HOT FOR HILLARY (RODHAM CLINTON) (2/6)
 
		By B. Traven
 
		**
 
The secretary was on the phone and looked somewhat annoyed at his interruption.
Still talking on the phone, she gestured for Peterson to enter the inner office.
He unconsciously ran his palm through his head, smoothing down imaginary
out-of-place hairs, and walked to the open door of the inner office. She
was sitting at her desk and was also talking on the phone. She was
immaculately dressed in a light-blue business outfit that somehow managed to
look business-like and feminine at the same time. She wore sparkling earrings
that set off her blond hair. He stood in doorway awkwardly, not sure if
he should enter or not. She looked up at him at him and smiled while 
continuing to talk on the phone. Since she did not indicate for him to
enter he continued to stand there awkwardly. Trying to look more casual
he raised his left arm to lean against the door frame, but quickly took his
arm down when he realized that he his suitcoat had opened to expose his
gun in his shoulder holster. 
 
She finally put the phone down and looked up toward him.
 
"And you must be ..." she said in bubbly voice.
 
"John Peterson, Ma'am ... Secret Service", he heard himself say in a deep voice
that sounded like dialogue from a cheap Western.
 
"Oh, yes. John or is it Mr. Peterson?"
 
"John is fine, Ma'am." She actually seemed pleasant and not at all like an
Ice Queen.
 
"And Mrs. Clinton will do fine, or even Hillary is OK. Ma'm makes
me sound like an old lady."
 
"Yes, Ma'am ... uh, Mrs. Clinton", he felt like a idiot now and felt
foolish that he had taken this assignment.
 
She reached into her drawer and picked out a stack of envelopes.
 
She looked at him and smiled.
 
"Now that we have the introductions out of the way, why don't you
deliver these envelopes for me."
 
His face dropped and he felt a sudden flash of anger. He was a Secret
Service agent, not a messenger boy. He had in the past volunteered to
run errands for the Bushes but those were done as a personal favors. Since the
Nixon administration it was understood that Secret Service agents assigned to
the White House are not personal valets. They are professionals trained
to protect lives. What right does this ... bitch -there he said it - have to
send me on her errands.
 
He drew himself up to his full height and puffed up his chest.
 
"Mrs. Clinton, I afraid I cannot do that." he said in a flat voice.
 
Her mouth frowned in a pout he would have found sexy if he wasn't so angry.
 
"Excuse me?" 
 
"Mrs. Clinton, I am a trained Secret Service agent assigned to
protect your life. I cannot both protect your life and deliver your mail."
 
She paused for a minute to digest what he had said. She placed her hand
under her chin, thinking.
 
"John, let me see if I understand what you are saying ..." she said sounding
like a lawyer presenting a case in court.
 
 
"I have approximately a dozen envelopes in my hand that I am asking you
to deliver. All but two of recipients are down the hall. The remaining
two recipients are one floor below. An obviously fit man such as yourself
should be able to deliver each of envelopes to their respective recipients
within, say, 6 minutes."
 
She paused and looked at him. After a few moments he realized she was
expecting him to respond.
 
"Yes." he said. His throat felt dry.
 
She smiled and continued.
 
"However, you are unable to take 6 minutes to deliver these envelopes because
you are guarding my life?"
 
"Yes." He now felt she was understanding.
 
"However ... I do not see any assassins ready to kill me and the White
House itself is very thoroughly guarded."
 
"Yes, but ..." he tried to interject.
 
She cut him off and continued.
"Moreover, there were no Secret Service agents guarding me until
you came in ...", She looked at her watch, "12 minutes ago."
 
He knew it was futile to say anything.
 
"Looking at the facts we see that I was without a Secret Service agent since
5:45am, over two hours ago, since I left my husband to come to my office." 
 
She continued.
 
"So, in spite of the fact that I was without ANY Secret Service protection
for at least two hours this morning, you are saying you cannot leave me
unprotected for the six minutes it would take you to deliver these
envelopes."
 
"Mrs. Clinton ..." He knew this was not going to be a good day.
 
"Now, I think perhaps there another motive for you refusing to help
me out with a small errand." she said in an understanding tone.
 
"Each profession has its own standards of conduct. If anyone can understand
that, I can. As a practicing attorney in the state of Arkansas
I was prevented in many instances of representing clients who do
business with the state - because my husband happened to be governor. 
This was to prevent an appearance of a conflict of interest - all because
of the standards of my profession. Can you imagine? I could not practice
law the same as any other attorney in that hick state of inbred hillybillies
because of my husband's job. This is an absurd sexist rule that would
never have applied if I were a man."
 
She stopped to look at him sympathetically.
 
"So, you're saying that in your profession you could not do me a favor -
you could not help the First Lady in her official duties -
because it would violate your professional standards?" she asked in
a soft voice.
 
