Pressing the Flesh

He looked down from the penthouse, studying the vacationers on the beach.

Did they know he was up there?

If he went, he would be swarmed. Kids wanting his autograph. Moms pushing babies into his arms. Dads asking his opinions on the war.

He missed it, the Oval Office, the power. He still had some, but “Hail to the Chief” no longer played.

The isolation drove him mad. Must go. He changed into casual designer beachwear and threw on a straw hat. Good photo outfit. Media guaranteed.

He called his Secret Service protection. “I’m going for a walk.”