Special Sauce
Slate, August 6, 1998
Another one act playlet that reveals what Bill and Monica were really doing
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.]
ML: Sure.
[They walk into the study.]
BC: Did anyone see you come in?
ML: No.
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.]
[Curtain.]
