Yes, Mr. President

The next two weeks had passed by at a glacial pace. Every day, I had gone into the office hoping to learn more about the Youth Advisory Council the President had mentioned. It had just been more constituent phone calls and errands to go pick up lunch for the important people.

I'd found myself thinking about the President a lot. I'd felt embarrassed whenever he'd popped into my mind, like I was an elementary school nerd fawning over one of the popular kids. It wasn't an experience I'd had before; I'd always been the popular kid in that particular scenario.

After taking a little more time to gather my thoughts, I eventually told Tessa and a few friends about how the President had reacted when he'd seen me shirtless. The consensus was that it was pretty funny. They all thought of him as an aging sugar addict who was desperate to not end up with a potbelly. Picturing him jealously poking at my abs only made him into more of a caricature in their minds. I didn't mention the part about the jock strap. I'd decided to hold off on sharing that bit for a while longer, if ever.

"How's it going?" Tina, a fellow intern, asked me as she returned from lunch and took her seat at the desk across from mine.

"Same old, same old," I replied. "Lots of people calling in pissed off about the strike at the hospital in Omaha. They think the Senator should be doing more to help end it. I guess they've even started canceling some of the surgeries since they can't get enough temp nurses."

"Maybe the hospital execs should meet with the union leaders then? I read that they bailed on the last three scheduled negotiation sessions."

"Seems kind of immoral," I said. "Don't nurses have an obligation to help people? I don't think it's really fair for them to go on strike."

"Don't hospitals have an obligation to pay staff members a fair wage? I don't think it's appropriate for them to make billions in profit each year, while not wanting to give cost-of-living wage increases to the workers."

Tina was an anomaly. She'd purposely chosen to apply to intern for Senator Whitney despite being at the opposite end of the political spectrum. I'd asked her why she hadn't just matched with one of the Democrat congressmen in our home state. She said that she thought it was more valuable to learn how to work with people she didn't agree with. I had to admit that it was an interesting idea.

RING-RING! RING-RING!

"Senator Whitney's office, how may I assist you today?"

"Still haven't learned how to read yet?" the Senator asked.

I glanced down at the phone. It indicated that it was an internal call coming from his office. Yet again, I'd forgotten to look. I was about to start apologizing, but the Senator preempted me.

"So, who'd you impress at the White House, kid? Or is granddaddy just making more calls on your behalf?"

"What?" I was completely nonplussed.

"My secretary just told me that there's been a meeting request at the White House - for you! Imagine my surprise to learn that I've become second fiddle in my own office."

"I'm sorry, sir. I... I didn't know about any meeting."

"Well, it looks like you must be doing something right. I've never had an intern called up to the White House. Martha will give you the details. Since you're still representing my office, take a taxi voucher."

He hung up before I could say anything else.The White House.Even thinking the words was strangely intoxicating. I knew it had to be about the Youth Advisory Council, even if I still didn't know anything about it aside from its name.

RING-RING! RING-RING!

I grabbed the receiver, thinking that it had to be the Senator calling back to tell me something he'd forgotten. I inhaled deeply as I waited for him to speak.

"Mr. Randall?" a raspy feminine voice asked. "Truett Randall?"

"Yes, that's me."

"This is Ms. Martha Evans, the Senator's secretary. I believe we met once briefly. The Senator has asked me to pass along some information to you regarding a meeting. Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?"

"Yes," I said, scrambling to grab one from inside the desk drawer.

"Your presence has been requested at the White House at two o'clock. You should enter through the South Portico. You'll be on a list, but you'll still need to show your badge, so don't forget to bring it. The meeting will be in the Vermeil Room. I'd recommend arriving at quarter-to. As my mother always said, 'Early is on time; on time is late.'"

I frantically scribbled down the details. I waited for her to give me the most important pieces of information. I wanted to know who'd be attending the meeting and what it was about.

"Ver-may?" I repeated. "How do you spell that?"

"V-E-R-M-E-I-L," Ms. Evans said slowly.

"What's... is there any more information?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Randall. That's all I was told. Do you need anything else?"

"No. Thank you, Ms. Evans. Thank you for your help."

