Dinner With the One and Only Barack Obama
Author’s note: All conversations in my dinner stories only occur in my head. I offer readers sarcasm, satire, and, hopefully, subtle humor. — BC
Barack called today to invite me to dinner. That’s former President Barack Obama to the unwashed.
I was ambivalent when he was elected to the presidency in 2008 and again in 2012. And as soon as he left the White House, I missed him. I missed his commonsense, grace under fire, and, more importantly, leadership.
This is coming from a guy who, to this day, is an unenrolled voter. Once upon a time, I believed both parties could compromise for the betterment of the country. These days, no one cares about anything beyond their political point of view. As such, I will not join either party — not that I ever belonged to either.
When I broke bread with Jesus last week, that wasn’t really unexpected. It wasn’t the first time I had supper with him; hopefully, it won’t be the last supper.
But I digress. I texted the former prez earlier. Yeah. Obama still has a number you can text. He posted it on Instagram initially in 2020. I gave it a shot and, surprisingly, received an automated response that reads thus: “Hey! It’s Barack. Click the link so I can respond to you directly. I won’t be able to get to everything, but I’ll be in touch to share what’s on my mind, and I want to hear from you, too. Let’s do this.”
I did not click the link. Honestly, I don’t want my email address inundated with political crap from any party.
So I was surprised when a strange number popped up on my phone a little later.
“Hello?”
“This is Barack, Bruce. I got your text.”
“Who’s pulling my chain? Who is this, really?”
“Bruce, I shit you not. This really is Barack Obama.
“Man, stop it. I need some proof. Can you text me a copy of your birth certificate?”
“I’m serious, Bruce. Listen, I read your story about breaking bread with Jesus last week. Can I buy you dinner at Olive Garden?”
“Wait a minute. You want to go to Olive Garden? And you’re worth what, $60, $70 million,” I asked.
“I have a couple of bucks in the bank,” he said. “Because I eat at Olive Garden. You know you don’t have to spend crazy money to eat. Besides, never-ending breadsticks!
Sigh.
“Point taken. Is Michelle coming?
“No. Michelle thinks you’re a heathen. She wasn’t happy with your story about Jesus.”
“Well, I guess you’re gonna save some money then,” I said.
“That’s the idea!”
I arrived at Olive Garden early, but I’ve always been one to get where I’m going early. I hate being late, fashionably or otherwise. About 20 minutes later, a black Escalade entered the parking lot. Once parked, a crew of three debarked, strategically taking up spots around the car and looking around.
“Huh. Guess who’s coming to dinner,” I thought.
Barack entered the restaurant and came directly to my table. I stood, and he reached for my hand, pumping it like a politician.
“Hello, Bruce. It’s good to meet you,” he said.
“Uhm, how did you know who I was?”
“I used to be president, remember? I know people who can do things,” he said with a grin.
“That’s creepy,” I said.
“I can’t be too careful. Shall we sit?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“No, I’m not the president anymore. Call me Barack.”
“Barack, it is. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Same. But I need to clear the air about something,” said Barack. “I didn’t appreciate the birth certificate crack.”
“Huh. I heard you had a sense of humor,” I replied.
“I do. But that one’s played out.”
My apologies then, Barack.”
“Thanks, Bruce. What say we order now?”
“Sure. But you’re gonna have to spend some money. You don’t get those never-ending breadsticks unless you order an entrée.”
“And you should stick to a salad, Bruce. You’re a little chubby, smartass.”
“I probably should, but I’m still ordering chicken parm,” I said. “You could do with a few carbs. How the hell do you stay so trim?”
“By not eating chicken parm and breadsticks.”
“With all due respect, speaking of being a smartass,” I said.
“Bruce, I’m just like you. Except I write books, have an annual $200,000 pension, and wear better clothes. And I’m better looking.”
“Thanks for making my point.”
He grinned and placed his order. Pointing to me, he told the waiter to give me more salad than chicken parm.
“Excuse me?”
“Easy, Bruce. I’m just busting your balls.”
All I could do was shake my head.
During dinner, Barack asked why I texted.
“I was lonely and wanted a friend.”
After choking on his breadstick, Barack finally realized I was pulling his chain until I batted my eyes at him.
I burst out laughing, hoping he wouldn’t call his security detail.
“Damn. You got me,” he said.
“Now we’re even,” I replied. “But seriously, I think we’re in a world of shit, and no one in government gives a damn. For all the turmoil this country has experienced in the last few years, I doubt much, if anything, will change. And guess what? Cousin Pookie and Uncle Joe are still hurting. Yeah, Barack, I read your speech in Pittsburgh.”
“Well, Bruce. I’ll say this: We need to get people to vote. Talking isn’t getting the job done. People need to own up to their ideals. And they can do that by voting. The sooner people take ownership of this country by voting every two, four, or six years, we can make this country better. And we have to extend our ideals. Not by pushing them on people or countries but by helping them see working together can make this a better world. We should not get to the brink of extinction before we take action.”
“Unfortunately, we’re far from seeing that happen,” I said.
“You’re not wrong. But I think people — politicians — will eventually figure things out,” he said.
Barack’s phone rang. It was Michelle.
“Bruce, I have to take this. Can we do lunch soon?
“Absolutely. It was a pleasure meeting you, Barack.”
We shook hands, and he and his security detail left. I finished my dinner and was ready to go when the waitress handed me the bill.
“I’ll be damned. He stuck me with the bill. Good thing it’s only Olive Garden.”