Bush Breaks Into White House Wine Cellar - Part Two
Harold James Hoey sat in a stainless steel chair with stainless steel armrests. His head slumped forward, a dish towel in his right hand, and he was snoring. It was 3:34 AM on the morning of Wednesday, October 24. As always, Harold was alone in the sub-basement kitchen of the White House. He had cleaned all the Presidential dinnerware and Presidential plates. He had noticed that the White House chef the evening before had made duck with orange sauce. Harold knew that President Bush liked duck, and this was a frequent menu item notwithstanding Laura’s instructions to remove as much of the fat from the duck as possible.
“Harold.”
Harold woke and felt the crick in his neck and the sting in his throat, a result of the slumped head and the dry snoring. He cleared his eyes. It was President George Bush. He was holding in his right hand two keys on a chrome key ring.
“I got them,” said President Bush.
Harold stood; slowly, since that is really the only way Harold could move these days.
“Got what, sir,” said Harold with dish towel still in hand.
“The keys to the wine cellar. Got them from Peterson. Had him make me a set,” said Bush.
The President tossed Harold the keys, who dropped the dish towel to catch the keys which were thrown a bit too fast for Harold’s taste.
“Go get me a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. Dry. Very dry,” said the President. “I’ll just grab a glass and sit here at the counter.”
Bush sat on a wooden stool at the center island butcher block counter that contained the large stainless steel sink.
Harold walked to the end of the room where the wooden door to the walk-in refrigerator stood like a prison door. The keys were Medeco, and the wood door indeed had two dead bolt locks. Why two Harold had no idea. He had seen Mr. Anderson open the door and remove wine and bottles of vodka, but he had never been inside himself. The keys went in like butter, and the bolts turned smoothly. He then pulled the large horizontal wood handle toward him which was at waist hight and the door opened. A rush of cold air hit Harold in the face. A series of three light bulbs automatically went on as Harold entered the refrigerator. There were two wine racks on either side of the room, running the length to the end about twelve feet. On the far wall was a portrait of what appeared to Harold to be Ulysses S. Grant. There were hundreds of bottles of wine. Harold fingered a few of them, but there were just too many to try to find a dry Pinot Grigio. In fact, he wouldn’t necessarily know a Pinot Grigio from a Chardonney.
“Having trouble?”
Bush stood at the refrigerator door.
“Well, sir, I just wouldn’t know…I am not sure where to start looking,” said Harold.
“Hey, look at that. Is that Grant? Watching over the White House booze. That’s funny,” said Bush as he grabbed two bottles off the rack. “Here we go. Two Chardonneys. And they are dry. Dry enough. Let’s close this up and have ourselves a drink,” said the President as he walked out of the refrigerator.
Harold followed President Bush out, closed the heavy wood door and locked the dead bolts. By the time Harold walked back to the kitchen center island, Presdient Bush has already had one of the bottles open with a full glass of wine in a glass tumbler. Harold noticed that the President was not sipping but gulping. And in one quickk clip, Mr. Bush was already pouring himself a second glass.
“Want some, there, Harold?” asked Bush.
“No, sir,” said Harold.
“Hey, I’m the President. You got to drink when I ask you to,” said Bush.
Harold did not know what to say. He had had a rule all his life: one never drinks on the job…never. His father taught him that by drinking himself to death. And so Harold made sure to keep his work very far from drink.
“Just kidding, Harold,” said Bush as he downed another glass. “You got those keys?” asked Bush
“Yes, sir,” said Harold as he placed the refrigerator keys on the butcher block next to the President.
Harold noticed that the bottle of Chardonney that the President had opened was almost empty.
“You know I don’t regret a thing. Not a thing. I’m President. You can’t get any higher than that. You can’t have more success than that. I am at the top, there, Harold. The tippy top. Yeah, OK, yeah I made a few mistakes. But everyone makes…yeah, everyone everyone. I’m not the only one, Harold. I mean I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t raped a woman. I have never hit my wife. Never. Never would do that
The President stood, more slowly and uncertainly than Harold did when he got up from his stainless steel chair.
“You finish the bottle. And put the other one back in the…hey, you here tomorrow night, Harold?” asked the President.
“Yes, sir,” said Harold.
“Good. Good. You’re a good man. You started with Reagan, right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harold.
“He was a good man too. He was a good man. You’re a good man. And, hey, yeah, I ‘m a good man. I’m headin’ up. Upstairs. Got a day tomorrow, you know. Got a day,” said President Bush as he walked down the corridor that led to the stairwell to the upper levels of the White House.
Harold stood for a moment. He grabbed the nearly empty bottle of Chardonney, poured out the remaining wine into the sink and through the bottle in the recycle bin. He then washed the President’s tumbler. Afterall, that was his job. That was Harold James Hoey’s job, to wash the President’s ’s dirty dinnerware.
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