Time for a short story...

THE BEST LAID PLANS 

By the time I reached the outskirts of Phoenix, I was exhausted. It had been a long, hard drive out of Texas, beginning at Lackland AFB near San Antonio, with occasional stops to fill the gas tank, gulp down food in a greasy spoon, and visit the men’s room. Day 1 took me through Sonora and on to El Paso. Day 2 through Lordsburg, Tucson, and into Phoenix. Two more days on the road and I’d be home, or at least what used to be home. My four-year enlistment in the Air Force was done. It was time to get on with my life.

My eyes blinked open in the Phoenix motel room, then snapped shut again. The glare of the sun through the blinds produced an instant headache. I should have closed them and pulled the drapes last night, but all I could do was drop my bag and collapse on the bed. Now it was time for a pep talk. Okay, Fred, make a plan. Shower, shave, fresh clothes, find a nice, clean coffee shop for breakfast. Then it’s back on the road. You’re halfway home.

My day plan was going down like clockwork. I sat in the booth at Denny’s, enjoying a third cup of coffee, studying a roadmap. The path was clear—stay on I-10 through the desert and into LA, then up the I-5 to NorCal. Just one more night in a motel, then cruise on home. A prominent dot on the map caught my eye: Las Vegas. I’d never been there, never seen Sin City, except on TV. I pictured the great resort hotels—The Dunes, The Sands, The Riviera—with the giant marquees out front. Who would be playing Las Vegas? Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr.?

My little nest egg was locked in the suitcase in the trunk of my nearly new 1966 Mustang. It came to a little more than five grand, enough to get me settled back home until I could find a job. I’d have to stretch that five thou to cover my long-range goals, including a couple of years at a community college. But…what if? What if I went to Vegas, took a little of my stash and rolled the dice, so to speak? Could I turn that five grand into seven, or even ten?

I got back on the road and headed north, toward Wickenburg, Kingman, and Boulder City. Five hours later, my heart raced when the skyline of Las Vegas came into view. I found a motel just outside downtown, away from the strip. The new plan was to get some sleep and then hit the clubs around 2:00 a.m., when the tourists go to bed and the real gamblers come out. But first, there was someone in Texas I needed to talk to. She answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Jill.”

“Hi…where are you?”

“I’m…uh…I decided to stop in Vegas.”

“Oh shit, Fred! What are you doing? That wasn’t part of your ‘grand plan.’”

“It’s just for a day. Nothing more.”

“Yeah, right…” She was quiet. I could feel her disappointment.

“Listen, Jill…I’m sorry about the way we ended it. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I get it…believe me, I do. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

“You could have come with me. I asked you. Several times.”

“You know I can’t do that. I’ve got my job, my house, my mom depends on me.”

I knew she was right. Jill was older than me, in her early thirties, well established in her career as a surgical nurse, and devoted to the care of her elderly mother.

“This doesn’t mean I’ll be gone forever,” I said. “If I come back—”

“You can’t have it both ways, Fred. I can’t promise to wait around.”

“I know, Jill. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. You’re the best thing that ever—”

There was a muffled sound on the phone and the line went dead. Oh crap, Fred! You handled that like an idiot. Call her back…do it now. Nah, you’ll just make it worse. Call her later…maybe tomorrow. Hit the shower, get some rest. You’ve got a big night ahead.

***

I stepped into Binion’s on Fremont Street around 2:00 a.m. and found a blackjack table with only two other players. The game is called Twenty-One, but that’s not the object. The object of the game is to beat the dealer, and I was sure I had the method down pat—when to hit, when to stay, when to double down, and so on. I watched the run of the cards, increasing my bet when I judged the deck to be face-card rich and the odds would tilt in my favor. And it was working, the cards running my way, my stack of chips growing. Before long, I was alone at the table. The dealer was a pleasant middle-aged woman. I tipped her well and often.

“Would you like something to drink?” The voice came from my right. It was a cocktail waitress with a lovely smile, wearing an outfit that revealed long, beautiful legs.

I smiled back. “Yeah, I’ll have a rum and Coke, two limes. And please don’t stand there too long.”

“What?” She looked puzzled.

“I can’t concentrate on the cards while you’re standing there with those legs.”

She laughed out loud. “Oh, you’re one of those charmers, aren’t you. I’ll be right back with your drink.”

