Maquillage

He sat in the Oval Office. He heard the commotion of cameras mounting, tripod adjustments, and audio checks in the adjacent room. He had with him his three advisors who continued to advise, but he was conflicted about the advice.

“I don’t like it,” he told them.

“It’s the right speech, Mr. President,” said a thin man without hair.

“I agree,” agreed the man with hair.

“Me, as well,” said the hard-faced woman.

“It is not the right speech,” he repeated.

“Well,” the man without hair responded, "let’s talk.”

“Yes,” said the hard-faced woman. “Let’s go through it line by line. It’s the only place you’re ever going to get line-item veto.”

“Very funny. Look, it’s the entire theme. We’re blowing this thing off. We must acknowledge the magnitude of it all. This speech says for everyone to just go about their business. Like nothing happened. That’s the message?”

“Nothing has happened,” said the woman.

“No, not yet. But something very colossal is about to happen."

"Theoretically," said the man without hair.

"Have you noticed? People are freaking out. They want to know if we'll survive. We’ve become so spoiled, I suppose. Breakthroughs buried on page twenty-three. The Higgs particle took two days to climb the charts before it was headlined on the front page, for Christ's sake! Discoveries mentioned in passing. This is a front-page story out of the gate, and you want it on page twenty-three under some celebrity bullshit.”

“All we’re saying,” said the man without hair, “is that our GNP must continue. You yourself had to close the stock exchange today. That was leadership.”

“That wasn’t leadership,” the President corrected him. “That was common sense. And cowardice. For me, imminent financial collapse is pretty uncomfortable.”

“You mustn’t come off as freaking out, yourself, Mr. President. That's leadership. So, lead,” the man without hair said, as if an order.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asked sternly with his finest leadership scowl.

“Sorry, Mr. President. Look, it’s all on the teleprompter. You practiced it, right?”

“I looked it over, briefly. Don’t like it.”

“Well,” said the woman, “too late to change it now.”

There was a polite knock at the door, a knock as demure as the petite, young woman who knocked. She peaked in tenuously.

“Mr. President, it’s time for your make-up. May I come in?”

She was quiet as a mouse when she entered. Every movement was based on assessing permission. Her clothes hung on her, drab, uncolorful, and curve-defeating, her hairstyle brushed unimaginatively, her scent store-brand soapy just short of a sneeze.

But her makeup was perfect: she was a specialist.

The three advisors stepped out of the room, satisfied that the speech was “in the can,” as they liked to say. The cosmetologist set up next to the President’s chair, and he swiveled to face her.

He was happy to see that it was the same young lady he had remembered from his last campaign debate. He remembered this one, because she had been the one who gave him the affable, honest face that very likely was responsible for an extra twenty-four electoral votes. That’s what Vanity Fair had claimed, citing his stage presence as shrewd show business savvy while ignoring the cosmetician who was the real hero.

It had been written that it was his persona that night that put him over the top and made him President.

He thought that maybe it was, thanks to her: she had subtly lined his jowls to create the solid square jaw of authority; her brushes and shades had given him the affable, sincere face of a father figure; his eyes had been opened with an enthusiasm for the world, thanks to just the right amount of liner, making them inviting windows for the voters. Yes, he thought, here, on his team, was a master artist.

Had her makeup really gotten him the Carolinas that put him over the top? Maybe so. Had a cosmetologist changed history, then? Maybe so. He thought of the global decisions he had made. As President he had changed history and she had helped him become the President. He chuckled.

“What is your name again?” he asked her.

“Colleen, Mr. President,” she answered.

“What do you think about all of this?”

“The crisis, you mean?”

“Yes.”

She dabbed here and there to reduce the albedo of his nose. Couldn’t have a nose like that. The powdery fallout nearly made him cough. She paused for a moment after she was satisfied with his nose and looked down nervously when she spoke.

“What do I think? Mr. President, what’s a cosmetologist compared to the universe?” she asked tentatively.

“Or compared to the President?” he answered back.

He let circulate for one pass in his brain the fact that there were only two letters difference between cosmetologist and cosmologist. Yet, it was the cosmetologist that had put him in place to address the crisis in the cosmos.

The 1% difference in DNA between humans and chimps he let pass twice. The obvious perspective was laughable: the universe easily dwarfed the Presidents, CEOs, cosmetologists, lawyers, doctors, Ayatollahs, ditch-diggers, and all the other chimps who shared one very narrow band of self-importance in all of creation.

On a truly objective scale, was there any difference between the leader of the free world and the makeup artist who gave him that position?

