James Madison's Pen
Don't write a speech with a haunted pen
“Unbelievable! Just effing unbelievable.”
“Sir?” The perky, young aide stood in front of the Resolute desk. She straightened her already perfect posture. “Can I help you, sir?”
The president wrapped his fingers around his 18-carat gold Four Seasons fountain pen, squeezing it so hard that his face turned crimson. He shook the pen like an infant shaking a rattle.
Taylor grimaced, anticipating flying ink staining the 141-year-old desk.
“Stupid pen is out of ink.” The president glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes to airtime, Tiffany. I need a pen to finish writing my speech.”
Taylor didn’t bother correcting the president about her name. She stood, tugged her dark blue dress to erase any wrinkles, and swiveled her head from side to side, urgently scanning the room for a writing implement while the president stared at her and strummed his fingers against the desk. Taylor’s eyes locked on the shelf on the far side of the Oval Office. She hurried over to the shelf, read the plaque, which said “James Madison’s Presidential Pen, 1809 to 1817,” retrieved the beige quill pen from inside the display case, and handed it to the president.
“This was James Madison's pen, Mr. President.” She momentarily considered the possibility that using an irreplaceable, historic pen wasn’t a good idea, but if the president felt that way, he would tell her.
As he grasped the pen, blue, red, and green lights sparked against his fingers, glinting like static discharge and crackling like distant lightning. President LaBalme didn’t seem to notice, but Taylor could see a multicolored bolt travel from the pen, along the president’s hand, under his sleeve, and emerge a few seconds later from under his shirt collar, and then surround his head.
The president raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Taylor stared at him, curiosity ratcheting her face.
“I’d love to use Madison's pen to scratch out the First Amendment. What a waste of space that whole freedom of the press part is. It’s just ten words that need to be thrown in the trash bin, and I don’t think anyone would even notice that they’re gone. And if they did notice, who would care? That would be delicious irony, wouldn’t it, Tiffany, to use Madison’s pen to pen in the press?" LaBalme grinned. “People think Madison was a great president, but he wasn’t. But we’re working on it, right? Get everyone all riled up about how the press is the enemy of democracy, can’t be trusted, and is as factual as comic books. They are a bunch of liars and bums who will do anything to sell a newspaper. I say the press is like artificial sugar.” LaBalme tapped the side of his head. “Don’t you think that’s clever, calling the press ‘artificial sugar?’”
“I do, Mr. President.”
“I’ll add that to my speech.”
The aurora around the president's head thinned, then dissipated.
“If you need any help writing the speech, that’s what I’m here for.” Taylor wasn’t sure how much help she could be because there were staff far more capable than a recently minted college graduate. She didn’t even know why the president summoned her. But she’d do her best.
The president licked the tip of the pen, flipped the yellow notepad’s page over, and resumed writing. After a few minutes, he looked up at Taylor, exhaled and inhaled in quick succession, as if he were swimming laps underwater, and took the pen to the pad again.
“Almost done,” LaBalme said. He wrote for another five minutes, the pen’s two-hundred-year-old gold nib scratching against the pad as it deposited black ink on yellow paper. The sound reminded Taylor of her cat’s claws against her apartment wall.
LaBalme exhaled and handed the pad to Taylor. “Finished.”
“I’ll get this to the teleprompter team right away, sir.” She glanced at her watch. “Twenty minutes to spare, plenty of time.”
“I always have good timing.”
“Yes, Mr. President." She returned Madison’s pen to the cabinet and exited the Oval Office.
LaBalme blinked when the camera lights turned on. The technician said, “You’re live in ten.” He counted down the remaining nine seconds with his fingers, and when he finished, LaBalme's baritone voice traversed the airwaves.
“My fellow Americans. For too long, our nation has relegated the press to second-class status, disparaged the media, mocked reporters, and hid behind a shield of falsehoods. It is time to reaffirm the self-evident truth that truth is as vital as the air we breathe…"
If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like The President’s Grilled Cheese Sandwich.
