Today President Metzger issued an executive order to all government departments responsible for entitlement payments, reducing each payment from 20 to 40 percent, as authorized by the Balanced Budget Amendment. But reduced entitlement payments were not the only income reversals for the elderly. Negative profits and heavy mutual fund losses have severely impacted pension plans and retirement incomes, in general.
Also today, the president once more requested authorization to override the balanced budget requirements.
The recent epidemic of executive suicides claimed its twentieth victim yesterday. Arnold Tarnbrook, president and CEO of HydroTech Industries, jumped to his death from the sunroof of the Panorama Restaurant, fifty-five stories above Miami's Jasmine Place. He left two adult children and a grandchild.
Headline News
Atlanta, GA,
Dec. 17
On the eve of his death, Jesus is quoted as saying: "You always have the poor with you." And ever since, people have used this partial quote to justify their greed, their lack of compassion, their callousness to poverty.
But according to the Gospels, Jesus also told a rich man, "Go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven."
Would the poor be less poor if there were no rich men? Money fuels civilization, and provides material needs. Wealth permits one to help those in need, often needs which government is ill-suited to deal with.
What would you advise a rich person to do, here in the twenty-first century? Convert his possessions to money, then walk through the skid rows of the world, giving it to derelicts? Or give it to scholarships, foundations, shelters for the homeless, and research toward solutions to the world's problems? Or some to each?
Even if used to buy wine or drugs, it is appropriate to give money to someone destitute on the street, because he thereby experiences human compassion. But broad good can be accomplished by investing in strategically selected organizations.
There is a difference in valuing wealth solely for material gratification, and in valuing wealth for the good you can do with it. Increasingly we have the means to make poverty obsolete. What is needed is the will.
As for the person who dies while wallowing in material pleasures, he too, in time, will dwell in the richness of the spirit. Meanwhile, for now, "richness of the spirit" may seem unreal to him, unbelievable. And how can he value it when he doesn't believe in it?
Rich or poor, let him believe what he believes, disbelieve what he disbelieves, value what he values–without being assaulted for it, physically or verbally. In time he will learn the lessons of materialism, and pass on to new lessons.
What we can do now, within limits, is inhibit him from harming others. But it is well not to restrain him too closely, for in his actions lie his lessons and our own. We interact, and through those interactions we grow. All of us, evolving together in the spirit.
From The Collected Public Lectures
of Ngunda Aran
There was a knock on the door to the Oval Office. "Madam President, it's me. Hank."
"Come in."
He entered, and she fixed him with a cocked eye. "What in hell are you doing up at this hour, Groenveldt? It's after one in the morning."
"Checking on you, Madam President. You should be in bed."
"The hell you say! Who assigned you as my nanny? I read awhile to clear my register of the bullshit I deal with all day long. Otherwise I dream the damn job all night, and the dreams are worse than the real thing. Frigging nightmares!"
"Maybe you should read in bed, and fall asleep reading."
"I'm like the five hunded pound gorilla, Enrico me lad. I read where I want to." She paused. "Don't look at that statement too closely; it won't bear scrutiny. And don't tell people I weigh five hundred pounds; I'm down to two forty five. Even that damned nag Beliveau only wants me down to two ten, so two forty five isn't half bad. Big frame, big bones, big muscles, bignever mind."
She'd ranged from mock truculent to mock humor, but he sensed a tautness beneath the surface, a tension, something that could snap under added stress. The job, the constant crises, the frustration of trying to work with a hostile Senate were getting to her. She held the book up, the cover toward him: "The Turbulent Mirror," she said, "by Briggs and Peat. On chaos theory, appropriately enough."
Hank stood uncomfortable and worried.
Her expression changed to grimness. "What would you think if I declared martial law tomorrow?" she asked.
He voiced his syllables carefully, the words spaced, speeding a bit as he got tracked. "It seems to me you were right when you said it shouldn't be done hastily. And to me, tomorrow seems too soon. At least politically."
Face hard, eyes hard, she looked at him, then nodded curtly. "Thanks for your viewpoint, Groenveldt. Go home and get some sleep, and tomorrow don't stay so late. Perfecta deserves to see more of her husband." He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him at the door. "And, Hank, I agree with you. About martial law. But I might do it anyway. I need to be effective, for chrissake!"