She was as good as her word, back in short order, setting the drink on a coaster to my right. I said thanks and tipped her while covering my eyes. That drew another laugh. I uncovered my eyes and took a good look. She was about my age—mid-twenties—fresh and pretty, long auburn hair that reached her waist. Her name tag read, Angelina.

“Looks like you’re doing pretty well,” she said, glancing at my stack.

“Not bad. But I changed my mind. Maybe you could just stand there and bring me luck.”

“Nope, gotta work, lots of thirsty people.” There were several drinks on her tray, and she moved away to deliver them. “I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder.

I looked at the dealer. She rolled her eyes as if to say, “Damn horny kids!” Her relief dealer came to the table, a guy who looked to be in his fifties. He nodded and went about shuffling the deck. I should have walked away right then, because from that point on, the cards turned sour.

Angelina was back several times with fresh drinks. “Oh my,” she said, “looks like the worm has turned.”

“You got that right.” I tried to smile.

She leaned close to my ear. “You know booze and gambling do not mix.”

I turned to look at her. I knew she was right. But her job was to keep the players at the tables well-oiled. Did she really give a damn? And then she was gone. My luck continued its downward slide, and I was dipping into my wallet, pulling out good money to chase my losses.

The next time Angelina came by, she set a glass of ice water on my coaster. “The bar ran out of rum,” she said. She wasn’t smiling.

I got the message. She was doing me a favor, trying to save me from myself. Well, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Fred. Depending on a stranger to bail you out. Better make a new plan. “When does your shift end, Angelina. Love that name, by the way. Mine’s Fred.”

She paused a beat, then smiled at me. “I’m off in about thirty minutes.”

“Wanna get something to eat?” I looked at my watch. “How ’bout breakfast?”

“Breakfast sounds good. In the meantime, go take a walk outside, get some fresh air. There’s a café on this floor. I’ll meet you there around six.”

I watched her walk away on those beautiful legs.

***

The clock on the bedside table read 1:00. From the light in the room, I took that to be afternoon. I turned and there was Angelina smiling at me, her dark brown eyes shining.

“Hey. You slept like a log,” she said. “Anyone ever tell you that you snore? I mean really snore!”

“Sorry ’bout that. Did I keep you awake?”

“Just a little. But it was worth it.”

“Yeah, it was. You were…what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Wonderful?” She smiled.

“Yeah, that’s it. You were won-der-ful.” I stretched every syllable.

“So, Freddie,” she said, mocking my name, “how long are you going to be in town?”

“The plan was to leave today…but…”

“But what?” She searched my eyes. “Oh no, let me guess. You left a lot of money at Binion’s and you want to go win it back.” She waited. “Well…am I right?”

“Hey, I was going really good, then I got a little drunk and made some bad decisions.”

“Save your breath, dummy. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that sad story in this town? How much did you lose?”

I didn’t answer.

“Okay, how much do you have left?”

“About a grand.” It was less than that, but I couldn't own up to it.

“Look, here’s what you do. Wherever you’re going, take that money, put it in an envelope, and mail it to someone you know. Ask them to hold it for you. Because if you don’t, you’ll blow every last dollar at the tables. Are you listening to me?”

I turned away. I couldn’t look her in the eye. She was right. I was the prototypical loser, one of the multitude of suckers that keep the casinos rolling in dough. It was quiet for a minute.

“So…” she began, her voice softer now, “where are you going? What’s your plan?”

I turned to face her. “I’m going home, back to the town where I grew up. I’m going to find a job, maybe something part-time, and I’m going to enroll at the junior college there. I still have my athletic eligibility, so I can play baseball for a couple of seasons. After that, I’ll transfer to a four-year school. I want to get my degree, earn a teaching credential, and become a teacher and a coach. Probably teach P.E.” I laughed. “You know what they say—those who can…do, those who can’t…teach, and those who can’t teach…teach P.E.”

“Very funny. So, where is this magical hometown?”

“Vallejo, California,” I said. “It’s in the North Bay, north of San Francisco. Ever hear of it?”

“Nope. Can’t say I have. What’s it famous for, other than baseball players?”

“It’s a Navy town. Mare Island Naval Shipyard. It’s a big repair depot. They build a lot of ships there, too. They’re building nuclear submarines these days. It’s a big deal, thousands of civilian jobs on The Yard.”

