Imagine an old man sitting by himself in a dingy all-night diner in downtown Washington. He has his back to the window, shoulders hunched, like the customer in Nighthawks, Edward Hopper’s famous painting. Joe – for the old man’s name is Joe – looks tired and mournful. Perhaps he’s thinking about what was, about what might have been. For him, it’s a nightmare.
Yet even if this really were the president, and even if the disgraced Secret Service allowed him so fanciful a private moment, Joe need not feel sad or alone. He has six months left in charge. On paper, he’s still the world’s most powerful man. And he no longer has to worry about re-election, votes, polls or TV debates. Who cares now what pundits say?