I hung up the phone. I immediately regretted not confirming that the meeting was for the same day. It seemed very odd that someone at the White House would schedule an event but only give the people invited a few hours' notice that it was happening. Then I realized that the meeting had likely been scheduled far in advance, but I was the person being added last-minute. That made a lot more sense.

"What's the Vermeil Room?" I asked Tina, who'd been not-so-discreetly eavesdropping on my conversation.

"A room in the White House," she replied. "I saw it on the tour a few years ago. It had pictures of the first ladies hung up on the walls. It was more of a sitting room, but I think they use it for interviews and small gatherings as well."

"Who's Vermeil?"

"'What'svermeil?'" she corrected me. "It's gold-plated silver, I think. They keep some of it in the room. That's how it got the name. I'm sure it's more complicated than that, but I don't remember anything else from the tour. I'm surprised that your meeting is in there. Seems like there are tons of other more convenient places to gather a group of people in the White House."

I shrugged. I hadn't even known the room existed until a few moments earlier. I figured that it must have been chosen for a reason.

The next two hours passed by quicker than expected. I skipped my lunch, since I felt guilty that Tina would have to cover for me while I was gone. She didn't really seem bothered, though.

I felt an unfamiliar tingling sensation in my stomach as the taxi approached the White House. It looked so grand and opulent through the smudged class window. I'd been expecting that they wouldn't let the taxi through the gate and I'd need to walk the last bit of the journey, but they did. The driver dropped me off at the same place I'd been with the Senator only a few weeks prior.

When I was going through security, I was flagged. I assumed it meant I'd need additional screening. I ended up being guided to the expedited lane, and an aide led me straight to the Vermeil Room. There was a sign on the door saying that it was in use, so it wouldn't be a part of the tour that day.

The friendly aide showed me inside. Like Tina had said, there were large paintings of former first ladies lining the walls. I recognized Eleanor Roosevelt and Lady Bird Johnson immediately. As the aide turned to leave, she told me that she'd been instructed to inform me that I should just wait for the rest of my party to arrive.

It didn't take me long to figure out that the room wasn't set up for a regular meeting. There were two overstuffed upholstered chairs in the middle facing one another. Next to them, there was a very expensive-looking camera. It seemed like the kind that'd be used to film a Hollywood blockbuster.

Aside from stuff in the center, the space was largely empty. There were a few waist-high credenzas nestled against two of the walls. There was also a large display cabinet on the wall opposite the door. I wandered over to it. It was filled with shiny gold goblets, vases, plates, and candlesticks. I knew they had to be made from the room's namesake.

After what felt like far too long staring at the gold antiques while waiting for someone to arrive, I looked at my watch. It was 2:05 p.m. I told myself that I should have confirmed the date, but I also engaged in some self-reassurance that important people run late all the time.

I ambled over to get a better look at the biggest portrait in the room. I knew it had to be a first lady, but I couldn't figure out which one it was. The woman was wearing what appeared to be more of a robe or nightgown than a formal dress. There was a sadness in her eyes. The entire portrait had a faded beige quality to it. It evoked a strong feeling of melancholy.

"That one's my favorite," a voice whispered in my ear as a hand planted down on my right shoulder. "You have to respect Jackie Kennedy. She experienced the worst thing that can happen to a person, but she still did what was needed to help the country process its collective grief."

"Mr. President," I said, turning to face him. "What... what are you doing here?"

"Why am I - the President - in the White House?" A Cheshire-cat grin spread across his face; my cheeks turned rosy. I felt so flustered. I tried to find the right words.

"I jest," he said. "I jest. I'm here for a meeting. What about you?"

I glanced over at the camera and the fancy chairs. I was beginning to understand that there'd been a mistake.

"I think I'm in the wrong place," I said. "I was told to come to a meeting. I assumed it was about that thing you'd mentioned: the Youth Advisory Council. It seems like someone got their wires crossed and sent me to whatever television interview you have scheduled."

"That's not until later. It's airing live at seven o'clock."

"Oh..."

"You're in the right place," he said before gesturing to the chairs. "Come, have a seat."

