Thanks to Erica for giving us this lighthearted glimpse into an imagined HRC at a tough time in the real world.
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Novelist, screenwriter, and essayist Erica Ferencik is the author of the critically acclaimed novel Cracks in the Foundation. Her work has also appeared in the Boston Globe, on Salon.com, More.com, and National Public Radio. Her new humor column has been appearing monthly in the Metrowest Daily News.
HILLARY HITS THE MINI BAR (originally published in Milford Daily News)
It had been a long day. Too much smiling, the shawarma she ate for dinner wasn’t settling well, and…what was this? A buzzing from her bag….she pulled out her phone. A text from Hosni: “Was I really that bad?” She texts back: “You were that bad.” Sighs. Adds: “Go reinvent yrslf, evrybdy else is.”
She flipped on the fake fireplace, slipped into her oversized T-shirt that said “I Heart New York,” and cozied back in her chair with her laptop. She opened the document, “Memoir – Notes” and sat staring out the window waiting for the muse. The cursor blinked at her, also waiting. She set her reading glasses down on a – wait a minute – was this a MINI-BAR?!
Haven’t seen one of these since Seoul, she thought. And this one was packed to the gills with drinks and tasty snacks. Before you could say Al Jazeera a wee bottle of chardonnay was unscrewed and knocked back followed by a cabernet chaser.
“God I wish I could go home,” she wrote, unwrapping a Snickers and settling back into her chair. “It takes me a good 15 minutes to figure out where I am some mornings. Bill, meanwhile, gets to stay home and hang out in Soho while I spend my life in hotels. I got a few days off for Chelsea’s wedding but sheesh, I was back on the plane before they cut the cake.”
She paused, sipping at a tiny flask of Amaretto.
“Truth is, Anderson Cooper gets all the drama. Yes, he has to dropship his butt into disaster areas but he sure looks good in those T-shirts. I just can’t get inspired to use these skanky hotel gyms, but he’s got the discipline, I gotta hand it to him.
“I’m sick to death of hummus, let me tell you that. But nothing was skeevier than Beijing and saving face by eating the still-moving octopus platter. What I do for the flag – yikes.”
“My God, I’m 64 years old. I want to go home and kick back, catch a play, throw on my Clarks and take a walk around Central Park, smell some roses. Is that so wrong? I’ve learned the world is bigger and harder to take on than I ever imagined. Like Steven Wright said, it’s a small world, but I wouldn’t want to paint it. Try bringing peace and democracy, Steve, you’d hanker after that paintbrush after all.”
She reached again into the teeny fridge. Holy jetlag, what are these, she thought, chocolate covered oreos? Sure, hit me.
“Anyway, I’m sick of sitting here googling Monica Lewinsky, but I can’t help myself. Why do I get the feeling that’s what people are really going to remember?”
“So here’s my life: Bill gets off-Broadway and I get to say stop all the killing. Slap the hand of the world day in and day out. Men behaving badly. I should know about that. Of course I’ve forgiven Bill…at least in public.”
Sipping dreamily at a peppermint schnapps nipper, she wrote, “Can’t help but think about the old days. Life felt exciting and new…those law school days…kissing Bill among the stacks, those dreamy summers when everything was in front of us. Now I can’t even get my skype to kick in with these crappy dial ups just to say hi.”
“I see my security guys more than I ever see my family. They’re looking better and better, you know, but I’d never do anything. I still love the old creep, whether I want to or not.
“You know who’s looking good these days, that John Boehner. Sure he cries a lot, but have a look at those peepers. I’m just sayin’.”
Between bites of caramel corn, she wrote, “I could have been the first female president. I could have kicked some butt. I came this close. I’m still not sure what happened.”
She gazed out the window. “Tripoli looks pretty at night, in the dark. If you squint you can’t see unrest. Whatever. I better be careful with this document. Damned wikileaks. Pretty soon you won’t even be able to think the truth.
“Anyhoodles, signing off now. These clean sheets are calling my name. I’ve got a six a.m. conference call with Kim Jong and Barack and I’ve pretty much hosed the mini-bar. Still, I’d kill for an egg cream right about now.”
(photos: luzcace.wordpress.com, telegraph.co.uk)