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.]
[They walk into the study.]
BC: Did anyone see you come in?
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 10th 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.]