The President & Me

“I NEED my widow beaw!!” he yells. A hand appears seemingly out of nowhere, handing the President a teddy bear. He named the bear Joe. But this bear is not Joe. It’s a different bear, but identical in every way. He notices immediately and gets more angry, saying that the bear that was handed to him is named Harris.

Toddlercore is not something he is aware of, fortunately, since that scene is almost entirely made up of the victims of childhood sexual abuse and pedophiles. He has no connection to that kind of perversion whatsoever. None at all.

With regard to his fit of rage over the teddybear, his staff has made it clear to me that this is normal. He does get like this sometimes when things don’t go his way, but never in the public eye. It’s not that he’s trying to talk like a toddler, but his already strange accent and vocal inflections seem to be exacerbated when he is angered beyond what the average American citizen has seen on TV. And he sounds like…a toddler.

Today is just another normal day in the White House for the majority of the media and secret service members who work there daily. Today is just another normal day for the staff of the West Wing too, but the relative normal for these two groups is drastically different. When the President wakes up, he likes warm milk. If you ask him what temperature he prefers he will only shake his head and stomp angrily. It’s almost as if his routine is tasting milk at three different temperatures in a strange Presidential Goldilocks game of “what is warm today?” and the staff have tested out this theory and found it to be true. One day, the acceptable temperature for milk was sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, and the very next day he shook his little fists in anger after tasting sixty-five degree warm milk before trying six different temperatures that got progressively colder and colder until the temperature that appeased his odd palate was that of milk that had been refrigerated. One day he said seventy-three degrees was too cold for milk and that it “was close to ice cream” so the staff brought him milk of various temperatures for over an hour until he finally decided upon a glass of milk that was “just right” (it was sixty-nine degrees fahrenheit).

The staff have learned to enjoy the weird cat and mouse games that their boss likes to play with them and find some amusement in his antics. They have no choice but to go along with them or they will be fired. His Goldilocks symptoms apply to much more than his warm milk at breakfast. The symptoms are also evident at nighttime with the “fuzziness” of his blankets and how well he’s been “tucked in” to bed, lunchtime with the “crunch” of his favorite sandwich bread, snacktime with how dry his crackers are, tee time with the “sharpness” of his golf tees, dessert with the “creaminess” of his ice cream, and on and on and on.

I’ve been given exclusive access to the behind-the-scenes goings-on at the White House because the President decided that he wanted a media publication to document his “AMAZING and totally unique daily routine”. I approached this exciting opportunity feeling utterly confident that I couldn’t possibly be surprised by anything our inestimable President does or says after having been unwillingly subjected to news story after news story and clipped video after clipped video on social media showing or detailing his peculiar antics. Boy was I dead wrong. It seems like every moment with him is a new revelation about outlier behavior – something I’ve never seen anyone do before. Of course there are many things I see and will write down that will be true but will not be published because - while my editor and the President himself have given me every assurance that I have “full creative control” - the optics matter. This is the President of the once-greatest-empire-of-our-time. If you are one of the few lucky ones who get to read my rough draft, then you are in for a treat. Shhh! Don’t tell anyone what you’ve learned here.

The Teddy Bear Debacle is not the name that the history books will know when this particular day is studied, but it’s what I will call it because I happened to be privy to the true story:

“I WAAAAANT. MY TEDDDDYYY. BEAW!” he yells again in a conveniently sound-proofed room. My conversations with the staff of the West Wing have given me some insight that I’ve already mentioned about the oddities of this particular President of the United States of America, so I look around the room to search the faces of the adults who are present in an attempt to ascertain whether this level of angst is out of the ordinary. The faces I see appear calm and then I hear the head “handler” (a title I made up since I don’t know her real job title), a small hispanic woman named Marisol say: “Mr. President, this is Joe. This is Joe the Teddybear.”

“IT’S NOT JOE! I KNOW JOE AND THAT’S NOT HIM! THAT’S HARRIS MY SECOND FAVEWIT! I WANT MY FULLST FAVEWIT!”