I followed his lead. He appeared amused when I paused for a moment to wait for him to sit first. I thought there was some sort of protocol about those kinds of things.

"Do you paint, Tru?" the President asked.

I'd never liked being called "Tru," but I didn't say anything. I'd always just felt that it sounded peculiar. Furthermore, there was also something mildly infantilizing about it.

"No, sir."

"This isn't the marines. You don't have to say 'sir' or 'Mr. President' every sentence. Just try to use it when you'd normally want to say my name instead."

"Yes, Mr.... Yes."

"I paint. Perhaps you've heard that about me. I'm not very good, honestly. It's just a hobby. People expect the President to excel at everything, but I can't be the leader of the free world and Michelangelo at the same time. I just saw the way you were staring at that portrait of Jackie. You looked like you were examining it like an artist - breaking it down into parts and letting yourself feel the emotion."

He stopped speaking and turned his head towards the painting again. I felt an urge to look at it, too, but I chose to watch him instead. After a few moments, he got the same sad look in his eye that Jackie Kennedy had in hers.

"It's a beautiful painting," I said, showing the full extent of my art-critic skills.

"That it is," the President replied before abruptly switching gears. "I invited you here to ask you if you'd be willing to join the Youth Advisory Council. It's composed of roughly two dozen college-aged individuals who want to help the White House better address the needs of today's youth. Are you interested?"

"Yes!"

"Excellent. I was actually hoping you'd take on an additional responsibility as well. I'd like you to act as chairman of the council's Health and Fitness subgroup. I've found it concerning that younger people all seem to have stopped caring about their bodies. In my day, each school had a handful of overweight students. Now it seems like it's half of the entire class."

I nodded. I'd noticed it, too. So many of the guys I'd known in high school were carrying an extra twenty or thirty pounds before they'd even graduated. I'd always thought that social media was making things worse. Kids were staying on their couches to watch videos of people doing things outside, rather than getting out there themselves.

"I'd... I'd be honored. But why me?"

"Perfect," the President said, ignoring my question. "The council won't be starting up again until September, so you'll have a little time to prepare. I'll have my staff put you in contact with a few people so that you can start to get the feel of things ahead of time."

"Why me?" I asked again.

"You seem like a good kid. Also, we're trying to make sure the council is bipartisan, so having another Republican on it will help with achieving that goal."

"That's it?" I asked, feeling slightly amused. "I'm a 'good kid and Republican?'"

The President shook his head. I didn't entirely know why I'd challenged him. The sane thing would have been to thank him and shut my mouth. To my surprise, his demeanor changed; it was almost like he enjoyed the fact that'd I'd pushed back. That didn't make any sense to me.

"William McKinley," he said, once again not answering the question asked. "That was the last president to be elected who was shorter than the average man living in the United States. Do you know when that was?"

"Over a century ago."

"Appearances matter, Truett. Tall men get elected to the presidency. Attractive people persuade others. A six-foot-five blond guy with six-pack abs and giant biceps is who today's young men will listen to about getting healthy - not a medical doctor, not their teachers, not even the President."

He paused for a moment. His voice had gotten louder. As he became more assertive, I felt myself sinking deeper into my chair's plush cushion.

"Take off your shirt."

His blue eyes were sparkling with a steely fierceness. He rose to his feet; then he took a step forward, closing the gap between us.

"Take off your shirt," he repeated.

What am I doing?It was the only thought going through my mind as I hopped to my feet. I halted for just a moment before I took off my suit jacket. My fingers frantically undid the knot in my tie while the most politically astute man in the world watched me. I nearly yanked it off once I'd loosened it enough.

My fingertips raced down my chest, popping button after button. The President didn't stop staring at my face; I couldn't look at his. I let my eyes focus on supervising the task at hand. I saw my smooth, hairless pecs come into view as my shirt parted.

Once I'd finally undone the last button, I peered back into his eyes. My heart was racing. I pushed off the dress shirt and let it fall down onto the chair behind me.

"See, this is what we need!" the President proclaimed. "So many young guys are ashamed of their bodies because they don't take care of them. We need a role model to show them how taking pride in one's physique can pay off. I mean, look at these abs."

