Harry's White House

Chapter I. A Crook

"Can you believe this?"
Harry glanced up from his phone. Amy, dressed in a cream apron and with her black hair tucked under the green hat of Stellar Coffee, was holding up a flier in his face.
Harry read the words slowly, "'Richard Nixon for Undergrad President.' What about it? You know 'im?"
"Just the most racist and homophobic crook on campus? Yeah, I'm familiar," she claimed, shoving the flier into the trash can.
Harry glanced at the clock on the far wall. 7:30 A.M. They open at 8. "Just don't vote for the bloke," he stood up, putting his green Stellar Coffee hat over his wavy brown hair, "Probably ought to start gettin' ready for the day."
"I guess," the two of them walked from the concrete floors of the break room onto the wood panel flooring of the café, "I'm probably going to vote for Clay. You?"
"No clue who's running. Look, we need to stock up on cinnamon, can you make a call for some la'er?"
"Sure. Priya's also a good candidate to vote for."
"Of course," Harry confirmed that the register was stocked, "Wait, Priya's running? Probably going to vote for 'er then."
Amy started boiling water, "As long as you don't vote for old racist sweats."
"Old racist sweats? That's your new nickname for what'shisname?"
"Nixon? He's racist. He's sweaty. He's a crook. Old racist sweats!" She flipped the open sign over, smacking it against the window.
They finished making the preparations for the morning shift, wiping the circular tables, playing the café's music playlist, and getting the sugars and creams ready. The sun was starting to rise, its orange hues filtering in through the large windows. Amy made the cinnamon order and was busy cleaning the bathrooms. It was her turn this week; Harry had cleaned them last week. And while he was busy organizing the shelves, his back turned towards the counter, the door chimed. A customer walked in.
"Good morning, welcome to Stella' Coffee!" he called, "What can I get you?"
A man's voice, rough and rugged, answered, "One black coffee, please."
"May I recommend you some of our English tea?"
"No thanks."
Harry grabbed a mug from the shelf and poured some hot coffee into it. The dark aroma filled the air.
"That'll be," he turned around to hand the mug to the man. Across from him was a man in a suit and red tie, his dark hair neatly parted around a tan face lightly peppered with sweat. His jaw was average, a bit square, a bit pointed, a bit round, and his nose was big. His eyes, however - his eyes were the kind you could get lost in. A stormy sea, a dark cloudy night, his eyes were angry, sad, tired, smart, all of them at once somehow. Harry couldn't help but stare wistfully into the eyes of the stranger.
The man smiled - less of a smile and more of a smirk - "It'll be?"
Harry blinked and averted his gaze, questioning how long he's been staring at him. A few seconds? A few years? "Sorry about that. Normally, it's 2 dollars, but we're holding a sale today and it's free."
"Free? I didn't see any signage about that. Well, that's nice isn't it," he chuckled. The man reached to grab the mug from Harry, and their hands grazed. A spark and a knowing glance passed between the two of them, a spark of understanding, of intimacy, of affection. Or at least Harry thought so.
"Say, you're one of those One Direction boys, aren't you?" the man suddenly remarked.
Harry nodded rapidly.
"I thought I recognized you! I'm Richard Nixon," he reached out his hand. Harry took Richard's hand in his and gave it a firm shake. "I'm running for undergrad president. And once I'm president - you'll vote for me, won't you? - if you ever need anything from me, I'm always available to help out you local celebrity boys."
"'Local celebrities' is a bit of an overstatement," Harry laughed, "We're just a few friends who enjoy making music."
"Of course, of course. Just know I'm always here for you boys. Campus could always use more upstanding folks like you in it."
Richard gave one more nod towards Harry before making his way out of the caféz the chimes clinking away behind him as he exited.
Harry was stunned. Where was this man all his life? Richard? Nixon? Did he get that name right? It's been a long time since...No, he's never met a man like Richard. His sharp face, his intelligent eyes, the cogs turning behind them every second, caught Harry off-guard. Leaving him more off-guard was this feeling in Harry's heart. He didn't quite know what it was, if it was curiousity, yearning, joy, melancholy. Some mix of them all? Harry didn't know.
The café radio started playing "Every Breath You Take." Harry tried to get lost in the song, to listen to every note, as a means of calming himself down. It did not work. His heart still raced. He tried making some coffee. It did not work. His heart still raced. Now, he was just stuck holding a mug of the worst coffee he ever brewed while doing some breathing exercises.
Amy came out of the bathroom, carrying a mop and a bucket of soap water. "Was that Richard Nixon?"
"The customer? Yeah, do you know 'im?"
"Yeah, he's the crook running for president, remember?" Harry shook his head. Amy put the bucket on the floor and started mopping. "He's old racist sweats."
"Oh shit."
Harry dropped the mug, the dark liquid staining the pearly white floors.