She snapped the final three words, her voice rising in pitch and volume.
He paled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am, you do," he answered quietly. Then he went home and had his own bad dreams.
Senate Republican leader Riley Woodrow was large and rumpled. He looked like a long-ago Crimson Tide offensive guard gone to seed. Which he was. The press liked him. Many of them didn't care for his politics, but they liked him. From a rural community and farm roots, he had the homespun and somehow courtly style of an earlier generation. His language was colorful, and he enjoyed political confrontation. Sometimes he even went out of his way to inspire it, which kept things lively; interesting. Yet he was seldom truly insulting, and almost never truculent.
Riley Woodrow had always been staunchly conservative, but not far enough to the right to join the breakaways who'd formed the America Party. Initially he'd even lampooned them, but when they'd proved they could be a force in Congress, at least for a while, he'd made peace with them.
And with that, he steered his cohorts rightward in an effort at damage control, because several seemed a threat to switch parties.
That rightward tack had cost him two seats, moderate Republicans who joined earlier breakaways to the Center Party. But there'd been no avoiding it, and they'd tended to vote with the Centrists anyway. So he held that rightward course, making common cause with the Americists whenever his scruples allowed.
He didn't actually dislike Florence Metzgershe was about as good as he could reasonably hope for, given the timesbut as a matter of politics, he undercut her whenever practical. She was, after all, an opponent.
And a woman. He had no qualms about women in the Senate, but as the nation's chief executive? Metzger had a woman's genes, a woman's glands, and "a woman's inability to make good decisions under pressure," as he'd put it privately.
Furthermore, it had been a bad day. At least three of his borderline votes against balanced budget override authority were wavering. Lose two of them without picking up others, and he'd lose the floor vote. And these people pushing microphones at him, usually an agreeable experience, were going to ask questions he couldn't answer frankly, because his reasons would hurt his cause.
"Senator Woodrow, what do you think the president's prospects are tomorrow?"
"What prospects? She's too old to snag herself a boyfriend."
No one laughed. Not a good time for jokes, Riley, he told himself, and not a very good joke. You ought to know better.
"Senator, could the depression ever become serious enough that you'd relent and pass her request?"
He fixed the man with one of his better glowers. "Son," he said, "basic principles of governing have been bent or discarded too often in the past. The White House calls it expediency, but it's really panic. Do it often enough, like the liberals have, and you end up with no principles at all.
"That's where they are in the White House today. No principles at all. No integrity. Florence Metzger wasn't too bad as a senator, but since she's been in the Oval Office, she's become morally corrupt."
He realized as soon as he'd said "morally corrupt" that he'd overstepped, but barged on. "The crisis we find ourselves in today is the fault of a Democrat-Centrist coalition, and electing Florence Metzger president. And when the American people correct those mistakes, we can get the country back on track again."
He pushed his way through the reporters then, thinking he'd have done much better with a "no comment."
"Madam President, how do you respond to Senator Woodrow's comments?"
Normally Florence Metzger enjoyed dealing with the press, but today she was in no mood for bullshit. "Usually," she said, "I don't respond to comments like those, but in Senator Woodrow's case, I'll make an exception. A person's principles are their own. Someone else's will be different, often a lot different. Woodrow needs to look around and see the world as it is. Not through some distorted nineteenth century lens that wasn't worth much then and has been getting more and more out of focus ever since."
She knew that was a good place to stop, but she too charged on. "Woodrow's main problem is, he was born scared and brought up scared. Scared to look at the world. So he looks at a small weaselly mental picture of ittwo-dimensional line drawings in black and white. Not even any grays, just stick figures in black and white. Without faces. And he clings to it in spite of hell, where I do not doubt the proprietor is waiting for him with gleefully shining eyes."
The rest of the questions were throw-aways. She didn't even remember them afterward. She was too busy wishing she could withdraw at least that one last sentence.
"Senator, the President had some pretty strong things to say about you this morning. Would you like to respond to them?"
It had been a bad afternoon session, and Riley Woodrow felt testy. He'd have liked to shove the man's microphone down his throat; or better yet . . .