“Mr. President. I can assure you—”

“Mr. President, we have a…situation” says a new voice. It belongs to someone who looks like their title would be secret service captain. The man is at least six-two and muscular with one of those caveman faces, tan skin, clean shaven, the classic military high-and-tight haircut, and wearing one of those greenish suits with pins all over it as evidence that he belongs in places where there might be a big red button that could bring about the destruction of life as we know it. He had apparently spoken through some kind of remote-access speaker system, making me jump. Moments later he stuck his head in a door I had no idea existed before striding in front of the six or seven of us who were already in the room with the crystal chandeliers and elaborately weird wall murals of the President riding various magical creatures.

“EVERYONE OUT!” the President screams. It’s very jarring to hear him code-switch so quickly from his toddler personality to one that is just barely more befitting of his illustrious title. Everyone scuttles out, including me, but inexplicably the President just points at me and points to the long mustard yellow couch in the corner indicating that I should sit down, so I sit.

Now the room is inhabited by only me, the U.S. Army General, and the President of the United States of America. General York shoots a quizzical look at the President that includes an ever-so-slight glance in my direction. His question is obvious, but the President simply waves his tiny hand like the devil may care and then shoves it violently into his pocket and pulls out a little remote-looking thingy. It is smooth and looks metallic with no visible buttons whatsoever. It dawns on me that he still hasn’t found his Teddy Bear Joe, but I’m wondering if he actually has some kind of split personality disorder and whether or not his “toddler persona” bleeds into this more mature one and if he even remembers his moments-earlier freak out about the stuffed toy.

I watch in awe as the President does a strange twirl with his much-smaller-than-average thumb on the rounded top side of the metallic object he is holding and another secret door opens in the wall. The orifice into which we are about to walk is off-putting because it is right in the butthole area of the pegasus mural and as we walk through it and I can smell the unusually pungent musty air, I have a weird feeling that I am walking into the anal cavity of a giant magical beast.

The new secret room is mostly dark except for a vague electrical glow emanating from what I can only assume is some large technological device. The room is completely quiet except for a vague humming emanating from the same side of the room that is glowing. The air smells musty and is humid and when I look toward the glowing, I can see what appears to be mist in the air. As I follow the President and General York into the room, a flickering motion-sensing light flicks on to reveal a giant stone table that looks like it was created in another age of the earth, when huge demon aliens would run rampant across pangea impregnating human women who would give birth to Herculean human hybrids. If a knowledgeable person told me that throughout antiquity this table has been used to perform ritualistic sacrifice of humans and other beasts from century to century I would certainly believe them. When the flickering motion-sensing red light comes on enabling slightly better visibility, and as I nervously follow the other two (who I’m sure are striding much more confidently than my sniveling, self-conscious slinking) toward the massive stone table, I can see there are many more people in the room. It looks like a United Nations meeting, with men and women and trans men and trans women of every shade and hue imaginable. Not one person looks the same as another, except in the way they are dressed. Half of the table (at least ten people) are wearing military suits with the ribbons and pins and stars and stripes and arrows and triangles and rectangles indicating their decorated careers that earned them a spot at this strange table. The other half of the people are all much, much older and wearing robes with extra-large dark silk hoods. Everyone shares the same blank, motionlessness, and in the relative darkness it’s hard to see their eyes. But I can tell they are looking into me. Not at me, but into me like I’m a piece of meat.

The President of the United States strides to the head of the table, motions to me to sit near him, and General York McGuff sits at his apparent regular seat at the spooky long stone table. The table is set with long sharp knives only and stone plates, and every table setting has a napkin that looks like it is the hyde of some animal. Every spot also has a large stone chalice that is filled with a green liquid.

When everyone is finally seated at the monstrous stone table, the old people in cloaks begin to sing a very weird song in Latin that sounds very ominous (I don’t speak Latin so it could easily have been a song of praise to the one true God for all I know). I look around at all the faces of the militarily bedight people and our honorable President of the United States of America and their body language can only be described as “rolling their eyes” without explicitly doing so. When the weird chant has finally finished, General York says “we have a problem, Mr. President. The Supreme Leader of N**** K**** has sullied your eminence. He says that he has good intelligence that you are mentally ill, and behave like a child in your private life.”

“BEHAVE LIKE A CHILD??”

“Yes.”

“This is very strange indeed” says one of the hooded figures.

“GET ME THE BUTTON!”

