Special Sauce
By Matt
Miller
(posted Wednesday, Aug.
5, 1998)
Evening. The Oval
Office. President Clinton works on papers at his desk. A door opens , and
Monica Lewinsky enters, carrying a large bag. She is wearing a blue cocktail
dress. Clinton doesn't look up. Monica waits a moment, then
speaks.
ML: Hi, Mr.
President.
BC: Oh, hi, Monica.
Don't you look nice! Why don't we go in here? [He motions to adjacent
study.] It's more private. [He smiles.]
ML: Sure.
[They walk into the
study.]
BC: Did anyone see
you come in?
ML: No.
BC: Do you think
anyone knows what we're up to?
ML: No. To be
honest, I think the Secret Service guys think we're having an affair. [She
giggles.]
BC: That's OK.
That's better than if they suspected the truth.
ML: Don't you think
people are going to wonder why I'm here so much?
BC: If I thought my
science advisers would take me seriously, I'd go to them directly with this.
But I need some kind of proof--or, I'm telling you, they'll laugh their heads
off.
ML:
[Indicating
bag] I brought the hamburgers and the golf balls.
BC: Good. Did you
remember to make them ...
ML: ... Big Macs.
And Titleists.
BC: That's my
intern! [He starts to line the balls up on the floor.]
ML: How'd you get
the idea again? I want to get it right for our records. [Pulls out notebook
and pen.] This could be historical someday!
BC: It's like I
said. I was golfing with Vernon, and when I was teed up on the 10 th
I was finishing this Big Mac and some of the sauce fell off and went plop right
on my Titleist. I thought, "What the hell," and just hit it, and I swear to God
it went 50 yards farther than any drive I'd ever hit. So I thought, "Maybe
there's something to this."
ML: Like
Flubber , when Robin Williams invented that stuff.
BC: You can't
imagine the applications this kind of thing could have. That's why we've got to
be able to replicate it.
ML: What does Mrs.
Clinton think?
BC: I told her we
can make some money on this after I leave office, but she thinks I'm useless in
that department. It's better to work on this when she's out of town. She can
always smell a Big Mac on me.
[He finishes lining up
the balls.]
BC: There!
[Clinton reaches for a putter leaning against the wall and stands above the
first ball.] OK. Hand me a Big Mac, Monica.
ML: Here, Mr.
President.
[Clinton takes stock of
himself, with putter in one hand and hamburger in the other.]
BC: Quite a sight,
eh? [He's suddenly self-conscious.] Hey, Monica--promise me you won't
tell anyone about this.
ML:
[She puts
her pen down.] If it's important to you, Mr. President, sure.
BC: It's too
embarrassing. Let's keep it just between us. If anyone ever presses you about
all these visits, just tell them we were having sex. [He laughs.] No one
would care--they all think I'm fooling around anyway. This they'd run me out of
town for!
[A red phone rings.
Clinton, both hands full, turns abruptly to Monica.]
BC: Can you hold
this?
[Monica nods. He hands
her the Big Mac, grabs the phone.]
BC: Boris? Hi ...
Yeah, I'm working on it now ... I'll let you know ... Yeah ... I promise.
[He hangs up. Monica is
fussing with her dress.]
BC: What
happened?
ML: It's nothing.
[She reaches for the Kleenex box on the end table.]
BC:
[Sees the
stain.] I feel terrible. It's my fault. Let me get it cleaned for you.
ML: That's OK, Mr.
President. I'm sure it'll come out. [She brightens.] Or maybe I'll just
save it. As a souvenir of our little experiment.
BC: Sure, why not?
Thomas Edison's intern probably had a few popped bulbs in the closet herself!
Although ...
ML: What, Mr.
President?
BC: No, forget it.
For a second I thought some people might get the wrong idea. The longer I'm in
this job, the more paranoid I get. All right, Ms. Lewinsky, back to work!
[Clinton holds Big Mac
over ball and swings putter back.]
[Monica stands poised
with pen to record results.]
[Curtain.]
More Flytrap
...
