“Looks like you could use a hand with that, George.”
General George Washington looked up from his woodworking project to find his friend Alexander Hamilton standing on the flagstone patio, elegantly dressed — as usual — but without his powdered wig.
“Hi, Alex. Good to see you. Maybe you’re handy with a pocket knife?” George smiled. “Although I can’t recall ever seeing you with a tool in your hand. Other than a sharpened quill.”
Alex returned the smile. “Well, you know what they say. The pen is mightier than the pocket knife. I assume that’s one of Ben Franklin’s beer barrels? No wonder you’re looking frustrated.”
“Can’t stand the stuff, myself,” George responded. “But Martha loves her beer. First thing in the morning. Every morning.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But these damn wooden taps never fit his barrels,” George sputtered. “I wish Ben would get around to inventing aluminum cans instead of spending all his time flying kites.”
“Too bad you can’t get Martha to switch to rum. I just got in a nice shipment of molasses. But go ahead and carry on with your project while I watch safely from a distance. I need to talk politics with you.
“Why am I not surprised,” George snorted.
“Hey, once a politician, always a politician,” Alex smiled. “Anyway, I don’t think I ever thanked you for defeating the British army? I really do appreciate that. Because now we can get down to the business of creating a new government.”
George straightened himself and rubbed his lower back. “That sounds like a lot of fun, Alex. I encourage you and Tom Jefferson and the rest of you to have a wonderful time writing a Constitution and whatever other official documents you think will tickle your fancy. Speaking for myself, I’m retired now, and content to spend the rest of my days fixing Martha’s beer barrels.”
Alex frowned. “Sorry, George. Not gonna happen. You’re forgetting about public opinion.”
George crossed his arms defensively. “And what, pray tell, does public opinion have to do with my well-earned retirement?”
“The public is clamoring for a new King. And the name on everyone’s lips is ‘General Washington, the Hero of the Revolution.’ The people want you to lead our new government. When we get it created. Assuming we can actually create one without killing each other first.”
“So you’re telling me, that you guys are listening to public opinion? To a bunch of farmers and fishermen?”
“Oh come on, George. You know very well that we’re going to create a democracy. A government of the people.”
“Yes, I know all about your crazy ideas,” George sneered. “But you will remember, I spent the last seven years trying to teach those same farmers and fishermen how to load a goddamn musket without spilling gunpowder all over the place. Trust me, you are headed into sketchy territory if you’re going to let those yahoos pick their own King.”
“Well, you’re not actually going to be the King.”
“I thought I just heard you say that was the public opinion. That they want me to be the King.”
“Yes. I did say that. But we’re not going to let them call you a ‘King.’ We have a different name for it.”
“What kind of different name?”
“We’re going to call you ‘The President.’ We’ve talked a lot about it, and we think the title has a certain ring.”
George narrowed his eyes slightly. “What the hell is a ‘President?’ Never heard of such a thing. I’ve heard of Kings, and Dukes, and Barons, and Emperors… and so has everyone else. So what gives with the goofy new name?’
“Well, the problem, as we see it — with Kings and Emperors and royalty in general — is too much concentration of power. We’re really looking for a figurehead. A guy who would look good on, say, a one-dollar bill, but who really doesn’t have much power to make decisions. We want the people to make the decisions democratically — when they elect people like me to the Congress. The President just puts his signature on stuff, and gives fancy speeches. And maybe, someday, Tweeting. We’re not sure about the Tweeting part yet, though.”
“So you want me to be a figurehead? Is that what I’m hearing? Someone who can look like a world leader, but who’s really just pretending to know what’s going on?”
Alex smiled. “To tell the truth, yes. That’s it exactly. We want you to spend most of your time playing golf and hanging out with movie stars. Maybe an occasional appearance on the Daily Show. And of course, we’d put your picture on the money. So you’ll have to pose for that engraving. We’re going to ask you to put your teeth in, and smile.”
“I’m not putting my teeth in, to pose for any goddamn engraving. I hate those wooden teeth. Should never have ordered them in the first place. If you want me on your money, you’ll have to settle for a serious expression.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get yourself in a huff. We’ll settle for a serious expression,” Alex sighed. “But I’m hearing, now, that you’re willing to give it a try? Mr. President?”
George picked up the wooden beer tap and scraped it thoughtfully with his pocket knife.
“I dunno. Sounds like what you really want is, like, the former host of a defunct Realty TV show.”
Alex laughed. “Very funny, George. We don’t even have TV yet. But maybe someday.”
Underrated writer Louis Cannon grew up in the vast American West, although his ex-wife, given the slightest opportunity, will deny that he ever grew up at all.