He stepped forward. Like he'd done during our previous interaction, he began to run his palm across my six-pack. His fingertips glided into the defined grooves. His skin was even softer than I'd remembered it.

"There'll have to be a promotional campaign, of course -- maybe some short videos and posters? You'll be featured heavily in all of them. We'll have to keep you shirtless. The guys need to see what they want to aspire to be and the girls will focus on keeping themselves in shape to increase their chances of being with a guy who looks like the one in the ads."

I nodded. It all made sense. I'd never had any issue taking my shirt off, so it didn't faze me thinking about doing it as part of a physical fitness campaign. I figured that showing off my body to help improve young people's health outcomes wasn't really that odd.

The President pulled his hands away from my abs. I felt an indescribable mixture of relief and excitement. My head was spinning as I tried to make sense of it all.

"Come take a look," he said, walking towards the display case on the back wall.

As I got closer, I could see our reflections in the glass - me shirtless and him in his suit. He was right; I did look good. My pecs were bulging, my biceps had gotten so big that they looked like they were flexing all the time, and my abs were more defined than they'd ever been.

"See, this is what's going to motivate millions of guys to get up off the couch. Have you ever modeled, Tru?"

"No."

Besides family photos at the local JC Penney, I'd never had anyone take my picture in a studio setting. It was exhilarating to think that I might have some hotshot photographer taking pictures of me in just a few months. On top of that, I knew that being a literal poster boy for the Youth Advisory Council would be a feather in my cap, regardless of whether I chose to pursue business or law. People would want to hire"that guy"from"those ads."

"Would you model for me?" the President asked.

"Yes."

I wasn't sure why he was asking. I'd literally just told him that I'd be a model for a campaign as part of my duties in the Youth Advisory Council.

"No," he said. "Not for the campaign - for me."

I was completely lost. I didn't know what he was asking. I was certain that my expression - wide eyes and furrowed brow - had ruined any attempt I'd been making to hide the fact that he'd thrown me for a loop. "What do you mean?"

The President stepped away from the large display case filled with shiny vermeil relics. I spun on my heels, following him with my gaze.

"As I mentioned earlier, I like to paint. I mainly do landscapes - dark, stormy skies over unforgiving seas and sun-kissed wheatfields in the American heartlands -- but lately, I've been feeling a greater desire to create works highlighting the majesty of the human form."

'Majesty of the human form?' I repeated in my mind. As if saying it to myself had been a key being inserted in an invisible lock, I finally understood what he was requesting.

"You want me to model for one of your paintings?" I asked.

"Well, it would be more like a sketch. I don't exactly have the hours needed to paint a live model. I'd have to make do with drafting a detailed sketch of you that I'd use as a reference for the painting."

I thought about all the people the President regularly came into contact with - the fittest marines one could imagine and celebrities labeled as the most attractive people on the planet.

"I would have preferred Salma Hayek or Scarlett Johansson," he said, almost reading my mind. "I don't need the scandal, though. Can you imagine the stories on the news if the President scorned his wife by painting a portrait of another - objectively gorgeous - woman?"

I still felt a little ill at ease. Being a spokesperson for a campaign was completely different from being a private model for the President. If I hadn't known that he'd been married for thirty years -- as well as rumored to have cheated on his wife with a former nanny -- I may have wondered if he was making a pass at me. I'd heard gossip that the Capitol was filled with lecherous old lawmakers who enjoyed the company of attractive young men. I didn't believe President Kelley was one of those, even if he was a Democrat. He was a man's man. He could, and did, have women throwing themselves at him on any given day.

"Why not a professional female art model?" I asked.

"As I said, it can't be a woman. It just wouldn't be acceptable. Also, women have the most amazing delicate, soft bodies... but that doesn't always lend itself to painting. I'm aiming for something dramatic - hard edges and shadows. Take, for instance, your abs. They'd require so much more skill to paint than a woman's smooth, flat stomach."

Considering I knew nothing about the subject, I chose to take him at his word. "I... I guess," I said tentatively. "I guess I can do it."