Threeway, ch. 7, Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. Pt. 1 of 3

In which Mandy meets President Pipp and makes the sex tape. But first, we learn who to blame. "Threeway" continues in serial form with a link to buy the book at the bottom of the post. To catch up on prior segments, start at the bottom of the blog. Enjoy. Tell your friends.

THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season

by

STEVEN LUBLINER

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112

Chapter 7: Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. (Pt. 1 of 3)

When Fillmore Pipp first ran for president, his Hollywood friends produced a satirical slasher film, “The Fiduciary,” about a job-killing, pockets-lining CEO. As planned, Pipp distanced himself from it, calling it overstated and anti-business. It won him the youth vote, though, especially when the companion video game featuring Pipp’s heroic avatar hit the market.

Four years later, when prosperity had returned to some, they were there for him again with “Fiduciary 2.” The film’s slogan was “This Time It’s You!” The CEO you suspected the whole time was a red herring. That CEO was not human at all; it was a puppet programmed to draw a nine-figure salary as a dodge. The real killers were 401k investors, dividend collecting retirees, and families of Wal-Mart shoppers. The film did its job, even before its release, dismissing the left and the poor, guilting out the middle class, and pissing off the old folks.

Pipp endorsed the film, proclaiming that it provocatively dramatized the complexity of American economic life. He even attended the premiere party, which doubled as a fundraiser for his reelection campaign. Smiling and waving, smiling and waving, Pipp strolled through the L.A. hotel lobby where the party would be. He was unaccompanied, the First Lady having been sent on another good will tour.

As Pipp acknowledged the supporters behind the velvet rope, the Secret Service agent at his right hip smiled and relayed a message to him. The agent at the entrance had said there was wide-eyed girl who looked about to burst. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she had said. “It’s the man . . . the president . . . the TV.”

“Finally,” thought Pipp, his school book view of his office eroded by endless image mongering, “somebody gets me.”

Those who serve the president must know the codes. There are code names for the president, his family, and other members of the government. There are code words that cover the president’s movement and other key operations. There’s the football with the nuclear launch codes. Then, there’s the code for when the president desires one-on-one time with a pleasant constituent. Pipp had never used this code. His agents would have bet they’d see missiles flying east toward Armageddon before he did. Here, now, something about the unseen, unknown girl stirred the president. Though the words stuck in his throat a bit, he clearly, unmistakably, gave the agent the code.

Affairs of state require discretion. Discretion was exercised that night in a four-star Hollywood hotel. Discretion was then flown to Washington, D.C. to be put up in another fancy hotel and exercised there, in the back of a limousine, and in the Lincoln Bedroom, the First Lady’s schedule permitting.

The thirteenth time Pipp and Mandy were together, he said, “I want you to know, this is out of character for me. What we have, it’s special. It’s not like there’s a revolving door in the White House. I’m no Jack Kennedy.”

“That’s for sure,” she said, twirling his chest hair. “I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Accent on ‘was.’ It don’t matter; he was just a fuck friend. Put ‘friend’ in air quotes; he wasn’t real nice. Hell, put ‘fuck’ in air quotes; he was terrible. You’re right; you are no Jack Kennedy. How’d you know that asshole, anyway?”

He drew her close and kissed the top of her head. She was so innocent, so unspoiled by knowledge. She was Eve in a world where Eve had never eaten the apple, and he was Adam, all-consuming and consumed, bloated and cramped from gorging on truth and duty. They lay in bed a little while longer. Then, Pipp got up and went to the closet.

“One of the awesome responsibilities of being president is that everything I do has to be documented for posterity. That’s usually a burden, but. . . .” He pulled a camera bag and a tripod out of the closet.

“Let’s have some fun.” She saw the video camera and felt moved to false modesty.

“But I’m naked.” She pretended to cover up. Pipp smiled.

“Who exactly told you you were naked?”

Afterwards, they lay in bed and watched the tape several times. She looked at him, and told him he was so smart.

“Here’s the thing about being smart. It gets old.” He got up and pulled out a disk he had burned for her.

“This is for you,” he said. “I trust you to keep it safe.” She looked at him in wonderment and put the disk in her bag. She felt proud, like she had been awarded a medal for service. She got dressed, and they said their good-byes.

He never called for her again.

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