The Weight of Wind

The White House — 1995

Oval Office

The rug in the Oval Office is too soft. It swallows my shoes with every step, like the room wants to erase the sound of a man like me walking through it.

President Clinton stands the moment I enter—quick, respectful, both hands out like he means to shake one of my hands and catch it with the other just to be sure. His eyes are already smiling before his mouth catches up.

“Chief Anderson,” he says, drawing my name out like it matters. “It’s an honor. A real one.” He strides across the room like a man with purpose—like he is actually excited to meet me—as if I am the most important man in the room. I know better, but somehow he just makes me believe it.

I’ve met presidents before, but not like this. I know immediately why this man is my president.

His handshake is warm. Fleshy. Palms big. Soft. A man raised to sign things, not sand them down.

“Don’t usually get nervous meeting folks,” he says, chuckling as he leads me to a chair. “But I’ve read about you since I was sixteen. Never expected to be shaking your hand in this office.”

He sits across from me on the arm of a couch—as if being close to me is more important than being comfortable.

Again, that charm—as if somehow this is my office and he is the visitor.

I smile. “The honor is all mine. Mr President.”

An aide interrupts us with a memo. The president pulls out a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, reads it, nods and then surprises me when he speaks “Doug, have you ever met Chief Chuck Anderson?”