First Contact: Or, It's Later Than You Think - By Evan Mandery Page 0,2

we could have a footrace among all the world leaders throughout history,” he said. “That would be a truly fascinating competition. I bet Napoleon could run like the wind. And Gandhi too. He looks swift.”

“Sir, I have this news I mentioned.”

“In a minute, Ralph. I have one more thing for you.”

“Yes, sir.” Ralph thought again about the Secretary of State, an impatient man to begin with, sitting in the Map Room waiting for Ralph to return with instructions from the President, who was at that moment standing stark naked, having dropped his towel to the floor to facilitate his rummaging through the presidential wardrobe. He removed from the drawer a pair of underwear, which had been folded and sealed in the manner a dry cleaner would return a boxed shirt, though this pair of shorts had the presidential seal across it and not the “We ♥ Our Customers” labeling that the local dry cleaner emblazoned across Ralph’s dress shirts.

THIS CAREFUL, ALMOST OBSESSIVE attention to laundry seemed, to Ralph, to be an overindulgence, albeit one of many in the White House. The kitchen maintained a reserve of 475 gallons of ice cream in the freezer and had a chef on duty at all times. The former executive chef of a Michelin three-star restaurant in New York manned the graveyard shift in case the President ever wanted an omelet or a cup of gazpacho in the middle of the night. Not only had the President, who prided himself on being an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, never taken advantage of the overnight cuisinier, he ate the same thing for breakfast every morning—Rice Krispies and coffee; ate the same thing for lunch every day—a ham and Swiss cheese from Blimpway; and for dinner had either spaghetti and meatballs or macaroni and cheese. If he had to attend a state dinner, where pasta could not very well be served, at least not in a form he would tolerate, the President would have a bite of the capon or fish that was on the menu, then steal off afterward for a plate of noodles, which he would eat while watching sports.

Knowing of the President’s fondness for mac and cheese, the head chef of the White House, himself the former culinary director at a four-star restaurant in Los Angeles, experimented during the first several months of the President’s term with various recipes for the dish, arriving ultimately upon a mélange of thin gemelli with diced bits of pancetta, caramelized onion, and roasted asparagus in a creamy Asiago-Parmesan sauce that several White House staffers who acted as taste testers described as the most exquisite thing they had ever eaten, bordering on orgasmic, and which the President rejected in favor of the Kraft product that came in 99-cent boxes. Still, they kept vats of caviar, foie gras, and truffles in the kitchen, in the event the President awoke one evening with a case of the munchies and an epiphany of palate sophistication.

NOW HE WAS STANDING in front of Ralph, nude but for his underwear. Ralph had witnessed this scene more times than he cared to remember.

“It’s bunching.”

“Where, sir?”

“Here.” The President pulled at the material between his buttocks and turned around so Ralph could have a clearer view.

“Here,” he said. “Can’t you see?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t.”

“It’s grabbing at me, son. Everywhere I go, it’s grabbing and bunching.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know the president of the United States can’t just fix himself like everyone else. I mean, I sit in meetings six hours a day, and half the time it’s up there in my butt-crack. I’m aware of it. You shouldn’t be aware of underwear. But I can’t just go up there after it. I can’t say, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Premier of Kazakhstan, my wears are riding up today and I’m going to go and have me a tug.’ I can’t very well do that, now, can I, Ralph?”

“No, I don’t suppose so, sir.”

“Well, what are we going to do then?”

“I don’t know, Mr. President. I think we may have tried everything.”

IN DEED THEY HAD TRIED seemingly everything. In the beginning, Ralph tried the offerings of the various popular commercial brands—the Gap and J. Crew, Brooks Brothers and Banana Republic. When it became clear none of these were satisfactory, Ralph did what any good government official would do: he threw money at the problem, thereupon entering a world he had never imagined existed. He bought the President Armani underwear at $89 a pair, Dolce & Gabbana for $109, and Versace at $129 a