For about forty-five minutes, Barack Obama has not been the President of the United States.
Right now he’s with Michelle in a helicopter. They’re taking him from the Capitol, right from the inauguration of the next guy, to Andrews, and from there to Palm Springs and civilian life. He tries not to shiver. It’s cold up there.
It’s cold up there, and it’s been a long presidency.
He’s going to have to start driving himself places again. Cooking himself meals, regularly.
Walking out onto his own front porch to get the paper. All these tiny little things that were taken out of his hands over the last eight years; he’s going to have to pick them back up again.
Barack Obama thinks about his past and finds himself wondering what his favorite color is.
Blue strikes him, almost immediately. Of course. He’s not sure if he likes it, or if decades of association have merely fooled him into thinking he does. He’s debating himself, on one level, and on a level below that he’s laughing at the absurdity of it all, how an hour ago he was the most powerful man on Earth and here he is, now, not even sure what his favorite color is, and on a level deeper still…
‘What are you thinking about?’ asks Michelle.
Barack responds with ‘Chocolate ice cream,’ and Michelle swats him on the arm.
‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’
‘Hey, now.’ Barack smiles. ‘You can’t blame me for getting a little sentimental today. Of all days. We really should visit, now that we, uh, have the time.’
Michelle tries to look stern, but she can’t stop herself from smiling. ‘I never should have let them tell you there was a plaque.’
‘I’m just saying. It’s a big deal. Even for us. For Presidents, I mean.’ Barack raises his eyebrows. ‘There’s no plaque where Hillary and Bill had their first date, now, is there?’
Neither of them speak, for a while. Washington D.C. unfurls slowly below them. The thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades is low and persistent.
‘Can you imagine?” Barack Obama chuckles. ‘Us just sitting on a curb. Eating ice cream. Now?’
Michelle snorts. ‘Barack, we’re not just ex-Presidential. We’re old.’
‘Not that old, I hope.’
Michelle looks at him, warmly. She takes his hand.
‘Not that old,’ she says.
The helicopter shrinks into a tiny dot on the horizon, until it cannot be seen at all.
He almost has it figured out.
Barack Obama’s favorite color is the faded yellow of a five-hundred-dollar Nissan that barely runs. Barack Obama’s favorite color is a hazy sort of pink, and all the shades of it that blossom above the Southside when the sun sets. Barack Obama’s favorite color is the buzzing, burnt orange of the streetlights shining down on you when you sit down on the sidewalk outside of the ice cream place at Dorchester and East 53rd.
Barack Obama’s favorite color is the sound of an engine rattling to the beat of a Marvin Gaye classic, and his favorite color is Michelle raising her voice over the music to remind him that Tammi’s on that track, too, hell, she’s the one who makes that song pop, until the beat switches, and their eyes light up and suddenly they’re both singing at the top of their lungs— and yes, both of them are horribly off-key, which, unfortunately for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, is no concern for those of us who are young and in love.
And on that summer night in 1989, a presidency ago, a senate seat ago, a lifetime, two lifetimes, three lifetimes ago, Barack Obama and Michelle Robinson looked into each other’s eyes and sang:
‘…oh, every sky would be blue, as long as you’re loving me…’
It was a hell of a first date.
Barack Obama’s favorite color is the melted brown of chocolate ice cream. Barack Obama’s favorite color is blue, as described by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Barack Obama’s favorite color is Chicago, at dusk and at night and in the daytime.
Barack Obama’s favorite color is how Michelle’s hand feels in his.
Barack Obama’s favorite color is
Ferdison Cayetano is a student at the College of William & Mary, where he is majoring in history. Find him at @ferdwrites and quora.com/profile/Ferdison-Cayetano