"Well," he drawled, "she talked about how hell was waiting for me. I expect she knows quite a bit about hell. She's got close ties there. You've heard of guardian angels? Hers have leather wings. Her problem is, she's a big, frustrated old maid who never had a date. What she needs is a man, but I wonder if she's not more interested in that masseuse she hauls around everywhere with her, at taxpayer expense."
He felt good about his comeback for perhaps eight seconds. But by the time he reached his office, he felt sure his mouth had gotten him in major trouble. To hell with it, Riley, he told himself. You've been mealy-mouthed too often. A man's got to let her rip from time to time.
But he didn't feel convinced. Not at all.
Before Woodrow left for the night, the e-mail was piling up. His staff would give him the for-and-against counts after the flow slowed, but of the messages themselves, they showed him only approvals. Which were numerous, for his jabs had been as widely broadcast as the president's.
The message that counted, though, was by phone. It was from long-time congressman and sometime GOP House Speaker Carl McGrath, six years retired. McGrath had been a senior congressman when Riley Woodrow first came to Washington, had taken a liking to the loquacious rookie and become his mentor and sponsor; had advised him, and gotten him favorable committee assignments. They'd developed a strong personal fondness and closeness, and despite occasional political differences, Woodrow's respect for McGrath approached reverence. They'd remained close even after Woodrow moved to the Senate, until at age seventy-four, McGrath retired with a heart condition.
Woodrow felt a twinge of discomfort when his secretary told him who was on the line, but he took the call. The face on the screen was pale, and puffy from medication. Woodrow realized with embarrassment how long it had been since he'd called McGrath, and determined to do better.
"Hello, Carl," he said genially. "I've been meaning to call. How's the world treating you?"
"Not too badly, Riley. I keep taking my medications, and reading. I always used to complain I didn't have time to read a lot of things I'd have liked to. Now all I've got is time." He chuckled. "Sounds strange, coming from someone eighty years old with a bad heart. But it's true. I recommend retirement to anyone interested. When they feel ready."
He paused. Riley Woodrow knew without question why Carl McGrath had phoned him.
"I saw you on television this evening, Riley. At supper." He paused, inviting response.
"Yeah, I suppose you did. That wasn't too good, was it."
"I did feel pretty bad to hear it. I suppose you've been having second thoughts."
"Well, she didn't talk too nice about me yesterday."
"No, no she didn't. But, Riley, it might be well to make peace with her, instead of war. She's trying to steer the country through one of the most dangerous times in our history, and while I wouldn't urge you to vote one way or another, she needs all the moral support she can get. And what you did was, you basically implied she's a homosexual. You see."
Riley Woodrow exhaled audibly through pursed lips. He did see.
"But I suppose you've already thought about all that, and decided whatever it is you want to do."
"Well, not entirely. I'm still thinking on it."
There was another lag, and he thought of asking McGrath how he'd vote on the Balanced Budget override, but he already knew.
The older man filled the vacuum. "How's Addie these days?"
"Addie? She's fine. Like always. Busy with the library board and the DARthat sort of thing. Makes herself useful in the world. Goes to the Senate wives' club three times a week, and cavorts with the bouncing ladies, to keep her figure."
"Good for her. Wish I'd taken better care of myself . . . Well, I didn't intend to make this a long call. You've got more important things to do than spend the evening talking to someone who doesn't. Give Addie my kindest regards, and next time you get to south Florida, it'd be nice to see you."
With that, McGrath cut the connection, leaving Riley Woodrow looking at the blank screen for several long sober seconds. Then the senator called his bodyguard and chauffeur, gathered his coat and briefcase, and headed for the subterranean parking garage.
When she arrived at the White House next morning, Andrea Jackson's face was puffy, her eyes red.
Florence Metzger didn't ask why. She simply said, "Andy, you could use a drink." Without waiting for a reply, she pressed keys on her intercom, signaling the second butler. "Romney, bring two whiskeys and water to the Oval Office. I've got a friend in need, and I could use one myself. Make them weak though."
She touched the key again, the light blinking out, and turned to Andrea. "I don't keep a bottle in my desk. Temptation.
"So. You look like you need a friend. Besides Franklin. You want to talk?"
