Laura McGehee - The Royal Birthday

G eorge Washington took a long, deep swig of mead and basked in the reflective glow of intense adoration from his fellow Revolutionists. They each stared at him with wide, hungry eyes that were consumed with his thoughts, opinions, and directives. He had never experienced such complete and total ownership of anothers selfnot even over his own horse Buttercup, who had become prone to demanding oats wherever and whenever she wanted them no matter the circumstances.

George filled his gut with a deep breath and delivered the punch line that his boys needed.

And so I said to the Kings chambermaid, Theres a reason they call me the Sword of the Revolution, if you know what I mean, he said, with a wink and a gesture toward his nether regions. The bar erupted into rowdy cheers and raucous laughter; nobody could tell a joke like Washington, not even Franklin when he drank twelve glasses of wine and insisted on acting in character as Williamsburg Williamson, a hapless British solider with a lisp.

Another shot of Whiskey Rebellion for the boys! Washington shouted, which elicited even more cheers. The boys were red-faced, disheveled, and far too drunk to hold the course of history in their hands. Washington regarded them all with an intense feeling of camaraderie that only months of sweating profusely together in a tiny hidden chamber, plotting the future of the nation, could inspire. Hamilton and Adams were in the middle of an ill-advised chugging contest that would certainly end in patriotic pain, Jefferson had pulled his top hat over his eyes and seemed to be sleeping while standing up, Franklin mimed Williamsburg Williamson trying to shoot a gun but accidentally holding it backwards, Madison was on the verge of another deadly illness but proudly pounding back scotch in an effort to cleanse his spirit, and Burr sat in the corner with a dark smile. The bartender passed around shots of Whiskey Rebellion, and the men lifted their glasses high. George smiled at the thick mixture in his glass, and decided that this would be his first item to tax when he was in office; he knew his country could never live without their whiskey.

To the future President of the new country! Hamilton shouted loudly. Washington shook his head and refused to raise his glass, shooting a wry smile at his treasured Alexander Hamilton while batting his eyes. The boys loved this routine, and Washington loved his boys. They laughingly jostled him and urged him to join in their toast. Washington solemnly shook his head.

Everybody laughed even harder and shouted until their faces turned red, demanding that he take the shot. Washington sternly shook his head once more; as his boys knew, he was great at pretending to be noble. When Hamilton leapt onto the bar top and began to sing Were not throwing away this shot! with his arms around Burr and Franklin, Washington broke into a beaming grin. Hamilton always knew the way to his heart. He gravely rose to his feet, and the boys immediately quieted down.

To the best goddamn leader you boys will ever have! he said, with as much force as his gravelly voice could muster. His boys cheered in response. George tipped the abrasive substance down his throat and felt it burn, just as the British had burned in a bright blaze of American glory. He had never experienced pain that felt so savagely empowering, not even when shrapnel had lodged into his right knee during Yorktown.

Washington had discovered somewhere around his twenty-first birthday that the key to success in this world was pretending as if you knew what you were doing. He had been thrust into power as the major of the Virginia militia following his Uncles untimely demise, and adopted an aloof reserve that stemmed more from his lack of experience than anything else. But as he continued to grow up (quite literally) and silently tower above the rest of his menoccasionally uttering phrases that seemed weighty and wise by their isolationhe realized that being well-liked was simple. To the public, he was reserved, and they assumed he was always deep in thought when he was often just thinking about dinner. He saved his rowdier moments for the privacy of late nights, like tonights eve of celebration on the cusp of determining the course of history.

They had worked hard for years to get to this point, and had spent the past few months in a caged prison of heat-induced insanity in that godforsaken hidden Pennsylvanian meeting room. After all of the screaming matches, debates, and thinly veiled threats on each others families, they were poised to sign the Constitution tomorrow and give birth to a new nation. Washington thought it was time for some good, old-fashioned, drunk American unity. Also, he had been restricting his drinking to only eight drinks a day during the Constitutional Convention, and he thoroughly missed the warm buzz of copious amounts of whiskey flowing through his veins at all hours of existence.

At six feet two inches, George stretched over the rest of his peers like the oldest tree in a forest. His distinguished nose and chiseled jaw imbued him with the sort of power that seemed predestined, and he had spent his whole life in the endless pursuit of greatness. He looked down into his wine glass and was startled by the soft splash of his wooden teeth. He quickly shoved the set back in his mouth and darted a glance around to make sure nobody had noticed. Luckily, they were busy arguing about Alexander Hamiltons idea to turn the traditional duel into a battle of dance and song.

Im telling you guys, it would be an incredible way to prove who is the best through wit, stamina, and the crafting of breakaway hits of self-expression! he said, his eyes bright.

I am not dancing, Jefferson said staunchly. No matter what.