Hail to the reluctant chief

His butt in the air, his head stuffed in the cushion of the couch — essentially, taking the S-shape of a sink drain — he's not at all taking this interview seriously.

I had just tasseled his hair and told him how someday he could be President of these United States. In simpler times, that seminal declaration — "Someday, son, you could be President" — served as a steady-handed nudge of a child toward a dazzling future and the pursuit of excellency. But it just doesn't have the same ring to it anymore, does it? ...

Telling my 9-year old he could be President sounds like I'm laying out a worse-case scenario, kind of like "You know, son, someday you could get yourself impaled atop a cell tower."

But considering the assemblage of strange men vying for the presidency this year, maybe it's time to begin the grooming process.

"By the way, do you know why sink drains are S-shaped?" I ask him, making some small talk first to loosen him up.

"No clue."

"It's to block the stink of the septic tank."

"Stinky poo-poo."

We're in what we call our home's West Wing, even though our home is wingless. But it's warm, anyway. The woodstove flickers. It's raining out, or sleeting, or the shards of a conked-out Russian satellite are falling upon our fair home.

What I'm saying is, we're terribly bored — and he could be President someday.

"Well, let's begin — and by the way, you're on the record."

"What record?"

"The record. I'm taking notes. Everything you say can and sure as heck will be used against you. First, would you want to be President?"

"Nah. I'd probably have to go to meetings every Thursday."

"What does Thursday have to do with anything?"

"Gym." [That's his mother. She's orbiting our interview. She's dusting. That may sound so throwback-1950s when the men lounged while the women dusted — back when a boy could be President someday — but she really is dusting.]

"What do you mean 'gym'?" I ask.

"He has gym on Thursdays. This is nonsense, Felix." [She's referring to the interview. She's never supported me and my journalism.]

"Are you going to be answering all of his questions for him?"

"But that's why he doesn't want to be President," she says. "Thursday he has gym, and he likes gym class."

"Well, he'd be President, so he could take gym any time he wants. And besides, the White House has its own gym."

"There's a gym in the White House?" That's the boy. He has rolled into an upright position.

"And a swimming pool, I think. And maybe a bowling ally. I forget," I say.

"Okay, I'd like to be president. I've changed my mind."

"I'm reading that new Jacqueline Kennedy interview book, and, wow, things were so much easier for Presidents and their families then." [That's his mother again. She has recaptured the interviewee role from the boy who could be President someday.] "It's amazing how Presidents then could control the media and how the White House projected itself to the world," she says. "Now, you have to be a WWF wrestler to be President — a fake persona, and it's all a lie, and you get the crap beat out of you."

The boy is back on his head.

"WWF?" he says. "They'd probably beat the crap out of the windows."

"I'd have to think about that," I say.

"Also, Henry," she says, "when you send troops to war and those troops are killed, the responsibility is on your shoulders." [Her dusting has become aggressive.]

"And I'd have to pay their insurance?" [That's the boy. The blood is rushing to his brain.]

"Their lives would be your responsibility," she tells him.

"I wouldn't kill anyone."

"Yes, Cara, he wouldn't kill anyone," I say, giving that look husbands used to give their wives back in the 1950s that said, "Honey Dear, there are plenty of surfaces upstairs that need dusting, as well."

"I'd try to stop war," Henry says. He's on his side now. He's gone limp.

"How would you stop war?" I ask.

"By putting up posters on schools that say 'No More War.' And on telephone poles, too.

"But what about the bad guys who want war?"

"I'd send a few troops in to staple those posters to their foreheads. Maybe send some hippies in, on bungee cords, and they'd spray paint their houses."

"If you become President, you'd also get your own chef," I tell him.

"He already has his own chef." [That's his mother, and she's making an excellent point.]

"My own chef? Probably a short Italian guy, right?"

"Without question. And, hey, what party would you belong to?" I ask.

"My birthday party."

"Who would you place in your cabinet?"

"Wait, I'm not a cannibal!"

"What would you do about Congress?"

"What's that?"

"Picture hundreds of Jabba the Huts gathered under a dome eating rodents and passing gas. But they're also very ticklish." 

He's pushed himself upright, then falls back down in the other direction and goes limp again.

"You know, Dad, I don't think I want to be President."

"See, he doesn't even want to be President," his mother says.

"Perfect. He's hired."