“Got a place to live there? Maybe an old girlfriend who will take you in?” She grinned at me.

“Yeah…well…that’s where it gets a little sketchy. My dad and stepmom moved to Utah. I’m planning to stay with my best buddy’s mom. She’s got a spare room, added to the back of the house, even has a private entrance off the patio.”

“Does she know you’re coming?”

“No. Not yet. But I was always her favorite and I know she’ll take me in. I always called her ‘Moms’ and she treated me like a son.”

“Oh, my God!” She laughed out loud. “Look out, Moms, here comes Freddie.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “And you had this bankroll, this nest egg you saved up, and now most of it is gone. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Angelina got out of bed and walked across the room while I admired her exquisite backside. She opened the desk drawer and found an envelope, a pen, and a notepad.

“Okay, write a note to Moms, tell her to hold the enclosed cash for you. Put what’s left in the envelope. You’re gonna mail it to her.”

There was no use resisting. I slipped on my boxers, went to the desk and did what she told me to do. Angelina said we could get a stamp and mail the letter downstairs in the office. We showered together, then went to check out. The guy at the front desk had a stamp for me, and I asked him to add my letter to the outgoing mail. We left the office and headed for Angelina’s car in the parking lot.

“So…what are you doing today? Do you have to work?” I didn’t want to let her go.

“No, it’s my day off. I have a class tonight at UNLV.” She smiled. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m a college girl. Can you believe it?”

“Absolutely.” I pulled her close for one last look at those beautiful brown eyes. “I’ll never forget you, Angelina.”

“I know,” she said.

She kissed me softly, then opened her car door and got in. I watched her pull out of the parking lot, onto the boulevard heading north. I turned and went back into the office. The guy at the desk seemed surprised to see me.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I forgot something important. I need to retrieve my letter.”

He looked at me skeptically, then reached under the desk and handed the envelope to me. I thanked him and headed for my car in the lot. Binion’s was only fifteen minutes away.

***

The object of Twenty-One is to beat the dealer. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes the losing is so brutal it can leave you with your head in your hands. Like the dealer is sitting on 15 and hits it with a 6. Or he throws you a 5 when you double down on 11, then takes a hit to make 17. Or you split aces and wind up losing both hands. That’s the way the money goes, and it didn’t take long. I walked out of Binion’s flat broke.

There was a lot of summer daylight left as I approached the highway intersection. I pulled the Mustang to the side of the road and sat there, the engine idling, the air conditioner losing the battle with the desert heat. I stared at the torn envelope addressed to Moms sitting on the seat next to me, the product of a lot of shitty choices.

But was it too late?

I couldn’t undo all those choices, but I could start with one. I merged into traffic, turned right at the intersection and headed south, back to Texas. The new plan was to call Jill when I reached Phoenix. I’d have plenty of time to think of something to say.

 HORMONES

 

The jet-black limo pulls up in front of Number One Naval Observatory Circle. Vice President J.D. Vance hurries down the front steps of his residence toward the well-equipped sedan where his driver, Ivan Picop-Andropov, holds the door open for him.

“Good morning, Mr. Vice President. How are you today?”

“Just fine, Ivan. Get me to the White House as quickly as traffic will allow. Important cabinet meeting this morning.”

Ivan has been Vance’s driver since Inauguration Day 2025, and the two men have formed a friendship—to the extent possible, given their positions.

“So, what’s on the agenda today, sir?” Ivan pulls away from the curb and begins the short journey.

“You know how it goes, Ivan. The agenda might not hold. It depends on the president’s mood. But, item one is to discuss Secretary Hegseth’s proposal for testosterone testing and Low-T therapy for members of the armed forces.”

“And your thoughts, sir?”

“If Pete wants to keep the troops juiced, fueling the ‘warrior ethos,’ I suppose there’s no harm.”

"Does he think it will help with the war in Iran?"

"I wouldn't be surprised, Ivan. Just what our sailors and airmen need. I'll tell him you asked."

Ivan smiles. “I hear he’s going to hire Frank “The Big Hurt” Thomas and Doug Flutie to film promotional videos for the rollout.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that rumor, too. The whole thing does set an interesting precedent.”

“How so, Mr. Vice President?”

