Three-Hundred and Forty Pounds

I’ve worked here for the long time, and I’ve always considered leaking stories to the press�"becoming that mysterious contributor, sending in letter after letter about the White House guests.  I could tell you about the senator who brought his “female companion” to the room across the hall but didn’t lock the door, or when the vice president locked himself out of his own office and I had to break in (which was exciting but made me feel like I’d get arrested), or my personal favorite was cleaning the dog poop off the  carpet in the oval office.  God, is that one a story.  Nothing will ever beat the time I opened the door on President Taft.

It was around 10 p.m. when he called out.  He was a particular man, always taking his bath from 9:30 to 9:50, no sooner no later.  But it was late and he wasn’t out yet, so I started to pace up and down the hall near the bathroom.  I wasn’t going to knock on the door and ask why he was spending so long in the tub but in the last 3 years he never strayed from his agenda.  The water was no longer running but there was silence�"rather than hearing the usual tune he would whistle as he took care of his business I heard nothing from under the door.

“Sir?” he called.

“Mr. President?” I answered.  I put my hand on the brass knob of the presidential bathroom and opened, my back facing away from the room.

“I’m going to need a hand.” I turned around, looking at the wet floor beside the white tub.  My gaze traveled upwards to lock eyes with my naked president, squeezed into the bathtub that used to fit him so well, only to find himself trapped by a few extra pounds from his last trip down south.