with a shiny new Colt and ask, "Waaaal, Bob, do y'all really need 200,000 more boys over thar?"
Imagine how much more smoothly and honestly budget debates would go if the bureaucrats seeking to sway the president's opinion were forced to cast furtive, sidelong glances at the AK leaning against that big old desk. Remember the three little words that the old comics said can always get you everything you want in this sinful world:
"I'll shoot you."
There are several applications of this principle to our current predicaments. Consider, for example, the president's energetic, if sadly unproductive, search for the nasty people who leaked the name of CIA covertress Valerie Plame to several Washington journalists, many of whom were not named Chris Matthews. Now, we know the president has been working night and day on this egregious breach of the public trust -- but Lord above, the poor man can only do so much! I mean, all he has to work with is the influence of his office and his own powers of persuasion. It's not like he's allowed to torture people or anything.
And there are places where even the gun might not be of any great help. For example, he can't exactly go prowling around all of Washington's television studios, looking for the culprits who leaked the information. First of all, there are too damn many studios; he'd be at it until the third year of Jeb's second term. And, regardless, there are serious First Amendment issues in play as regards shooting up a Green Room. What if you accidentally wing Dershowitz in makeup? Do you really want that lawsuit?
However, let's suppose he was able to gather all the suspects into a single room -- the Mural Room, say. He sits them around that wide, gleaming table and, having worked on Setting His Jaw and Squinting Manfully with his face coach for a couple of hours that afternoon, he takes his place at the head of the table.
Now, chances are the varmints in question are already nervous. Novak's held up so far, but he still might crack, especially if someone points an honorarium his way. The tension rises in this room because everybody knows the president's got a gun, and some of them even suspect he knows how to use it. Feet shuffle. Mouths dry up. Why, the secret polecats think, did we ever leave that job at the Heritage Foundation, where the threat of gunplay always subsided with the arrival of the dessert cart?
It is at this moment that the president sets his jaw, squints manfully across the breadth of the table, and drops his now-glistening shootin' 'arn down on the mahogany with a loud thump.
“Now,” the president says, “let's talk about this here Plame gal.”
Oh, doesn't the squirming begin then, especially when they notice the president idly toying with a single bullet, rolling it between his fingers. The president picks up his gun and just sort of squints down the sight, aiming at everything and at nothing at all, saying "Bang!" under his breath. All around the table, the breathing gets shallow. Sweat begins to pour. Cheney's people all start cutting looks to one side and estimating how fast they can get to the side door. Somewhere else, deep in the White House, a clock rings out 12 times.
High noon.
I'm telling you, this is the way to get results these days. This is the way to make public policy. At gunpoint. Truth in the eye of the shooter. Nothing can possibly go wrong -- unless, of course, someone brings in a bowl of pretzels and, in the ensuing debacle, a wild shot catches Lucy Hayes's china. Don't play with your toys around the good dishes. Wait'll Mom finds out.
(Damn it, Freud! Get out now!)
Charles P. Pierce is a staff writer for The Boston Globe Magazine and a contributing writer for Esquire. He also appears regularly on National Public Radio.
