THE FINAL CURTAIN

After closing a deal he always liked to go to his favourite comedy club on the Upper East Side accompanied by a glamorous female companion.

As a business man and famous negotiator of deals he was genuinely fascinated with the psychology of telling jokes and comedy in general: how to build a story and keep your audience enthralled until the punchline. The tension of keeping your audience attentive was hugely familiar to him. Often in boardroom meetings he also had to maintain the focus of his team through timing, dramatic pauses and ruthless one-liners.

It was 1990 and the businessman was watching the dead pan comic legend Leo McDonald on stage. Mid way through a monologue about St Patrick’s Day in New York, the comic held his can of orange Fanta aloft to mimic that of a drunk. The audience were in the palm of the guy’s hand as he navigated his way through multiple accounts of that festive day through the guise of several Irish characters.

“The entire bar was packed with micks who looked like they’d failed the audition for Finian’s Rainbow. I almost felt tempted to lead them in a chorus of “How Are Things In Glocca Morra”, but thought better of it. I didn’t want to get knee capped. You can’t do a jig when you’ve been knee capped.”

The audience laughed nervously as the comic sailed close to the wind with his edgy bit.

“If you’re worried I’m making this place an IRA target, relax. My grandfather was Irish. Wait a minute? Or was it Scottish? Irish or Scottish. What’s the difference? They all sleep with their cousins.”

The audience could no longer resist as the floodgates were opened and howls of laughter filled the room.

The way the stand up talked, shooting from the hip, reminded him of how most normal blue collar people talked on the street. Whenever he’d conversed with the construction crews who would help build his sky scrapers, he always found himself at home amongst them. Far more than the elite politicians and city hall parasites who were always sucking up to him because of his abundant wealth.

Pulling no punches and saying whatever the hell you liked.

It was, to the businessman’s mind, a form of freedom.

Freedom was good for business.

The stand up ended his show with a spoof rendition of Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way” before a fake gun shot sounded and the comic fell to the floor before being dragged off behind the red velvet curtains by the M.C who duly apologised for anyone hard of hearing unable to hear the bang.

More uncertain laughter was followed by a standing ovation as the stand up re-appeared to assure his followers that he wasn’t dead.

The businessman admired the comedic art of the stand up more than almost anything else he could think of.

And especially the way this one could close his show so definitively, like a great magician.

“Leave them wanting more. That’s how you win.”

His female companion seem perplexed at her partner, who appeared to be having a rhetorical conversation with himself.

“What do you mean?”

“It's nothing. Just thinking aloud. Come on, let’s go.”

And with that they left the comedy club and headed back to his concrete tower with its gold facade where he now resided, a perfect symbol of his ego and wealth to remind the city he loved so much that he was "number one, top of the list, head of the heap, king of the hill."

The year was now 2021 and it was the president’s final evening in the oval office, the place he had occupied for the past four years as the world revolved around each and every decision he had made there. It had been as if he was sitting in the exact dead centre of the globe, like a single dime spinning on a basketball.

But tonight, it was different. He suddenly felt as if the room was preparing for its new occupant. Perhaps he was paranoid but he couldn’t shake the feeling he was now like a needy boyfriend in search of a warm reassuring hug from the sacred space he had occupied so loyally for his one term in office. Like women he had desired so fiercely in his youth, but had known it would not be forever, this was one love affair he knew he would not forget.

The one that got away, he thought to himself, just like that old Sinatra tune.

He’d asked to be left alone for a short while, as he absorbed the atmosphere of the world’s most famous office in solitude. He had become increasingly isolated in his final week in the White House, but in some ways, that’s how he’d always wanted it to play out - the tragic hero, or the lone warrior king, battle weary with exit pending. He had shouldered the weight of an entire nation, which, if you’d asked his legions of critics, he had done abysmally. To his supporters however, he’d been the guy who stood up to the bullies in the playground, but now these very same bullies had squeezed the life out of his political power, like King Kong on top of the Empire State building.

He leaned back in his chair, and reflected on his journey to the top. He couldn’t help thinking of his beloved New York and how he could never return to it. Doors were closing all around him, cities too. Partisan political games were increasing the very real possibility of him having to consider exile from his own country. Why was it that he had incurred such hatred from so many who had requested his friendship when he was just a wealthy businessman. He knew he was divisive, but deep down he accepted it was just how he had to be to do the tough jobs that history remembers you for. You didn’t get anywhere by being simply liked. He knew that fame often came at a high price but he always paid for it with his own money.

He was beholden to no one except God. And only recently had God become a concept his ego was finally willing to submit to. Since taking office, he had needed something bigger than his own sense of self to steady himself from falling of the edge of his potential hubris which was always a real and present danger to his own colossal ambition.

He knew the world was talking about him. Sometimes he almost felt as if he could hear the chaos of global chatter through the silence. He liked being talked about and being the centre of attention. But for this one brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to be alone in the room with just his thoughts.

He then took out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and pressed play for the signature song he’d sang on so many late nights after closing deals back in Manhattan. Now the words of the song meant more to him than ever, as if the lyrics had been written by someone who’d peered into his future through a crystal ball. It was eerie yet perfect. One thing was for sure, he knew how to close things, be it deals or curtains. In that sense he was like a great actor or comedian who had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand, forever wanting more.

He closed his eyes and smiled with a look of contented satisfaction.

“Fuck it. I won.”

"For what is a man, what has he got?

If not himself, then he has naught

To say the things he truly feels

And not the words of one who kneels

The record shows I took the blows

And did it my way"