“Mr. President, that seems a bit–”

“Mr. President. Don’t you think we should–”

“This is obviously a ridiculous lie.”

“No one will believe it.”

Everyone is going into full damage control mode, while I am quivering in the corner. It is obviously fair to assume that things have gotten completely out of hand, and I can’t help but wonder if–

“I SAID BWING ME DA BUDDON! NOWWWWW!” the President says, and I can’t begin to describe the looks of horror and confusion on the faces of these obviously powerful individuals. It is now obvious to me that there is some bleeding through of the President’s toddler persona into his professional life. Or maybe–this is the first time this has happened? Dutifully, General York walks toward the humming electric wall and utters one word:

“Joe”

The humming stops and a massive red button that couldn’t be less than one foot in diameter encased in what looks like a crystal box falls from the invisible roof into his outstretched hand. He walks it over to the President and sets it on the stone table in front of him. The humidity in the air is suddenly gone. The gentle humming is gone, and everyone seems to be holding their breath in unison. The President has a look on his face that clearly resembles an insolent child who knows they are about to do something bad that their parents do not want them to do.

As he lays his entire palm on the crystal box, a hissing sound occurs, a poof of vapor rises and the crystal appears to simply melt away leaving a giant red button that I can now see has one word etched onto its face:

“Death”

The room still hasn’t taken a breath. The President lifts his hand slowly and I can see the eyes of every member of the council widen in horror. A thought occurs to me suddenly. Is it possible that this is out of the ordinary for our dignified President? Is it possible that the Teddy Bear debacle from the morning has clouded his magnificent judgement? Did I ever see that damn bear? Is there any way I could help this situation? Then, as if the vision was given to me by God Himself, I remember. I remember something from the room with the murals and the crystal chandeliers. I remember a tuft. A brown tuft. Was it fur? I search my memory and realize that–

The President’s small doll-like hand moves toward the button with swiftness, but it is slow motion to me. I know what to do!

“Excuse me?”

The room of people look at me, noticing my presence for the first time since I entered. All eyes are on me, and the President appears furious.

“HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT THIS BEAUTIFUL CEREMONY! WHEN I SPEAK TO YOUR BOSS AT *** YOU”LL NEVER WORK IN THIS BUSINESS OR ANY BUSINESS EVER AGAIN! YOU”RE FIRED!” he yells with ferocity.

I’m glad to know he is back to his professional persona.

“I’m truly sorry, your eminence, but I think I remember seeing something that will be of interest to you. Could I speak to you in–in–private? It’s regarding something from the–the–incident from earlier.”

His eyes settle on me for the first time since I’ve been in his presence and I can see a childish hope in them. He walks away from the ghoulish stone table and beckons me toward him with one of his tiny hands. I walk sheepishly toward him and he bends down and puts his hand to his ear, signalling that I should whisper. I lean in and can’t help but notice whisps of white hair covering his ear-hole.

“I think I know where Joe is.”

The President of the United States doesn’t say anything. He stands up and, with more gravitas than I’ve ever seen him embody, looking taller than I’ve ever seen him, addresses the audience with more power and prestige than any of his public appearances.

“Stay here” he says to the council. With an unusual combination of childish haste and the grace of an emperor, resplendent in his power, his small hand grabs mine and whisks me out of the room like a mother with her son, into the room with the murals and the crystal chandeliers, and the door closes silently. We are alone in the room now but the President, now a child again, looks around the room nervously and then looks under every dresser and mustard colored couch before walking back to face me, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen him.

“So youw saying you fink you know wheaw my widow Joe is?” he asks.

“Please follow me, your grace.”

I am striding confidently now with the President following behind me like a small child, back out the way I came in, past the West Wing staff, past the secret service members nervously shifting, out the side door to the lawn that the window of the room with the mustard couch and the wall murals of the President riding magical beasts and the crystal chandeliers looks out upon, searching eagerly with my perfect vision looking for that tuft of brown fur. I can’t help but feel like the lives of millions of innocent people depend on me finding that damn bear. My eyes are darting here and there, but my stride remains firm and straight toward the area I could see from the window inside the room.

Gently, I bend down in the green green grass knowing that my keen journalistic senses and a dash of providence are saving millions of lives–