“Well…now that he’s opened the topic of hormone therapy, let the genie out of the bottle, so to speak, I have a suggestion of my own to make.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“Given ICE’s recent actions, I’m going to recommend estrogen therapy for all ICE officers. Maybe oxytocin, too. You know, help them to explore their feminine side, the ‘better angels’ of their nature. We just can’t have more people shot on our streets, at least until after the midterm elections.”

Vance’s brow is furrowed in his classic expression of concern.

“Estrogen for ICE?" Ivan is shocked. "Sounds like a non-starter, sir.”

“We’ve got to do something, Ivan. Traffic stops are becoming shooting galleries. The optics are terrible!”

“But won’t the wives and girlfriends of ICE officers object? You know what Frank Thomas always says, ‘She’ll like it, too.’”

“Well, that’s one way to look at it. Another is that the wives and girlfriends might enjoy a break in the action. And it’s only about a hundred days until the midterms.”

“It’s certainly a bold and innovative solution, Mr. Vance.” Ivan glances at the vice president. “Uh…if you happen to be sitting across from Secretary Markwayne Mullin in the cabinet meeting, be prepared to duck under the table. I’d hate to see you get clocked with a water glass.”

The two men share a muffled laugh as Ivan maneuvers through the morning traffic and the gate to the White House grounds comes into view.

_____

 

CASHING IN…

 

The nameplate on her desk reads Managing Director – Investments, and Raquel has earned the title by hard work and persistence. She is poring over financial charts on one of several large, flat-screen monitors arrayed on and around her desk when her desk phone rings. Caller ID displays the name of one of her clients, very few of whom have access to her direct number.

 “Hello, Chuck! Great to hear from you,” she greets him warmly, a spry gentleman in his mid-eighties, one of her favorites. They engage in small talk, bringing each other up to date. She cuts to the chase. Time is money.

“What can I do for you today, Chuck?”

“Well, I’m thinking I should buy a thousand shares of Dell Computer, Raquel.”

“Oh? And why is that, my friend?”

“Because I heard President Trump say, ‘Buy a Dell computer’ on a cable news show. And I understand he owns stock in Dell, that’s why.”

“Yeah, I saw that too. But the stock has already surged. It may be too late to catch the wave, so to speak.” Raquel brings up Dell Computer on her screen. “It’s not a good practice to buy high.”

“It’s reported that he made about 4,000 trades in his last financial disclosure. There must be some other stocks in that list that we can get in on, companies he’s going to tout to the media.” Chuck’s voice is rising.

“Okay, well, we can certainly look into it—”

“And what about drone technology? I understand Don Jr. and Eric are taking ownership positions in drone companies and winning government contracts. How ’bout drones?”

“Now calm down, Chuck. We can research all of that to see if it’s suitable for your portfolio.”

“And how about tungsten? I understand Trump is investing in a tungsten mine in Uzbekistan or somewhere. Can we invest in tungsten futures?”

“It's Kazakhstan, Chuck, and futures trading is a very complex thing. Not something you want to jump into willy-nilly.”

“How about a meme coin, Raquel? I hear Trump cleared a cool half billion on his meme coin. What if I issued a meme coin?”

“Okay, take a deep breath, Chuck. A meme coin assumes some level of fame or celebrity. Or else, why would any investor buy it?”

“Hey, I was a hot sketch back in the day. Did you know I threw five complete-game no-hitters in my baseball career?”

“No, I didn’t know that. When was that, Chuck?”

“It was Little League, 1954 through 1956.”

“Uh…Chuck, that was a very long time ago. Hardly meme coin material.”

“And, I’m a well-known author. I have eight books on the shelf, for God’s sake.”

“Oh my! And are they best-sellers?”

“Best-sellers are a scam, Raquel. This is the dawn of the Age of Artificial Intelligence, and ChatGPT loves my work. You should see the critiques it gives me! Wait…I’ll see if I can find one.”

“That won’t be necessary, Chuck. I’ll take your word for it.” Raquel glances at the digital clock on her desk. “Look, Chuck, it’s nearly 3:00 pm. How does a nap sound, you know, rest your eyes for an hour or so?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

“Sure, that’s the ticket. Get in a little power nap. In the meantime, I’ll check out some of the ideas you’ve given me. Okay?”

