At sixteen hundred hours on the dot

The inside of the White House doesn’t have the luminous quality that you might expectfrom TV or film; it seems well kept but worn, a big old house that one imagines mightbe a bit drafty on cold winter nights. Still, as I stood in the foyer and let my eyes wanderdown the corridors, it was impossible to forget the history that had been made there—John and Bobby Kennedy huddling over the Cuban missile crisis; FDR making last-minute changes to a radio address; Lincoln alone, pacing the halls and shouldering theweight of a nation. (It wasn’t until several months later that I would get to see theLincoln Bedroom, a modest space with antique furniture, a four-poster bed, an originalcopy of the Gettysburg Address discreetly displayed under glass—and a big flat-screenTV set atop one of the desks. Who, I wondered, flipped on SportsCenter while spendingthe night in the Lincoln Bedroom?)I was greeted immediately by a member of the White House’s legislative staff and ledinto the Gold Room, where most of the incoming House and Senate members hadalready gathered. At sixteen hundred hours on the dot, President Bush was announcedand walked to the podium, looking vigorous and fit, with that jaunty, determined walkthat suggests he’s on a schedule and wants to keep detours to a minimum. For ten or sominutes he spoke to the room, making a few jokes, calling for the country to cometogether, before inviting us to the other end of the White House for refreshments and apicture with him and the First Lady. 　　I happened to be starving at that moment, so while most of the other legislators startedlining up for their photographs, I headed for the buffet. As I munched on hors d’oeuvresand engaged in small talk with a handful of House members, I recalled my previous twoencounters with the President, the first a brief congratulatory call after the election, thesecond a small White House breakfast with me and the other incoming senators. Bothtimes I had found the President to be a likable man, shrewd and disciplined but with thesame straightforward manner that had helped him win two elections; you could easilyimagine him owning the local car dealership down the street, coaching Little League,and grilling in his backyard—the kind of guy who would make for good company solong as the conversation revolved around sports and the kids. 　　There had been a moment during the breakfast meeting, though, after the backslappingand the small talk and when all of us were seated, with Vice President Cheney eating hiseggs Benedict impassively and Karl Rove at the far end of the table discreetly checkinghis BlackBerry, that I witnessed a different side of the man. The President had begun todiscuss his second-term agenda, mostly a reiteration of his campaign talking points—the importance of staying the course in Iraq and renewing the Patriot Act, the need toreform Social Security and overhaul the tax system, his determination to get an up-or-down vote on his judicial appointees—when suddenly it felt as if somebody in a backroom had flipped a switch. The President’s eyes became fixed; his voice took on theagitated, rapid tone of someone neither accustomed to nor welcoming interruption; hiseasy affability was replaced by an almost messianic certainty. As I watched my mostlyRepublican Senate colleagues hang on his every word, I was reminded of the dangerousisolation that power can bring, and appreciated the Founders’ wisdom in designing asystem to keep power in check.