Christmas Eve, 2021. The sweet jazzy tunes of the Charlie Brown Christmas album. An open bottle of top-shelf whiskey. The Oval Office.
“Mr. President, the building is clear,” a Secret Service Agent reported. “All non-essential staff have cleared the premises.”
“Great,” responded President of the United States Cory Booker. “Thanks for working so hard. Now, if you would leave me the room.”
“But sir–”
“No buts, Jackson. I’ll be fine. It’s Christmas Eve, you should all just go home.”
“You know we can’t do that, Mr. President,” Jackson replied humbly.
“Alright, alright, most important person in the world and all that. At the very least go out there and relax,” Booker chuckled.
Jackson left the room and the President was finally alone. Booker went to the bathroom, straightened his collar, and slapped some cologne on his neck. He practiced a few smiles in the mirror. Exiting the bathroom, the President began to trace his fingers along the wall of the Oval Office, reaching a ridge. Once he passed that ridge, he pushed in on the wall, and––CLICK––the wall of the Oval popped open to reveal a secret staircase, perfectly built for orchestrating an illicit rendezvous. He followed the narrow staircase for several minutes until he reached the end––a secret, unmarked entrance to the White House. He opened the door to his waiting guest.
“Well, don’t you look nice tonight,” crooned Goldman Sachs, the leading global investment banking, securities and investment management firm in the world.
The President smiled and winked, holding his finger to his lips to signal silence to the bank. The two then snuck back up the long staircase, undetected by Secret Service and paparazzi alike. Finally safe in the Oval Office, the President poured Goldman Sachs a drink. “How’s your week been, sweetie?”
Goldman sighed. “You know how it goes. Finding the most innovative ways to turn money into more money for our wealthy clients, maximizing our own profits, promoting wealthy, well-connected white men. It’s not easy to be a global superpower, but someone’s gotta do it. I’m just happy to finally relax and see you.”
“I am so glad to see you. All that financial talk really…gets me going. God, I’m so exhausted. Between pontificating about getting money out of politics and championing equality to make sure my entire liberal voting base still believes I care about the little guy, I’ve had no time to be myself. All I really want to do is deregulate the financial sector and get closer to you. I’m so sick of putting on a show–with you I can be real,” President Booker gazed at the bank in front of him.
The whiskey had kicked in, and the two made love. The glorious embrace of one bank and one man, on the floor of the Oval Office.
Lying on the seal of the Office, Booker leaned over and said, “That was great. I am so glad we have this arrangement.”
“About that…” started Goldman. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. I––I know this is forward. And maybe, like, totally crazy and too fast. But what if we got married?” Goldman’s speech picked up speed. “I mean, I love you, I’ll say it. And I want us to be together. I want people to know about us! And with Citizens United, I’m technically a person, even though I’m literally a bank. We could legally get married. I know this might sound crazy, but Cory–I’m all in.”
President Booker sat up, knitting his eyebrows in a frown. “Goldman–” he started, shook his head. “Look, I care about our close relationship. I care about the $80,000 you gave to my campaign right at the start. And I’ve opposed financial regulation when I could. But, you know how it is–the minorities, and equality, and progressive values. And the media, and the pressures of the job, and my legacy, and–just, I can’t take it that far. I want to so bad, you have to know that. But just think about what people would say if our relationship was public. ‘He’s in the pocket of the banks.’ ‘He’s a phony.’ ‘He never cared about us, he just cared about his own power-grabbing.’ I just can’t have that. I just can’t.”
Goldman sat there, looking utterly dejected. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. “Do you even love me?” Goldman said, softly.
“I care so much about you, and that’s besides the point! I just–I want this all to work. My life is so good right now and I don’t want to let go.”
Goldman began to cry and refused to look the President in the eye. “This is over,” the bank retorted.
“Goldman, please! Don’t. And please don’t tell anyone–you know it would ruin everything for me.
“Goodbye,” Goldman sneered, huffily collecting it’s things and running down the secret staircase.
President Booker leaned his head back against his desk, eyes closed. He had never had integrity. Now he had lost Goldman Sachs. What did he have? He wondered, staring at the Oval Office around him. What a horrible, lonely Christmas Eve.
Image via The Rib.