During his early days at the White House, this was Orson Wallace’s favorite part.
“Just an honor, Mr. President,” an older man with a graying goatee offered.
“So nice to meet you, Mr. President,” a woman wearing two diamond rings added.
“Thank you so much, Mr. President,” a tall woman with wide black eyes said as she reached to shake his hand.
The speech was over, the applause was still going, and as President Wallace followed his aide to the swinging doors of the hotel’s kitchen, he was riding such a swell of enjoyment, he tried to touch every outstretched hand of the insta-crowd that was now pressing so hard against the rope line.
It wasn’t the adulation that got him going. What Wallace appreciated was just… the appreciation. The simple act of people saying thank you. These days, in this economy, that kind of crowd seemed to appear less and less often.
“Thank you so much, Mr. President.”
“-just an inspiration, sir.”
“-reinvigorated all of us, Mr. President.”
“I hope you enjoyed the breakfast, Mr. President,” the chef called out as Wallace weaved back through the kitchen.
“Just fantastic. We need to have you cook at the White House,” Wallace called back, using the same compliment he saved for every chef in every hotel kitchen.
“-just want to thank you so much,” Ross the Boss chimed in, leading the final row of handshakes-the VIP goodbyes-that waited for Wallace at the far end of the service entrance and would take him to the waiting door of his armored limo.
“Hey-!” a female voice called out.
Wallace’s arm was already extended in a handshake as he finally looked up at the last person in line: a heavyset woman in a royal blue dress.
“I love you,” his sister Minnie said, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.
“You’re just saying that because I’m the President,” Wallace teased.
With a whack, Minnie rapped her pink flamingo cane against his shin.
The President was still laughing as the Secret Service agent pushed the hidden button under the door handle, which unlocked the door so he could usher Wallace into the car. And for that moment, as he ducked inside and brother and sister shared their laughter, Wallace almost forgot about where he was headed next.
Almost.
“Homerun moving,” one of the Secret Service agents whispered into his wrist, using the President’s official Service code name. “Arrival at the Archives in approximately four minutes.”