The Council: We’re Not Going Back Edition

In 2017, I began a series later called “The Council” in which a fictionalized version of Barack Obama convenes all the ex-presidents to answer that musical question “How do you solve a problem like The Donald?”

After January 6, 2021, I stopped writing it. I just didn’t feel right about continuing this bit of satire.

Apparently now I’m ready to continue.

I hope you enjoy the latest installment.

The Council: We’re Not Going Back Edition

They were already waiting, seated at the table in the private back room of the home-town favorite unknown to most tourists. Forty-four had chosen it, as he did most things Chicago, and with the promise of courtside Bulls tickets, they were given the run of the place until closing time.

Finally, two of Forty-four’s security people, known for not attracting attention, escorted her in. “Well, well, well,” she said, with that delightful laugh. “So this is where the party is.”

“Best ribs in Chicago,” Forty-six said with a grin from over the top of his beer. “Have a seat, kid.”

She eyed the only vacancy, at the head of the table. With a sly look, Forty-four pushed the chair out with his foot. She gave him the raised brow, and he got up, and pulled the chair out properly. She sat, looking like she was born to occupy that space. “Thank you, Barack—”

He raised a hand as he reclaimed his seat. “Forty-four, if you don’t mind. We go by numbers here. It began—for security reasons. Now it’s become a kind of tradition in our odd sort of council.”

“Interesting.” She turned to the thin, sheepish-looking older man to her right, gave him a broad smile, then addressed Forty-four. “My boss Forty-six here told me we were just gonna meet up for drinks and compare war wounds.”

“That’s it,” Forty-six said. “In essence.”

A waiter set a glass of her favorite wine before her, along with a tiny ice bucket, and disappeared. “Goodness,” she said. “That’s some creepy James Bond kind of stuff there.”

“It has its perks,” the white-haired man from Arkansas said, lifting his glass of Diet Coke.

She pointed to him. “So that would make you Forty-two, and…Hillary?”

“I’m just along for the ride.” She laughed, then said, “After my experience, I was made an honorary member. They call me Forty-three-and-a-half.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “And I see this is a bipartisan effort. Hi, Forty-three. Nice to see you again.”

“Madame Vice President,” he said with a courtly nod. “And by design, for the duration, I am the Council’s only member from the other side of the aisle.”

“Thank the good lord above. Well, the gang’s all here, so let’s go. Time is precious, I’m sure you all understand that.”

“Yes. Painfully so,” Forty-four said. “The question on the table is how we can best use our combined resources to help get you behind that Resolute desk.”

She slid him a glance. “The desk doesn’t have a number too, does it?”

Forty-three-and-a-half laughed. “Madame Vice President, you’re making it impossible for me to resent you.”

Forty-four took back the conversation before a reply could be made. “See, our original mission, when I first convened this council, was to put a check on the power of a certain spray-tanned buffoon.”

She plunked an ice cube into her wine glass. “No number required there.”

“And now,” Forty-four continued, “no shade on you, Madame Vice President, or if you prefer, MVP—our mission continues.”

“I hear you loud and clear, Forty-four.” She leaned closer. “So all this time, you’ve been meeting in secret like some kind of Star Chamber?”

“Don’t I wish,” Forty-three-and-a-half said, “given the state of the Supreme Court. But no, we just meet for drinks and to bat ideas around, mainly about how to save democracy.”

“Well. I’m humbled and grateful to be your ride or die on that. What’s the plan?”

“You’re the plan, MVP,” Forty-six said. “We’re just your backup dancers. Anything you want, any firepower we can throw your way, memes we can make, consider us all at your disposal.”

“Well, thank you. All of you. I have some of the best people you could have in a foreshortened campaign, but as the elder statesmen and women of this country, you each have your unique skills to bring to the table.”

“And I always have cough drops,” Forty-three said.

MVP looked at Forty-four, and he said, “Little joke he has with Michelle. And we appreciate that, Forty-three.”

Forty-three set his glass down hard. “Okay! I’m sorry about Iraq. Why do you think I paint? Can we stop not talking about that now?”

“We weren’t—”

Forty-four put his hand on Forty-six’s arm as if to cut him off, but MVP took the lead. “I think we’d all do better to put the past behind us.”

“We’re not going back!” Forty-two exclaimed. Forty-six echoed.

“Hells, yeah, we’re not going back,” Forty-three-and-a-half said, hoisting her glass. “If I have to testify for one more minute about my emails, I may have to start shooting laser beams out of my eyes.”

Forty-two gave her a curious, and somewhat tenuous look, as if she might actually possess that superpower. “I am so glad you’re on our side,” he said to his wife.

MVP stood. Lifted her wineglass. “Here’s to all of us being on the same side.” She paused. “Wait. There nothing I should know about any extrajudicial hanky-panky going on in this little club, is there?”

Quiet fell around the table. Eyes met eyes, silent conversations had.

“As long as you don’t read my fan fiction,” Forty-three-and-a-half said with a rueful smile. “Where I—I mean, my protagonist—kills a certain person in about seventeen different ways.” Her husband again turned to her with those eyes. “What? I published it under a pseudonym. You’ve all given me ideas at one time or another. Don’t act all high and mighty now.”

“Maybe it’s better for all of us if I’m not part of this little sewing circle,” MVP said. “Wouldn’t want to have to sic the Justice Department on you or anything.”

Nervous laughter went around the table. The food arrived, and for a while, they were too busy eating to talk. Forty-three-and-a-half turned to MVP and said, “You know it’s just a joke, right? I mean, you can’t think we consider ways to commit murder, here.”

MVP’s eyes lit, and her smile broadened, and she laughed. That wonderful joyous laugh. “You know I’m just messing with y’all, right?” She put down her fork and said to Forty-three-and-a-half, “I hear the Russians are working on some fierce untraceable stuff you would not believe.”

The conversation was much more relaxed now. After they were finished, and the coffee delivered, MVP lifted her mug, toasted them all, then said, “Forty-seven. I like the sound of that.”