"Yes, Mrs. Clinton." he said relieved that the confrontation appeared to
over.
 
"Please call me Hillary." she said sweetly.
 
"Yes, ... Hillary."  he said in a friendly tone.
 
"I'm glad that we understand each other now." she said with the hint of
a smirk.
 
"Now that we have our knickers down, and I understand your position, let
me tell you what I think of it:
You work for me, Peterson. You're just the hired help, here. We all
have to do whatever it takes to get the job done. I've had to do
that all my life fighting against sexism that permutes this society."
 
He was mortified.
 
"Peterson, you're a hired gun. A boy who never gave up his toy guns. A
boy playing with his gun while the girls were relegated to playing
mommy with their dolls. Professional ethics? Don't make my laugh.
You don't want dirty yourself by putting your toy gun down for a
moment and doing some real work."
 
She continued with a grin.
 
"You're going to do this little errand for me, or you're going to
 get your ass the fuck out of the White House - and the Secret Service.
 This is a new regime, and anyone not willing to help out will be
 out on their ass. And don't forget I'm the one who calls the shots
 here. My husband may be the one who wooed the public with his boyish
 smile but I am the one who is working in the trenches. Some
 men have problems working for women but the times that are a'changin', buster.
 DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?", she was screaming now, and he was afraid someone
 else would hear.
 
He nodded his head mechanically and felt very small.
 
She continued in soft, intimate voice.
 
"Good. John, please deliver these envelopes for me. It would help a
lot. After you're done just take the rest of the day off and cool
off. Just be here bright-eyed tomorrow morning and we'll have a fresh
start. I'm not really the bitch you may think I am. Let's not have any more
confrontations, and everything will be alright. I'll see that everything
is cleared with ..." she looked in her notebook. "Mr. Art Green"
 
He meekly took the envelopes from her and turned to leave.
 
"John?"
 
He turned around to face her. She smiled brightly.
 
"Ah, yes, ... Hillary?"
 
"Nice watch." she said with an evil grin.
 
He felt a flash of white-hot anger. He turned and walked away quickly before
he did something stupid. He delivered the envelopes
and, then, left for the nearest bar.
		**
 
After downing a half-dozen Wild Turkey's his outlook was improved measurable.
This bar had the just the right ambiance with ripped nagahyde bar stools,
garish neon beer signs and a permanent cloud of smoke.
 
Someone sat in the stool next to him. He looked over and saw
a bosomy blond who wore too much makeup.
 
"Hi, there." she said a voice cheery voice that sounded sickening sweet to
his ears.
 
"Uhh, hi." he finished his shot glass and motioned to the bartender to get
a refill.
 
The haggard-looking bartender came over with his refill.
 
"Get the lady one, too."  Peterson said with a slight slur.
 
"Thanks, honey!" she said brightly. She leaned over toward him and
squeezed his arm.  "Are you an athlete, or something?"
 
"Nope, I'm not a cop, either."
 
"Well, you're in real good shape, if you don't mind my saying, that is." she
leaned against him drinking some colorful drink containing fruit. Looking
at it made him want puke.
 
"Can I ask you a question?" Peterson said.
 
"Sure, honey."
 
"Are you a lawyer?"
 
She burst out laughing.
 
"No, why would you ask that?"
 
"Then let's go fuck." He took her by the arm and they left together.
		**
 
The next day he woke up with a hangover. The events of the previous day
came back to him, and his stomach sank. He debated whether to talk with
Green about his run-in with Hillary, but he decided to try and stick it.
Civil service regulations or not he knew someone in her position could get
back at him. Besides his experience in the military taught him to obey
orders even if he didn't personally go along with them. Its wasn't just
the orders themselves that mattered it was the discipline that they entailed.
It was the discipline that stood between him and chaos. If life taught him
anything it was the need for self-discipline. If he had trouble dealing
with Hillary or anyone else his self-discipline would get him through the
situation.
 
Everything went alright that day. Maybe, he and Hillary had really
started a new day as she had suggested. She was friendly as if nothing had
happened and gave him no errands to do. He realized afterwards that her
performance the previous day was a really a power play where she was
asserting her dominance over him. When it was clear in her mind that she
was dominant, she didn't need to play any more power games with him.
He inwardly stewed when he realized this but he reminded himself that he was
the one with self-discipline. 
		**
 
A few weeks later she called him into her office.
 
"Get your bags ready, John. We're going off together." she said
conspiratorially.
 
"What?" he was momentarily astonished.
 
"I'm going to speak at the AMA convention in Chicago on health care.
You have to accompany me."
 
Of course it was all standard operating procedure. She required Secret
Service protection and he was the agent assigned to her. He normally
liked to travel but felt uneasy about going with her. 
 
"Our flight is at 8:40 on Thursday morning. I'll be looking forward to our
trip."
 
"Yes, Hillary." He groaned silently.