My Very Own, Itty Bitty Impeachment Scandal
Hello, class. I want to take us all back to the year of our Lord 1998. That year, the sounds of Brittany Spears pumped through turquoise and tangerine iMacs, the dot com boom was in full bloom and William Jefferson Clinton (also known as “Bill Clinton”) was the President of the United States.
I was not the President of the United States but I was, however, the Vice President of Rooftop Alternative Middle School in San Francisco, CA in 1998. This was a big job. A very, very big job. I was a heartbeat away from the Big Chair, after all.
I loved being the Vice President of Rooftop Alternative Middle School. I relished the job and all of its non-responsibilities (I don’t think I did anything but make occasional announcements and sit in Student Council Meetings). There was only one small problem with being the Vice President: I was not the President.
This was unfortunate. I wished that this would change but I did not know how to change it. I also was not sure I really wanted to change it. I liked the President. She was my running mate and I was *rooting for her success*. There was a part of me, though, and not a totally insignificant part, that wanted a taste of power.
You’ve got to remember, reader, that in 1998, if you flipped on your television set, the news media and- so we were told- the nation was rapt with one story and one story only: The Bill Clinton Impeachment Scandal.
In other words, in 1998 it was planted in my mind that it was very possible- nay, probable- that a sitting President could be brought down. Every ruddy cheeked white man who appeared on the news bleating about “restoring moral purity to the Oval Office” proved as much.
“So,” I thought to myself, “if the Kenneth Stars and Newton Gingrichs of the world are successful and the President is indeed impeached, then who would become the President?”
“Well,” I continued further down this line of thinking, “Then I guess it would be the Vice President.”
I continued even further with my thought experiment.
“So, say the president of Rooftop Alternative Middle School were to get into some type of scandal, and say that person were to get impeached, then the person who would become President would be the Vice President and, in this year of our Lord 1998, the Vice President of Rooftop is…let me check my notes here…well, I guess that would be me.”
Me! The President!
My 13 year old self liked the sound of it. There were no motorcades dropping the President of Rooftop Alternative Middle School off curbside, but in my mind there were. There were no flashbulbs or candid scoops or tabloids following the every move of the President of Rooftop Alternative Middle School, but in my mind there were. There were no rules obligating other students, all of the sudden, to be romantically interested in someone always considered a “little brother” type because they had suddenly become President of Rooftop Alternative Middle School, but in my mind, oh boy oh boy oh boy were there ever.
I was a heartbeat away from the Presidency.
All it would take was a scandal to put me there.
Every year, 8th graders from Rooftop Alternative Middle School took a class trip to Sacramento. While in Sacramento, these students would soak in all the lessons that the State Capital had to offer. Musuems, tours, typical class trip type of stuff.
At night, all of the 8th graders would go back to their VERY OWN MOTEL ROOM.
Yes. THEIR VERY OWN MOTEL ROOM.
The folks at Rooftop Middle School deigned to give each pubescent pre-teen and teen their VERY OWN MOTEL ROOM.
Shared, yes. But completely free from direct adult supervision? Absolutely.
We were only in the motel for one or two nights but my friends and I did our best to get into mischief. The most we could do for ourselves was to get“Boogie Nights” on the motel’s cable television. The moment that Heather Graham, on roller skates, care-freely removes her top and Dirk Diggler’s Great Reveal are burned into my retinas, the jaws of three eighth grade boys still on the carpeted floor of that motel room still, no doubt.
The morning after our final night at the motel, there was an announcement from the adults that we had to have a very serious class meeting.
“It has come to our attention that there was some drinking going on in one of the motel rooms last night.”
The sounds of the crowd murmured.
“Drinking alcohol at your age is against the law and we want you to know that there will be consequences to these actions. Those who were caught were sent home immediately. We will be paying especially close attention going forward.”
I scanned around the group to see who was missing.
Rooftop Alternative Middle School was not a particularly large Middle School and so it didn’t take much time at all to decipher The Big News:
THE PRESIDENT OF THE STUDENT BODY WAS SENT HOME FOR DRINKING IN THE MOTEL ROOM.
I could see the non existent papers printing the headline.
I could feel the non existent press descending on this hot, hot scandal.
And I could sense that I, a heartbeat away from the Big Chair, was on the cusp of power.
In the aftermath of the Motel Drinking Scandal, there was much confusion and debate.
“Would the President resign?”
“Would there be a proper investigation?”
“How did the President get Peach Schnapps into that motel room?”
“Was there a secret informant on the President? A Peach Throat?”
It was a politically unstable situation at the Middle School on the Hill. I sat back from my second-in-command chair, watching the scandal unfold. Hoping, praying that it would deliver me to the Highest Office in the Zip Code.
After some time, I was summoned to the Principal’s Office for a briefing.
“As you know, David, President Bali (this name has been changed to protect the identity of the President) was involved in a scandal at the motel in Sacramento.”
“I am aware,” I said, shit eating grin lurking just beneath the surface.
“And, as you know, we cannot afford to let wayward actions go unpunished.”
“Yes, yes, you can’t do that,” I said, positive that news of my promotion was near at hand.
“And while drinking on a class trip is not good behavior-” he said.
“Terrible. Terrible behavior-” I interjected.
“We don’t feel that we should remove the President from her post completely.”
(pause.)
“So, um, no impeachment?” I mustered.
“No impeachment.”
“Hmmmm.” I exhaled, dreams of power spiraling down the drain. “Well, um, I guess everyone makes mistakes.”
“Exactly.”
And with that, I shuffled out the door.
There was no hand off of power at Rooftop Middle School in 1998.
There were no pre-pubescent Kenneth Starrs or New Gingrichs in our midst, thank goodness. Only an Al Gore with some Iago-like dreams but not enough chutzpah to execute a proper plan to seize power. I suppose that’s for the best.
Like Bill Clinton, President Bali remained in office and I remained in my largely symbolic role as Vice President as the calendar turned from ’98 to ’99 and the non existent newspapers found other stories not to report.
If I wanted anyone to kiss me, I would have to do it the old fashioned way- offering potential suitors bags of quarters in exchange for two minutes of tongue time.
Puberty (and proximity to power) can make you do some desperate things.