Andrea's voice was barely audible. "Madam President, here's my resignation." She held out an envelope, and when the president didn't take it, laid it on the desk. "Ican't work here any longer. I just can't."
The tears began to flow then. It's a wonder she's got any left, the President thought, and getting to her feet, went around the desk and gripped her friend's arms. A hug might not be welcome under the circumstances. "Honey," she said, "you've done nothing wrong and said nothing wrong. There's no reason on God's green Earth for you to leave."
"There is. It looks bad for you, for me to be here."
"The hell you say. Tell you what. I'll ask Woodrow over, and when he gets here, I'll butter his necktie and shove it, um, down his throat. You can watch. How's that?"
Andrea smiled in spite of herself. "No, ma'am," she said, "no need to do that. There's other jobs; I'll be all right. We can live on Franklin's pay."
Well, shit! "Tell you what. I won't accept this right away. Maybe later. But first I want you to take a two-week vacation, with Franklin. You've both got annual leave coming. I'll buy you plane tickets to Miami, and a cruise."
Andrea shook her head, but her eyes were uncertain.
"Think about it. Talk to him. Here, I'll buzz him. You can talk in Sheri's office. She's off today."
Before she got to her intercom though, it buzzed for her. She answered. "What is it, Marge?"
"A call for you on three, ma'am. Senator Woodrow."
Metzger moved quickly to her chair, thunder on her brows, and faced the screen. "Put him through," she said grimly.
And there he was, a study in remorse. It did not touch her. Her voice was as hard as her face. "What do you want, Senator?"
"Madam President, I have an apology to make."
"To whom?"
"Well, you to start with, you being right there on the phone. For the hateful, unconscionable things I said yesterday to the press. And another one to your masseuse, when I can get hold of her.
"I guess you know I'm not used to saying I'm sorry. I wouldn't even admit to myself that I ought to, till last evening I got a call from Carl McGrath, down in Port Charlotte. You know old Carl. He didn't chew me out or even criticize, but he caused me to look at what I'd said.
"Then, when I got home, Addie met me at the door and said 'Honey, we've got to talk.' She's the one made me look at how your masseusehell, I don't even know the lady's namehow she had to feel. Anyway, by the time Addie was done, I was ready to call you right then, but she said, 'No, wait till morning; she's prob'ly in bed.' So here it is morning, and here I am, hat in hand."
He looked as if he were peering out of the screen at her. "Whether you're willing to accept this or not, I'm going to apologize publicly, to the press. Eat me some well-earned crow.
"And something else. Carl said something like, 'That woman is trying to steer the country through its worst internal dangers since the War Between the States. She doesn't need insults just now.' Those weren't his exact words, but that's what they amounted to.
"Anyway, I didn't sleep a whole lot last night, but I did a lot of thinking. And I'm going to suggest to my Republican colleagues that they vote yes on your Balanced Budget override. Because I am. It's a dangerous precedent, and it troubles me deeply. But the times are dangerous too, and it seems to me the risk is justified."
Florence Metzger stared. "Senator, I'm glad I don't have a weak heart, or they'd be swearing Charles DeSales in as president this morning. Now I have something to tell you, but first I want to introduce you to someone." She beckoned to Andrea, who'd been listening wide-eyed. The therapist came around the desk, and the president angled the pickup to show her.
"Senator Woodrow, I want you to meet my therapist, Andrea Jackson. She came in early today and tendered her resignation. I haven't accepted it, but if she insists, there's not much I can do about it."
Riley Woodrow peered earnestly from the screen. "Miz Jackson, I would consider it a favor, to me and my conscience, if you would withdraw your resignation and accept my abject apologies."
Her voice was even quieter than usual. "Senator, I will do both. And I thank you forfor being the sort of person who can do what you're doing."
The president turned to her. "Anything else, Andy?"
"No, ma'am."
Metzger readjusted the pickup. "Senator," she said, "You have just saved me not only a good therapist, but someone who's not afraid to disagree with me when I ask her opinion.
"Now, what else I need to say is, I owe you an apology, too. So I suggest we meet the press together, and apologize mutually. It will do the whole damned country good to see and hear it. We can set a good example, maybe even start a civility trend."