Perfection and Pressure

InkSpellWeaver

"Ask not what your country can do for you-ask what you can do for your country,"

~ President John F. Kennedy

These words hold more meaning than most would be willing to admit, he thought to himself, as he pondered the words of the great President. He sat alone in the quiet of his ill-lit office. One arm was draped across the armrest of his chair, a glass of brandy held in his hand, only half full; the other hand ran through his glossy, russet, coloured hair. His blue eyes had become unfocused and glazed over in thought. Thoughts consumed with imminent war.

As a close advisor to the newly-elected Democratic President, his position allowed for him little peace of mind, especially in situations such as the current one, with the threat of war on the country's shoulders, and a strained relationship being the understatement of the year as far as foreign policy was concerned. As far as most were concerned, there were no relations at all between the two warring nations.

It gave him a migraine just knowing that the threat of assured and mutual destruction was quickly becoming reality. And it only grew worse when he realized that it was the only thing that he had thought about for a month. The advisor took a sip of his brandy absentmindedly. The face of his wife took shape in his mind's eye: her perfect porcelain complexion, warm, bright smile, her kind eyes…

Her image faded and his own office reappeared in his view as he opened his eyes. His gaze had drifted towards the frame that he kept at the middle back of his desk, and always in view. It was a family portrait, barely even a year old, and in that year he had hardly even been at home. His two children had changed so much already; if he had seen one of them, his son or daughter, walk down the street… He doubted that he would have recognized them, or they him. He barely knew them.

The man had known what he was getting into when he had joined the new administration as a close friend and advisor to the democratic candidate. He had understood what it would mean, how much of his life and time he would be giving up for this administration. His whole life had been given in a different sort of 'service' to his country.

But to have become so involved in such an event, and so soon after the inauguration of the new President! It was a challenge to everything for which the United States stood. However, it was only to be expected. They see the initial situation of a new Administration, and especially during a major party change in the government, as a weak point in our defenses. Only hope and an amazing sense of foreign political genius will get us anywhere in this conflict.

He gazed sadly into the amber liquid in his glass. The mere thought that there were men in this cabinet that wanted war… The President wanted to resolve things as diplomatically as possible. God, I want to resolve things without going to war. The less people that the government gets killed, the better. But if it becomes our only option…

His features hardened; his gaze became foggy, his eyes having become glassy in contemplation. In his haze, the President's Advisor could only vaguely recognize that his office hard-line was ringing. He glanced at it absently, debating over his next move, as always, no matter how trivial the decision. It was just who he was.

Should I pick it up? It could be important. Or not. He glanced over to read the caller I.D: The Vice President. Somehow, the man found that he could care less. The phone kept ringing as he ignored the caller, despite the call's obvious importance. The advisor sighed and shook his head wearily, he stared intently at his unfinished brandy; the phone's insistent ringing had become white noise while he memorized the cut glass tumbler.

It was pristine, and cut to perfection, not one chip in it from having been dropped in the White House kitchen, handled roughly, or having been slammed down on a table or in a cabinet. The brandy gave the crystal an amber hue and it sparkled warm in the soft and dim yellow light of the room.

Perfection.

It was something for which he had always yearned. He was the best at his job, the best at everything he did as part of the White House staff. It was here, in the President's home, that the advisor saw himself in an almost perfect light.

Imperfection

At home… at home he was fallible. He was a slack job as a father and a less than ideal husband. He had everything… and he had nothing. He had the job, but he did not have the life. His own children barely knew him. His wife no longer loved him, at the least not as passionately as before.

The phone once again shook him from his thoughts. The Vice President was calling again. The President's top advisor sighed heavily and sat up, placing his brandy glass, only quarter filled on the coaster to the right side on his desk. He reached for the phone.

"Hello, Mr. Vice President, what can I do for you?" His eyes focused on the blank paper before him. "Yes, I am working on it," his countenance changed. "I know that he wants to know my opinion, tell him that I'll-"

"Yes, I'm fine," he responded, not so reassuringly. "Don't worry about me, I can handle the pressure," The Vice President had ended the call, a dial tone sounding abruptly. He hung up and again he leaned back in his chair, one hand holding his head, the other held over his mouth.

Pressure.

He had lied. He couldn't handle it. He could not handle the pressure. He had to make up his mind. Worst was that he had to do it soon, because there was no other option. The President needed his opinion. The sooner the new President got his opinion, the better. The more opinions given to the President before he made his final decision, influenced just how well the judgment had been called.

He always talked in private with the President about his opinions before a conference was called. So were the perks of being the closest friend and advisor of the President.

Pressure.

The amount of stress that had fallen on his shoulders was overbearing, even though he was sure that there were those who had to handle much more anxiety than he did, every day. Never, in a million years, if he even lived past 52, would he even consider wanting to be the Commander-in-Chief of the USA. At the moment he could barely handle the strain of his own job, much less the President's.

The weight that his decision had in the President's major verdicts…it was overwhelming. One wrong move…

And if the leader of the nation were to take him on his word. And if he was wrong…

It was all too much for him, just too much for him to handle, too much for him to cope with all at once. His let his face fall into his hands, running his hands through his hair, absentmindedly, almost soothingly. If there was anything that could help him it was just to relax in silence and seclusion, but there were decisions to be made and a memo to be written and sent out.

What I really need is a vacation. He sat back up and looked down at the blank paper. Writing down his thoughts, he chuckled. Now there's an idea! It would help, he was convinced of it. He picked up his pen, his favorite one with black ink, and began to write. The page was filled soon enough. He breathed deeply as he dialed the phone, the early morning rays seeping into his office from the closed shades.

On the fifth ring the tone ended. "Hello, Mr. President. Yes, this is…"