“Oh, no, sir, you’re very important,” she answered. “I mean, like, you’re the President. I’m nothing, really. The world’s not gonna change because of me. But you…”

“In a way, I suppose I am very important…at a certain level.” He picked up the telephone receiver and spoke in a whisper. “Everyone ready?” He looked back at Colleen. “We’re finished here, right?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Break a leg.” She realized what she had said and gasped.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, patting her hand. “I won’t sick the NSA on you.” He smiled at her. “I’m ready!” he called out loudly from his Oval Office. Behind the doors was a collective sigh of relief.

The doors opened for the cameras and history. A flurry of lights and cameras which had staked claims behind those doors now enjoyed line-of-sight with him.

One more afterthought dollop of makeup landed on the President's face, Colleen dutifully blending it in. She gave his face a final appraisal and then backed away. The afterthought had paid off.

“Five, four, three...” said a young woman in heels, followed by the conclusion of her countdown signed by hand. He looked around the room as if he were looking around an entire nation who looked back at him. He saw his wife holding their infant daughter who he wondered whether she would ever come of age.

“Turn off the teleprompter,” the President ordered just before the countdown ended.

“Oh, no,” murmured the countdown woman. Reluctantly, the false ink of the teleprompter faded from the screen.

He had done this before. Twice.

The first time was during the Taiwan crisis, also called the Final Taiwan Straights Crisis, even though everyone knew there would be another. The second time was during the hostage crisis during the San Diego Special Olympics. Each of those times the polls said he did better without his teleprompter, personifying sincerely the actual leadership that otherwise lurked quietly under the budget concerns, partisan background noise, and jockeying for polling results.

He spoke. He appeared conflicted.

“Mr. Vice President, all Americans, all the world, as a nation we Americans have been tested many times. Two world wars, many regional wars, a depression and several recessions, struggles and victory over segregation, and painfully learning from mistakes made—on land, in the air, in space and in our attempts to get there—we have always been our best when things were worst.”

He paused for effect.

“I have conferred with many learned men. As a religious man, I confess that all of this has challenged my faith. I have just ended a phone conversation with a Jesuit priest, the current Director of the Vatican Observatory. Since it was hard to navigate all of the mixed religious, astronomical, and fatalistic feelings, I called him as your President...because I can; and I called him as a man, too, because I had to. Earlier this afternoon I spoke with astronomers at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and NASA. I have spoken to a great many people since last night. I have also noted well every conversation I've had in between my calls with people from all walks of life I've encountered. Chefs, drivers, my personal physician, and many others. The thing that has struck me is that they don’t expect an explanation from the learned men and women I consulted. The sense I get from them is that what is happening is bigger than even experts. It's certainly bigger than me."

His advisors all swallowed hard. He was off the teleprompter, and what he said was a segue — for what?

“The Vatican assured me, as have other religious leaders, that this is no act of divine retribution or omen of imminent retribution."

That's good, thought his advisors.

“But this is what is unsettling. It is tempting to think we are on our own, and this will be our greatest test—the test within ourselves. As a man, I share this discomfort with you."

That's bad, thought his advisors.

"As your President, I implore all to look around at your loved ones, your worldly ambitions, and your own sense of inherent self-worth, and know that what you see and live is the real meaning of life. Wake up at the usual time and go to work. The worst thing we can allow is a malaise that this means something personal, as human beings. We are not alone. Look around. Life is a great gift. So I ask you to get on with life as we know it."

That's good, thought his advisors.

"While we exhaustingly seek reasons for things we don't understand, life should go on. Living should continue.”

He paused, and sweeping his gaze at all in the room, he stopped at his baby daughter and smiled. He raised his head again to face the fourth wall.

His advisors were very satisfied. He had led. He had been the leader.

"Just remember, however..." he added, regretting the subterfuge.

Uh-oh, fretted his advisors.

“When something is bigger than both you and me, then we're in it together, and we're the same. There''ll be no questions. God bless America. Thank you and good night.”

The high-heeled young lady who had initiated the telecast with her countdown now dragged her finger across her neck. The bright lights faded away. The makeup that had been so emergently applied was now gently blotted off of the President's face.

“Living, yes, life, Mr. President. Very inspiring,” Collen said as she worked to free his face of his maquillage. He had done it again, thanks to her. He thought of Eleanor Rigby, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who was it for?

“Thank you,” he replied.

“Mr. President, if I may—”

“Sure.”

“Thank you for that bill that offered homeowners that tax credit. That’ll really help me on next month’s mortgage bill.”

“Eileen, right?” he asked her.

“Colleen, Mr. President.”

“Oh, yes, Colleen. Sorry. You know, Colleen…” he trailed off.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

She was dizzy inside with the very idea of actually having a conversation with the President of the United States. Applying his makeup was amazing, but conversation? This was a moment she could brag about to her children and grandchildren. The day she talked with the President.

“You know, Colleen…” he trailed off again.

“Yes, Mr. President?” she repeated.

“Colleen, if it’s alright with you, even though you're the one who made me President, I don't think I want to be President anymore.”