The President was in town yesterday. This is my account of him. It was noon on Thursday, in Coralville, Iowa. The big news of the day was about President Barak Obama’s visit and speech, and what lucky suckers actually scored tickets to the event. Neither the White House nor Rep. Loebsack came through for me, so I instead found myself looking for lunch at Blimpie.
I assumed a position at the counter to order my VeggieMax sandwich when I heard another customer say, “. . . yeah, I’d like to see it, but I don’t know what the route will be. I expect that they’ll come in on Dubuque, though.” I resisted intense urges to play the know-it-all. On the way there, I had seen an unusually large number of people picking up trash along the side of the road. Mr. President was cutting through Coralville to get to the speech.
My route home confirmed my suspicions. Orange cones and vests dotted the landscape like pimples on a preteen forehead. I considered and shook my head, reconsidered and doubled back, executing a U-turn under the watchful eye of so many squad cars.
I chose the parking lot situated between the Old Chicago pizza joint and the Heartland Inn, whose sign welcomed the President and lauded its Jacuzzi suites. I parked, nose toward street, next to a yellow cab whose two occupants were also closely attending the street ahead.
I sat, munching my oozing VeggieMax, blaring “Watercolors on X-M” on the radio and took in the perspective. The most striking feature in my view was the squad car and the man standing next to it. He wore an obligatory chartreuse vest, short hair, khaki pants, football jersey and a walkie-talkie. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, “wannabe….” He fiddled with the two orange cones in front of the squad car, moving them an inch or two to the left or right, then back again. Fifteen minutes before the motorcade arrived, he was already whipping his head left and right, scanning the oncoming traffic.
I was lucky to get past him. Not long after I arrived, he blocked off the parking lot entirely. A Chevy Suburban queued up to leave, and he waved them back. They were here for the duration. He also waved people off the sidewalk. Several innocent citizens wanted to line up near the street to greet our nation’s leader. He yelled down to them, gesticulating largely, “Get back from the sidewalk. You can’t be on the sidewalk!”
I don’t know what particular problem he had with them, other than that they were standing in front of The Vine, and may have had a beer for lunch. This officer had no problem with other people simply walking on the sidewalk. A scruffy young couple passed by, hand in hand, apparently oblivious to the events at hand. He took no notice of them.
Another woman passed in front of me, striding officiously toward the green-vested man and the squad car. She too wore a vest, orange in color, and carried an air of importance with her. Although it is impossible to divine what she imparted to him, it spurred him to get into the car and move it forward several inches. One of his cones fell over. She left, bustling down toward the intersection. He righted his cone. Ten minutes until the President.
Soon, the traffic began to slow. They were squeezing cars from the road like paste from a tube. It couldn’t be fast enough for our man. He got up close to the street and began waving the drivers on, moving his forearm round and round, urging to faster speed. His gestures became bigger and faster. I don’t know if it changed the speed of the cars. He added his voice to his exhortations, yelling for them to, “Go on!” His movements became so animated that I began to fear for the wellbeing of his elbow. I thought it best, however, not to warn him in person. Finally, traffic stopped, and all was still except for the flashing lights of the police cars and the flags flapping in the breeze.
Then, the black helicopter came. I knew it before I could see or hear it. A man was walking on the sidewalk toward me. He had the stilted gait and soft tummy of one who walks to benefit his heart. He froze. And looked up. Then I heard it. I squinched around in my bucket seat and craned to see out the rear window. The black helicopter was hovering, maybe over I-80 or maybe over the empty length of First Avenue. Then, like a dragonfly, it moved closer and hovered again. We all watched it, unable to look away, though there was nothing to see. It moved again, flying overhead and up to peer down on Carver Hawkeye Arena. After a bit, it seemed to simply drift away and then was gone.
In olden days, rulers employed heralds, horn blowers, flag wavers, and banner carriers to announce the arrival of exalted officials. We use black helicopters. But I knew it for what it was. This herald proclaimed with its own kind of ballyhoo that the President was near.
The force of mounting expectation, filling a time of inaction, is strong. We waited now, almost in pliant submission, for our moment. Another state trooper car passed silently in front of us, lights blinking. Nothing. I was thinking that maybe I should eat the rest of my sandwich, simply for something to do. Another trooper car passed by, silent like the one before.
“Oh no, they’re here and I’m still in my car.” I popped out, with one foot on the ground and was able to raise a wave as the limos passed by. Did I see a single silhouette through the tinted window? He was looking down, not at my waving, smiling self.
The motorcade was austere in the extreme. Its design was a cross between art deco sleekness, Amish black and white simplicity, and high-tech engineering. The line of vehicles was rife with white and black panel vans: transport for modern-day courtiers, and a mysterious all-black ambulance. . . . In the back, like a caboose or the final finishers of a road race, straggled a couple of state trooper cars. Then it was over, like a show after the curtain has fallen and the lights come up, while a few still clap. The President was gone. Our man in the green vest relinquished the parking lot. And we all, in our orderly way, moved on, into our day.
