Note: this is a work of fiction. Would I take the time to vet all the details in this story? Be serious, it's not like anybody's paying for this stuff.
Barak Obama is the first wired president. Truly the model Type A leader, ever since his first term in the Illinois Senate, Obama has rarely been without his Blackberry. Michelle emailed legal insights, mixed in with updates on their daughters. His staffers would provide up-to-the-second news and floor vote margins, so he sometimes knew what the opposition was going to do, before his opponents themselves knew. Then he'd relax by texting sports, jokes, and opinions with friends. And so it's been, throughout a successful and meteoric rise.
But all that is about to end.
One morning soon, in the presidential bedroom:
Oh, what a first week! Is it Saturday already? I must have slept through the alarm. Hey, where’s my Blackberry? I plugged it in right here by the bed last night, and now it’s gone.
Barak sweetie, Rahm came by before you awoke, and took it. The Secret Service couldn’t secure the signal, and they got worried.
But I can’t be without my Blackberry. I am the Wired President, after all. What will people think? I need to call Rahm... now, where’s my Blackberry? Oh, right.
Where’s the dang phone? Okay, it’s a land line. I can do this… Where’s the dang speed dial? I don't know Rahm's number- will somebody call him?
Oh, he’s still downstairs? Okay, what button do I push for that?
Hi, Rahm? Great thanks, how’re you? Hey, Rahm, sorry I missed you when you stopped by this morning. Rahm, listen— I want my Blackberry back.
Mr. President, I’m afraid that won’t be possible…
Rahm Emmanuael, remember who you’re talking to. I am the President of the United States, and you are my Chief of Staff, and I want my Blackberry. Got that?
Barak, listen: You have people for that stuff now. You don’t have to…
Are you telling me what I don’t have to do? Jeez, why don’t ya just put blinders on me and stuff my ears with spitballs? Having a Blackberry is like having eyes in the back of my head. I can't just give that up, once I've gotten used to it. I feel so... so vulnerable.
Sir, we— your staff and I— are here to take care of that for you.
Oh, yeah. And next you’ll tell me Michael Jordan was more important to the Bulls when he wasn’t playing…
The president manages to survive the rest of the day, but not without a few withdrawal incidents and a lot of separation anxiety.
Late that night, an emotionally drained Obama falls into an exhausted but restless sleep. A few hours before dawn, he awakes screaming.
"No! No! From my cold, dead hands! From my cold, dead hands! From my…"
"Barak!" Michelle shakes him awake. "You’re having a nightmare. Wake up!"
He jolts upright, panting, the sweat glistening on his brow and dripping down the tightly clenched muscles of his face. In response to his screams, the bedroom door lock snicks open electronically, and two pairs of crewcut sunglasses come into view, whispering into their headsets.
"What was it, sweetie?” She cradled his shivering frame in her strong arms. "What were you dreaming about?"
"I was walking through the tunnel, on my way to address the House of Representatives, and my Blackberry rang in my pocket. I reached in, and it wasn’t there. But it just went on ringing, and then the ring sounded like one of the girls crying. I started running toward the sound, and suddenly I was outside, standing in the sun. It became a ring tone again, and there was George Bush, standing in the middle of the White House basketball court. He answered the call, on my Blackberry. My Blackberry! I yelled "Hey, that's mine!" and ran after him, and he ran away, yelling, “Hah-hah! You’re the president now, and I'm not, and you can’t have your Blackberry, and I can! And I’m going to use your Blackberry and text my friends and be hip, and make the three-point shots, and you’re not! Hah-hah-hah-hah!"
I lunged and tackled him then, and he kept cackling, until he howled when I twisted his wrist and snatched my Blackberry back again. But then a couple of enormous Secret Service guys grabbed me, and started prying my fingers open, trying to take my Blackberry away. I hung onto it and yelled, 'No! No! From my cold, dead hands! From my cold, dead hands, will you have to pry my Blackberry, to take it away from me!' And that’s when you woke me."
(c) 2009 David Calloway