The President's Grilled Cheese Sandwich

The world ends with a bite of Wisconsin chedder

Photo by Pixzolo Photography on Unsplash

"Are you sure you want to do this now, sir?" Dennis asked.

The president's eyes wandered in and out of focus amid the pulsating lights and commotion, his silence all the more awkward because his was the only voice not heard. Baratoned generals, admirals in crisp, white uniforms, colonels, majors, advisers, and aides spun around the room like ballerinas. 

"Sir?" Dennis pushed up his glasses, which had been slipping down his sweat-coated nose for the past twenty minutes, and rested his pen on his yellow, lined notepad. After a moment, he put the pen back in his shirt pocket. Dennis hoped the answer would be "no." Perhaps there was still sufficient time to drive home to Bethesda to be with his family. In a room filled with warriors, deep-thinkers, and Cabinet secretaries, the president’s biographer was about as useful as a parsley garnish on a steak. 

The president continued to stare at the wall-sized screen on the Presidential Emergency Operations Center’s far side, as if he were in the enthrall of a sensational movie. Only when one of the multi-starred generals stuck his face an inch away from POTUS’ face did the president reanimate. 

"Mr. President, the missiles launched from our subs will reach their Russian targets in six minutes," the square-jawed general said. The president flicked his wrist, waving the general away. 

Dennis glanced at his watch. The countdown to the end of the world has begun. He observed a spirited conversation between a major and civilian, both gesticulating in fierce disagreement about something Dennis couldn’t hear. Ominous music played in Dennis’ mind.

"Russian missiles will hit Washington, DC, in eight minutes," another general announced. The president waved him away, too, and the general flew as if the president's hand had generated a hurricane-force wind. 

The national security advisor, who was sitting next to POTUS, added, “You mean ‘obliterate,’ not ‘hit.’” His voice cracked. 

The president turned to Dennis. "I want to do this now, Dan. I want to finish my memoir today." 

Dennis decided not to correct the president about his name. He also decided not to tell the president that a memoir couldn't be written in a day, let alone in the eight minutes remaining until oblivion. I might as well go out doing what I like. 

The president snatched Dennis' Mont Blanc out of his shirt pocket, clicked it open, and handed the pen to his ghostwriter. "You write down what I say. I've got great ideas and a great career, but I want you to translate what I say into a book. Book is a specialized language, like being a rock scientist, which is why I have you, Dan.” He nodded. "Where should we begin?"

Dennis pursed his lips. This was no time to prevaricate. In short order, he'd discover if the bunker a hundred feet beneath the White House could withstand a hydrogen bomb. "Let's start with today, sir. Tell me about your decision to go to war."

The president leaned forward as if slipping into a yoga position. "When Vladimir insulted my grilled cheese sandwich, he insulted all of America. Our sandwiches are made with real Wisconsin cheddar." As if on cue, an aide placed a plate with a grilled cheese sandwich and a water bottle bearing the presidential seal in front of him. The president nodded and took a bite, the perfectly browned bread crunching between his teeth. "We used to be friends, so I called him ‘Vladimir.’ But maybe I should call him 'asshat' now. Nobody gets away with insulting an American institution like grilled cheese." 

The president clenched his non-sandwich hand, his knuckles red. "He had the nerve to brandish a bowl of borscht on the vidscreen when we were chatting last week. Have you ever heard somebody slurp soup on camera?”

Dennis shook his head.

"What an irritating noise borscht makes.” Crumbs and flecks of cheese blew out of the president’s mouth. 

“Vladimir insulted me when he said that borscht is superior to America's favorite, a grilled cheese sandwich." The president pounded his fist on the table. The room's hum snapped to a hush as all heads pivoted to the president. "Get back to work," he ordered. The president raised his sandwich into the air. "Viva grilled cheese! Viva America! Viva victory!"

If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like my short story, The Unburnable Book.