Crow's Feet and Crossed Fingers

I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life.

“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”

Roar. Applause. Elation.

I was the first true Independent President since George Washington. Before my candidacy was even announced, they were comparing me to the illustrious Father of our Nation. It was an upset to the balance of power. No more Republicans and Democrats squabbling over divisive bills and plastering fake news across social media to provoke outrage. Finally, the nation would be unified.

Of course, I knew that was all farcical.

The truth was we had spent too many generations swinging a moral pendulum between elephants and asses for one figurehead to make a damn bit of difference. But the people didn’t want to hear such things—that they controlled their destiny. No, they wanted their future etched by an ornate pen scribbling on parchment in the Oval Office. They wanted to be taken care of like children, yet demanded freedoms that children don’t get. They riot, yell, and burn effigies in protest of imagined slights—adult tantrums.

So, how do you deal with inconsolable, spoiled children?

You lie. Tell them what you will give—the things you’ll buy—anything to placate them. After all, in four to eight years, they won’t be your problem anymore. Prioritize short-term gains over long-term results. Blame someone else for their problems so you never lose their trust. With any luck, they’ll be so consumed by what you gave them that they won’t notice what you took away.

I turned and waved to the crowd of onlookers. Most of them despised me—at least, according to the media. Politics are so fickle. Behind closed doors, everyone is cordial, but turn on the cameras or the X accounts and dogfights quickly ensue. The Independent’s dilemma is that while the masses sing your praises, Capitol Hill condemns you as an outcast. Votes only get you in the door; they don’t make friends.

The shaking of hands. Fake smiles. Cameras clicking feverishly. Congratulations sits on the lips of every viper in the brood. We all know how this goes: get elected, sign some executive orders, post them as achieving campaign promises, and hope to carry enough momentum into a second term. After that, who gives a shit? Your name is in the history books, and in the worship of subjectivity, no one will agree whether you were good or bad. Besides, no one trusts the people writing history anyway.

I shake hands with the Republican Representative from Alabama. He grabs my shoulder like we’re old friends. I can feel a hundred lenses capturing the moment. He wants to look like he believed in me all along. Truth is, he bleeds red through and through. His weight and unabashed loyalty to his party have earned him the nickname “Elephant in the Room”—at least in private. In public, we all say his weight is genetic and “not his fault.”

“Congratulations, Mr. President,” a voice emanates from behind me.

I turn to see Douglas Purcivall, the Democratic Senate Minority Leader. His wrinkled, overtly tan face reminds me of a bloodhound that should’ve stopped hunting squirrels years ago. Now that I look closer, his eyes seem bloodshot. I’m sure one of our researchers has dirt on his alcoholism—just in case.

“Thank you, Douglas,” I respond cordially. I never liked him. Maybe because he once suggested my wife was trying to live out a Blindside fantasy, simply because we adopted a Black teenager who’s athletic. He later retracted and denied implying she had a “White Savior Complex,” and the media never followed up. It’s been three weeks. Everyone’s forgotten.

I kiss my wife on the cheek, but her smile betrays dread. The road to the presidency is harsh and unforgiving—and more so for the First Family. The abuse she’s borne from anonymous strangers can only be described as sick and criminally insane. We had to pull our children out of school and hire tutors due to death threats received from parents via their own flesh and blood.

I could never understand the depth of hatred someone must feel to threaten murder on an innocent. But like John Adams said, the Constitution is made for a moral and religious people. Our country has long abandoned traditional religion and replaced it with false, shallow, self-made gods. Religiosity is at the core of our being. For those who serve politics, I am now their god. Oh, what a terrible god I will be.

The ceremony passes in a blur. I feel the weight on my shoulders as my ass touches the leather chair behind the Resolute Desk. Cameras flash. I smile just enough that my cheeks wrinkle my eyes. Hannah, my public relations director, once explained that real smiles accentuate crow’s feet. For some reason, that always stuck in my head.

Lights pause. Someone comes and straightens my shirt and tie. I wish they would strangle me with it.

What possessed me to do this? Why would I torture myself and my family for an ungrateful nation? Is it patriotism? No. I could never bring myself to be a patriot—it requires too much ignorance and trust. Was it because I believed I could make a difference? Maybe at first. But that notion died quickly during my first term as senator. Nothing makes you more cynical than a room full of old people arguing about how much more the government needs to borrow to fund research for canine sex change operations, only to use that as a bargaining chip against federal funding for public transportation in low-income housing districts. And somewhere in that same bill, there's a two-line addendum to continue funding the National Rifle Association—which just ran an ad campaign in support of a senator seeking reelection who voted to criminalize abortions and defund foster and adoption agencies on the same day.

That entire bill was touted as a bipartisan effort.

As my head hits the pillow, I know that I lied. I lied to everyone who told me congratulations. I lied to the intern who asked if I like my coffee black. I lied to the representative from Wisconsin and told him I liked his tie. I lied to the media when I said this was a historic day. And I lied to the American people.

To the best of my ability? No.

This country doesn’t deserve that.

Not until they shake off their sheepskins and remove the scales from their eyes.

Not until they see the truth—that their votes can’t change this nation.

Only their hands will.