Bill’s Intern-al Matters

Bill Clinton sighed in his spanking new office in Harlem, which gave him a panoramic view of Central Park and half of Manhattan. On a massive oak table lay a copy of the book contract that he had just signed with Alfred Knopf. His computer’s image-saver beamed back at him, ‘It’s the autobiography, Stupid!’ — a useful device to arrest a chronically wandering mind.

‘‘Holy smoke, $10 million! I’ve even beaten the Pope to the biggest book deal of all time,’’ he whispered to his secret inner self. A wry smile broke out on his russet-hued, podgy countenance, ‘‘Being a saint pays, father, but being a sinner pays more, take it from me. You get $8.5 million, I get $10 million bucks.’’ On the Persian carpet in one corner of the room, Buddy, until lately First Dog of the USA, thumped his tail approvingly.

‘‘What you happy about, mister?’’ Bill shot back at his dog. ‘‘We got you neutered before you got into trouble, remember?’’ Buddy continued to wag his tail. Bill’s face clouded. For an instant, his wife’s words made famous in that interview she gave pesky Tina Brown of Talk, came back to him — Bill’s a hard dog to keep on the porch, she had said. ‘‘Dang her,’’ Bill said loudly and kicked the carved mantelpiece.

The only thing he shared with Hillary now was the silver, china and carpets they had jointly purloined from the White House before D-day and, of course, Chelsea. Sweet Chelsea. Wonder what she’s doing right now? Such a good girl, she was, no underage drinking, no admonitions from the police, like the daughters of somebody, we know. Yes, sir, my daughter is a good girl.

The computer screen saver caught his eye: ‘It’s the autobiography, Stupid!’ it beamed, on and on. Time to get back to work, Bill, he sighed to himself. He slipped into his specially designed, custom-built, multi-mode, push-button swivel chair. Okay, let’s get to possible titles for the book.

The computer screen stared back at him. His mind wondered again. He wondered why he was doing this. For the money? Nah. For posterity? Nah. To set the record straight? Nah. To be regarded great? That was more like it. What did that fellow Abe Lincoln say, or was it Kennedy? Washington?...Some are born great, some achieve greatness and others write books about how great they are. Yes, that’s it. I want people to know there is more to this man than that woman. Or those women, he hastily corrected himself.

He sighed again. That’s just the problem. Those Knopf people would never have paid me 10 million bucks, if there isn’t a Monica Lewinsky in the story, and Gennifer Flowers and Paula Jones. And there must be new bits too, which means I’ll have to dig up Marie, Liza, Joan, Christabel, Sophie, Kathy, that makes six, Betty, Tina, Sharon, Julie, Judy, that makes another four. Nah, this is too confusing. Let’s do this in alphabetical order...Ali, Amy, Annabel, Arabella, Anne, Anne-marie, Anita...Nah, just listing these names could fill up the whole book, I’m sure Knopf wouldn’t want my autobiography to be a directory of contemporary names of American women.

How about a lurid blow-by-blow recounting my best encounters? His face fell at this juncture as he remembered that Ken Starr had already beaten him to the best parts of such an account: 445-pages of riveting, salacious prose on the Lewinsky affair, which had inspired 340,000 hits per minute when it was first put on the Net. Nah, surely memoirs are about the good things you ought to have done, rather than the bad things you really did. In any case this book is about my greatest love interest, which is really Me, although I can bring in villains like Starr and Linda Tripp, with the cigar making a guest appearance.

Okay, let’s start with the possible title of the book. He sighed again. Georgie Bush got a nice title for his quickie last summer...what was it? Yes, A Charge To Keep. Nice, high-sounding ring to it. Why can’t I have ‘Live, from the White House’? Nah, too Larry King-ish. It has to be high-sounding and frank at the same time. How about ‘Live from the Oral Office’? Much better, it commemorates a unique American experience and relives a moment of salacious humour. I think the guys at Knopf will like that. How about ‘Starr Wars and the Underpants Agent?’ Nah, too scifi-ish. How about ‘The Fatal Attractions of a Loin King’? Nah, too Hollywoodish. That’s when the brainwave hit him. ‘‘I’ve got it Buddy. Listen to this: ‘The Clinton Years: Intern-al Matters’.’’ Buddy thumped his tail approvingly.

Okay, now let’s get down to Chapter One. ‘‘Buddy, what should the opening setting be? How about the most famous spot in the Oval Office — windowless hallway adjoining the President’s office?’’ Buddy thumped his tail approvingly and William Jefferson Clinton was off to a flying start on his $10 million autobiography.

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