An appointment with the President

It'd been a real long time since I'd been pinned down and made to cry uncle by an older brother. But two weeks ago this was me, crying like a ninny: "I love George W. Bush! He's a great, great man," I shouted over the phone. "I've always loved him. And Dick Cheney, too."

Unlike the days of our youth, my brother Jim didn't have me literally pinned to a horizontal surface of his choice. But I was definitely feeling the hurt. Somehow he had secured an invitation to the White House for the reception last Wednesday of the 2007 World Series Champion Red Sox. He had called me to brag. I suspect he garnered the invitation through some unholy activity, like selling cookies door to door for the RNC.

"I don't think they want people like you there," he told me, in his best faux country-club lockjaw.

"Come on, I want to go with you," I pleaded. He chuckled — guffawed, really. It was an older, deeper guffaw than the one that's forever congealed in my brain pan like bacon grease — the guffaw of a younger Jim who would team up with our oldest brother Chris and hang me upon the bunk bed by my underwear. (That's all water under the bridge now. My brothers made me the man I am today: mentally strong, though panicky in the presence of bunk beds.)

Anyway, I thought I was getting no where with him, but three hours later he called me again. After my pleading, he'd arranged an invitation for me, too. (Did I tell you what a good brother Jim has grown to become?) I simply had to e-mail my vital information to the White House Social Office. They did a background check. I suspect my vote for Nader in 2000 neutralized the impact of my past membership to the Che Guevara Fan Club, because three days later, my invitation was secured.

So in the wee hours of Wednesday, Feb. 27, we were in the car, Jim at the wheel, both of us jacked up on coffee, heading south to D.C., a long, long drive that went something like this:

Him: "You wait and see: George W. Bush will go down as the greatest president in American history."

Me: "You wait and see: Guys in unmarked white vans are going to start going around and picking up people like you."

Him: "Yeah, so what are you going to do, vote for Barrack Hussein Obama? Give me a break."

Me: "What are you going to do, dittohead? Has Rush Limbaugh given you your instructions yet?"

Him: "Why don't you go raise someone's taxes, you commie lib."

Me: "Why don't you go waterboard someone, you closet henchman."

I love my brother. And he loves me. We'd do anything for each other.

Eventually, by Delaware, we got to talking about the things that unite us: our love for baseball and our general sense that — really — it's the other members of our immediate family who truly are the cause for concern.

That loving feeling sustained us as we swooped into the nation's capital where people with badges led us through the gates of the White House and offered us hot chocolate. Among the nation's most famous dignitaries, we stood there in awe, a couple of gate-crashing, rubber-necking bumpkins from the north, tapping our toes to the sounds of the United States Marine Band.

"What the heck are we doing here?" I whispered, dumbfounded.

"It's a great country, ain't it?" Jim said.

Eventually, the president and vice president emerged, as did the Red Sox players who cradled the World Series trophy. Bush gave a humorous speech. My brother and I high-fived each other and took turns snapping pictures of each other smiling like mad men.

We hardly even noticed when it was all over. We hardly even noticed the people with badges gently leading us out and shutting the White House gates behind us.

On the car ride home, it probably took me two hours to come down from the high, two hours to notice that my brother had cranked up the car stereo with the complete set of Ronald Reagan's greatest speeches.

He sat stone still at the wheel, getting misty-eyed. I let him have his moment. I just tried to imagine that Ronald Reagan's voice was a clarinet.