Deadlock

64

They called it living in the bubble. You couldn’t really understand it until you had experienced it. Even something as simple as going for a walk had to be cleared with the Secret Service.

Together, he and the First Lady had tried to keep things as normal as possible, especially for the kids. But no matter how hard you tried, the fact remained, when you were President, life was no longer normal.

The motorcade was whipping through the outskirts of San Francisco on the way from the airport to Grace Cathedral. He leaned towards the window, caught sight of the Golden Gate Bridge.

‘Hey, girls,’ he said to his two daughters, pointing it out.

They unbuckled their seat belts. His wife rolled her eyes.

‘Let them take a look, honey,’ he said with a smile.

Then he turned to the agent sitting next to him. ‘Can I put the window down so they can take a look?’

‘I’d really prefer if you didn’t, sir,’ the agent said.

The President let it go. He could overrule the guy, but he tried his best not to. The Secret Service people were there to protect him and his family, to lay down their own lives if they had to. Under those circumstances it didn’t seem fair to make their job any more difficult.

‘Sorry, girls.’

They sank back into their seats, and his youngest daughter stuck out her tongue at the agent.

‘Ashley!’ his wife scolded.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ashley singsonged.

The agent managed a smile. ‘That’s OK. We’re a big bunch of spoilsports, right?’

‘Worse than Dad,’ said Ashley.

‘And that’s saying something, right?’ the President joked.

It was tough on the kids, though. He tried to keep to a minimum the number of official engagements they went to, but sometimes it was the only opportunity he had to see them.

He turned to the agent. ‘How long until we get there?’

‘About twelve minutes, sir.’

‘You know,’ said the President, addressing his two daughters, ‘if you’re real good, maybe there’ll be a surprise later.’

‘Ghirardelli?’ they both asked, wide-eyed.

The Ghirardelli soda fountain on North Point Street near Fisherman’s Wharf was a San Francisco institution, famous for its chocolate and ice-cream sundaes. You could gain twenty pounds just looking at one of them.

‘Depends if you’re good.’ He nudged the agent. ‘I might even get you one too, Mike.’

‘Not sure my wife would thank you, sir,’ said the agent.

The President winked. ‘Then don’t tell her.’

The First Lady rolled her eyes again but kept a smile on her face. It was part of their married shtick. He’d misbehave, she’d scold him.

‘So, what d’you say, kids? Sundaes?’

The two little girls bounced up and down on their seats with anticipation as The Beast rolled inexorably ahead, freeway rolling under its run-flats, two motorcycle outriders sweeping the First Family towards the cathedral.