The Wag

William Jefferson Wagman. That wasn’t his name, but it might as well be. Ever since his namesake appeared on the world stage, the world had been his oyster. He could have whatever he wanted. More important, whomever he wanted. Women took one look at him, and it was all over. The introductions had been made in front of millions of others, on TV. They all knew him.

Speaking of introductions, how come the Wag wasn’t listed in the original cast of characters? Well, folks, you know how it is with his type. They’re never expected. They sneak into your life and take your wife. It’s as simple as that. You have no defense. You’ll try to mount one of course, but that’s all you’ll mount. The other guy’s got all the fillies, and yours is one of them. So you hadn’t counted on his showing up. Nobody ever does.

He was thinking about his wife. A petite, bird-like affair. What he ever saw in her he didn’t know. And now he had a habit of thinking of himself as a coulda-been Clinton. Clinton was smart. One day he was sitting in the library, and he saw a not-at-all-bad-looking girl grinding away. At her books. She had her hair piled up high on top of her head, but enough wisps were hanging down to look sexy.

Yeah. He could do it. Not what he was used to, but he could manage. While he was contemplating just exactly how he was going to do about it, up she stood, and strode like a soldier down to where he sat. “If we’re going to stare at each other all night, we might as well know each other’s names.” And goddam if she didn’t spit out what would become the maiden name of the First Lady of the United States of America, somewhere down the line.

He loved that story. He used it as medicine when things were getting him down. Sat down, or better, lay down, and played it over in his head. Only sometimes he didn’t stop with the handshake. Sometimes they did it right there on a library table.

(Kids out of the room? Not looking over your shoulder? I’m warning you!)

He liked it the best when it started slow, and she undressed him first, while he stood there. He knew this was very unlike what he’d heard of the real Bill Clinton, neither did he have his distinguishing characteristic. He had not even been able to find out or figure out what it was.

There was nothing better than when Hillary popped those boobs out of her sweater, and nobody in the room noticed but him. They were always different. Sometimes peaches, sometimes pears. Once in a while, he gave her melons. She was appreciative of that, and rewarded him accordingly.

Hillary had a great imagination. His Hillary. Once, with his back flat on the table, she rode him, twirling her underwear round and round over her head, while he bucked beneath. That was good. And once he rode her. To the take-out desk, where they semi-stood, leaning against the counter, to finish it off.

Yeah, yeah, he had lots of fun all by himself. Why get into trouble like Big Bill? Especially, why should he be thinking about this ridiculous woman he’d had a laughing fit with?

Wait. He remembered something. Some language. Japanese, maybe. The phrase for two people having an affair isn’t “they’re sleeping together,” it’s “they’re laughing together.”

Could it be that the very act of sharing a laugh could bring you together on a sexual level without your consent? He wasn’t interested in this woman. She wasn’t his type. No more than Hillary was Bill’s. Now if he were looking for a wife, someone to give him a leg up (he smiled at the images that came flooding in with that thought), a career partner… that would be different. He couldn’t do better.

The local big-wigs in the party had come to that same conclusion. They were going to use all the good will and reputation this scrappy little dynamo had built up.

What if she said no? Nah, not after the fun they’d had today. She wouldn’t say no; she’s coming back for more.

His thoughts went back to his wife. Nina didn’t live in the real world. She spent half the day twisted like a pretzel in yoga positions, and the other half reading romance novels. You might think her romantic nature would make her loving, and her yoga practice would make her flexible, and this was true. She could sit on it and make a complete circle - over and over again. Quite a novelty at first, but after a while he began to feel like a piece of gym equipment, and all the fun went out of it.

Never mind. There was something he had to do. Call Nat Grogan. Nat was the one who had tapped him when Clinton first appeared on television, and everyone in town did a double-take. They already had one of these. Mitch Wagman.

He had been sitting in a science lab in the high school playing with some slides when Nat walked in like something out of Guys and Dolls, with his hat tilted back on his head – where’d he even get that hat… Sinatra? – a tight-fitting jacket, almost like a woman’s, and that big, breezy smile. His dark eyes fastened on Mitch, and he pulled up a stool without taking his eyes off him, and commenced on the oiliest and most persuasive sell he had ever witnessed. Not to mention that Mitch was both seller and buyer. Grogan was out to sell him to himself. And here he was now, principal of the school, big shot in town, on all the boards, but it hadn’t gone where his patron had intended. No, Billy Boy ruined all that.

There was no way this town was going to buy a child-raper. Yes, that’s what they called him, with Monica Lewinsky in the role of the child. Some babe, huh? In some times and places kids like that have 5 or 6 babes of their own.

And this is a town that’s big on kids. They considered Monica a child. No more evidence needed. Bill was convicted. But the town is also three-quarters Democrat. Loyal Democrats, though not Liberals, or they wouldn’t have minded Lewinsky. She’s a woman and entitled to her jollies just like a man, which was pretty much the way Mitch saw it.

Grogan didn’t answer. Good. He could leave a short, pithy message, and save himself some time. “Reelin’er in,” was all he said.

How was he going to do it? This was a woman who stood on principle. If he went up against that, he wouldn’t stand a chance. No. What he had to do was not fight her principles, but elevate them, and then infiltrate them with his own plans.

He pressed a couple of buttons on his phone and said, “Mitch… dinner for four… eight o’clock.” Then he called another number. “Hey, Dotty… it’s me, Mitch. Can you do your act tonight? … Good. Arrive at seven. It’ll be a late evening. You can pick up the note and the address any time this afternoon. … Thanks.”