I'm Thinking About Everything and You

Franklin Pierce, a man of nearly fifty years sat on a sofa in his office. He wasn’t afraid of wrinkling his well-fitting suit. He looked to the window, wishing he could see more than he could actually see. The three large windows all faced south but Pierce did not know this. He wished he could look outside and see Kansas and the criminals that ran rampant throughout its cities. Pierce had just learned that over two hundred people had been killed this year alone. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.

Pierce looked down into his glass. Where did the whiskey go, he wondered. He hadn’t spilled it, but sure enough, what was there thirty minutes ago was now gone. The thin man looked at his liquor cabinet. The liquor cabinet wasn’t too far away. Pierce stood up, wobbled and collapsed back into the sofa. The liquor cabinet was too far away. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.

There were two solid knocks at the door.

Come in, Pierce suggested--sometimes Pierce would order, but he wasn’t in the mood today. A powerful man practically born in a military uniform walked up to Pierce. This was the Secretary of War, General Jefferson Davis.

Mister President, Davis started but was interrupted.
Frank. I’m just Frank today.

Unabated, Davis sat down across from Pierce. He studied Pierce in the same manner he would study a battlefield map. Unlike a battlefield map, though, Davis had no idea what he was looking at. Pierce kept his strong head low and opaque eyes lower. Pierce knew Davis was one of his best and most loyal friends. Davis was a true American hero.

There was an incident in Kansas, Frank.
I already know.
No, there was another one. Six southern gents killed.

Pierce had grown tired of sulking. He had been sulking since taking office. And he had been drunk just as long. Speaking of which, where did his whiskey go?

Am I supposed to bury them, Pierce rhetorically sneered.
No sir.
Then leave me the fuck out of it.

Pierce smiled. He truly wished that were the answer to all of his troubles. Pierce felt limited by his powers. The American people elected him to be president, not God. And now the country had gone to shit and it was all completely out of his control. Pierce envied the Founding Fathers; they never had to deal with these issues. Davis and Pierce were sitting in an oval-shaped prison of responsibilities. While depressing, that wasn’t the issue that depressed Pierce.

General Davis stood up to leave.

Davis, Pierce whimpered.
Yes?
It’s Jane.
What about her?
She said she doesn’t love me anymore.

The general sat back down. Pierce finally looked him in the eyes. Pierce’s usually strong features sunk into the sofa. He didn’t understand how his wife could just stop loving him when he hadn’t done anything wrong. But life has its tragedies.

I knew she was going through some things, but I thought I could be there for her.
It’s not your fault, Frank.
I know, but I feel sick. Like a different kind of sick.
I know.
I thought we’d both get better over time. I thought we had a future.
You still have a future.
It’s not a future I know and I don’t think it’s a future I want.
What do you want?
I want her back or to not want her back.
That’s too bad, friend.
Love isn't worth it, sometimes.

Feeling the conversation was dead, Davis stood up again. He had an unimportant meeting with General Lee soon but if Pierce asked, Davis would say he had an important meeting with General Lee soon. Both Davis and Pierce felt uncomfortable with problems requiring solutions far beyond their limited capabilities.

As Davis left, he suggested that Pierce act like most men and drink himself happy. This would give Pierce enough motivation to finally walk over to his liquor cabinet.

Franklin Pierce would die of liver disease in 1869.