The Weekly Screed (#983)

 Moving day

by David Benjamin 

“Unlike ‘Groundhog Day,’ which was funny, this isn’t funny at all." 

                                 — David Fink, attorney for the City of Detroit

THE WHITE HOUSE, 20 January 2021 — When the President and his wife tried to enter the Oval Office, the door would not open. It seemed to be obstructed from inside. After futile efforts by two burly Secret Service agents to force the door, the next resort was through the French doors on the White House terrace. This was locked, too, and the keyhole plugged. But Joe and Jill finally made their entry after Secret Service Agent Smith broke a pane of glass and turned the latch.

As they were stepping across the threshold, Jill said, “First thing we do, we’re going to rip down those hideous gold drapes.”

Suddenly, Jill froze in her tracks and gasped. Someone had written in giant red spray-paint letters, across the great curving wall that faces the president’s desk: “STOP THE STEEL!!!” The graffiti artist had also sprayed out “MAGA!!!” Added to this was an expletive beginning in “F” followed by the word “BIDEN.” True to the author’s style, there were three exclamation points.

“Oh my God,” said Jill. “That vandalism. That’s infantile.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, honeybunch,” said Joe. “We were going to have to repaint anyway. Let ’s just think of that as primer.”

Joe headed toward his desk, eager to sit there for the first time as President. But he halted after touching it. “The seat is wet,” he said, puzzled.

Jill leaned down and said, “Ew!”

“What is it, sweetie?”

“He peed on it!” said Jill.

Several Secret agents confirmed Jill’s assessment. She opened her mouth to express disgust but Joe held up a hand.

Joe said, “Jill, it’s no problem. I prefer my own chair anyway. We’ll just roll this one out and send it to the people setting up the Trump Presidential Library.”

Jill was unappeased. “A library? For a man who can’t read?”

One of the Secret Service agents made note of a fresh surprise. Beneath the blotter on the Resolute Desk, he discovered that the previous President had gouged out his last name in jagged six-inch capital letters, followed by a smaller inscription that read, “BIDEN SUCKS”.

“Oh my God,” said Jill.

“This won’t help his legacy,” said Joe, tactfully.

They looked around. There was more damage from the mad spray-painter, including a bright red mustache on the portrait of George Washington.

Jill opened a drawer in the Resolute Desk, hoping to find memorabilia in the form of presidential notes and doodles, but all she found was a thick legal document bearing the name of a prominent Manhattan law firm. 

“Well, well,” she said, perusing the top page. “Melania didn’t let any grass grow under her stilettos. These are divorce papers.”

“Well, that’s nice,” said Joe amiably. “Sort of her little way of Being Best.”

Agent Atkins, who had brought a bolt-cutter, severed the chains and padlocks that had prevented the president from entering his office. They also had to move the Oval Office grandfather clock, which had been tipped violently in front of the door. Immediately, several more agents burst in and shouted, “We can’t find him!”

“He probably went back to Mar a Lago. That’s his home, after all,” said Joe equably. “Although I was disappointed not to see him at the Inauguration.”

“Fat chance of that, Sparky,” said Jill.

“He never left the building,” said Agent Smith. “We would’ve had to escort him out. He’s still around here somewhere.”

“He’s hiding?” said Jill.

“Isn’t that cute?” said Joe.

Chief Agent Jones shouldered his way into the Oval Office and said, in a stentorian growl, “What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every closet, toilet, salle de bain, showerstall, alcove, pantry, dumbwaiter, footlocker, cabinet, armoire, hutch, credenza, bunker, balcony, ledge, rooftop, root cellar, stairwell, laundry room, clothes dryer, priesthole, dollhouse and doghouse in the White House, from West Wing to East Wing. Checkpoints go up at every doorway. Your fugitive’s name is ex-President Donald J. Trump. Now, move!”

“Jeez, Jonesey,” said Joe, “Aren’t you overdoin’ just a little?”

Agent Jones grinned. “I always wanted to do that bit.”

An hour later, a cry went up. “Ahoy! That she blows! We found him!”

The Secret Service team, followed by Joe and Jill, rushed to the First Lady’s boudoir, where the ex-President was curled under the bed, refusing to budge.

“Why’d he have to pick my room?” said Jill. “I’m going to have to fumigate.”

“Don’t be spiteful,” said Joe. “Remember, we won.”

In all, some twenty people stood staring at the bed. The ex-President was out of sight. Chief Agent Jones asked, “Are we sure he’s under there?”

“I saw him, sir,” said Agent Johnson. “He’s still in his jammies. He pointed something at me. It looked like a weapon. I backed away.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Jones. “Who in God’s name would give that psycho a gun?”

Jones knelt down and poked his face beneath the counterpane. He suddenly exclaimed in surprise and rolled away, his face red with what looked like blood.

“Oh my God!” said Jill.

Jones stood, wiping his face. “Ketchup,” he said. “He pours it all over his steaks, burgers, fries and porn stars. He loves those little squeeze bottles. ”

Another agent tried to coax out the ex-President. She got a face full of ketchup and a few misogynist slurs for her effort.

“I recommend a fire hose,” said Jill.

“No, babe,” said Joe. “That would ruin the carpet.”

Reluctantly, the agents undertook the forceful extraction of the former Commander in Chief from under his freshly estranged wife’s bed. One agent managed to grab a toe, after which three more pulled him clear, inch by inch. Still, he clung to the foot of the bed so grimly that Agent Smith had to whack him several times with the bolt-cutter. The Secret Service team came away smeared and soaked with Heinz low-sodium tomato ketchup. There were also some scratches and abrasions. Agent Johnson had to be placed in concussion protocol after a vicious kick to his head.

“Could’ve been worse,” Johnson said woozily. “But he was wearing bunny slippers.” 

Since the ex-President refused to stand, but just kept crumpling to the floor and flailing his little hands every which way, the agents rolled him up in a rug and dragged him away bodily. Joe and Jill stood in the vinegary First Lady’s bedroom listening, as the ex-POTUS experienced a White House moving day that truly was “like nothing anyone has ever seen.” 

His cries echoed down the hallowed halls. “No! No! NOOOO! Stop the steal! Stop the steal! Stop! Stop! STOP!!! Waaah! I’m the Pres—You’ll all be in jail, traitors! Disgrace! Treason! Fake NOOOOOZE! Oh no! No! Don’t take me out! I don’t wanna go! I DON’T WANNA GO! Donwanna, donwanna, donwanna!Mommy! MOMMY! MOMMMEEEE!!!”

“That’s touching,” said Joe. “In five years, bless his heart, that’s the first time I’ve heard him mention his mother.”

“His mother?” said Jill, laughing. “Joe, please! That’s what he calls Ivanka!”