In a few seconds the president of the United States would begin to snore. I had been watching his eyelids droop for the last quarter hour; too many glasses of Riesling at a state dinner, compounded by the strain of trying to see through my gown, had finally knocked him out. Couldn’t take his inattention personally since the man didn’t know Brahms from Buxtehude. To him, violins without bluegrass were like Novembers without elections. And the poor sod had been up since six trying to run the country. He had probably blown the morning at the hospital with Jordan Bailey, second in command. He could have visited a mistress on the way back to the White House, then spent the afternoon hallucinating with his spin doctors. After that, anther screaming match with wife Paula as he zipped her into that atrocious orange dress. Let him snore, I thought. It was impossible to get mad at Bobby Marvel. He just wasn’t a serious president.