“Thanks, Raquel, you’re a peach. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you will—”

“What?”

“I said enjoy your nap, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

The call ends, Raquel leans back in her chair, closes her eyes, and releases a long, loud sigh. The phone rings, breaking her meditation. She glances at Caller ID and recognizes the name. It is another of her octogenarian clients.

She lets the call go to voicemail.

_____

 

All That Glitters

 

Ace CNN reporter Kaitlin Collins closes her office door and places a call to Golddigger Enterprises. She is pleasantly surprised when a secretary puts her through to President & CEO Guy Schadie, who answers promptly.

“This is Guy Schadie. How can I help you?” The voice is a firm and confident baritone.

“Mr. Schadie, this is Kaitlin Collins with CNN. Thank you for taking my call.”

“Kaitlin Collins? Oh my God! I’m a big fan!”

“Thank you, Mr. Schadie. I’m working on a story, and I have a few questions for you.”

“Wow! Kaitlin Collins. Sure, go ahead, what can I do for you?”

“Our sources tell us Golddigger Enterprises has a no-bid contract with the federal government. Is that true, sir?”

“Uh…no…not exactly.” Schadie is taken aback.

“Can you clarify, Mr. Schadie?”

"I'd rather not. Just put me down as a 'no comment.'"

"Sir, our reporting says..."

“Oh, all right. You seem to know everything. The contract is with Geegaws ‘R Us, not Golddigger Enterprises.”

“Geegaws ‘R Us? Can you elaborate?” Collins bores in.

“Geegaws is a subsidiary of Golddigger, headquartered in the Bahamas. The contract is to supply gold-plated geegaws at President Trump’s discretion. All the ‘enhancements’ you see in the Oval Office, covering the fireplace, the mantle, the walls, that’s our work.” Schadie can’t hide the pride in his voice.

“I see. And are you involved in projects other than the Oval Office?”

“Oh yeah! We did the gold leaf on that statue by the Lincoln Memorial, and you should see our proposal for the president’s new ballroom. It’s gonna be spectacular.”

“Anything else, Mr. Schadie?”

“We’re just getting started!” Schadie laughs out loud. “There’s the triumphal arch the president is going to build, and then what I consider the ‘big one.’”

“And what is the ‘big one’, sir?”

“The reflecting pool, of course! It’s going to be drained, cleaned, and repainted. Geegaws ‘R Us will supply more than a thousand geegaws to be placed over that beautiful American Flag Blue paint job to anchor it in place and keep it from peeling. The combination of the blue and the gold will knock your eyes out!”

“And what is the value of this no-bid contract, Mr. Schadie?” Collins is scribbling notes furiously.

“Value? Well, there’s no fixed value. It’s open-ended. Whatever the president orders, we supply. Kind of like Amazon Prime, if you know what I mean.”

“What do your orders amount to today, sir? Can you give me a dollar figure?”

“Uh…I’d rather not say. But so far, we’ve only billed for the Oval Office.”

“And how much have you been paid?”

“Uh…well…nothing yet. The president says the check will be in the mail…soon.”

“How soon, Mr. Schadie?”

“As soon as he pays off E. Jean Carroll,” Schadie sighs.

“Good luck with that, sir, and thank you for taking my call.” Collins ends the call, hurries to her office door, and shouts down the hall to her production team. “Get in here quick! We’ve got a new lead for tonight’s show—Geegaws ‘R Us!”

The production team sprints toward Kaitlin’s office. Airtime is just a few hours away. The race is on to meet the deadline.

_____

 

  

 

Out of Sorts

 

An interesting phenomenon taking place in the U.S. today is how the electorate is self-sorting, and one way to look at this is to examine how counties vote. There are roughly 3,100 counties, and they are interesting because their boundaries do not change.

Consider: in 1980, only 391 counties (12.5 %) were won by a landslide, meaning by more than 20%. By 2024, the percentage won by a landslide increased to 80.2%. In other words, we are self-sorting, red versus blue, into the places we live. The folks who study this phenomenon say it reflects “educational polarization.” People with college degrees tend to cluster in large city suburbs and college towns on either the East or West coast, and they tend to vote Democrat. Working-class people cluster in the South and Midwest and tend to vote Republican.

One way to predict how a county will vote in presidential elections is to determine if it is a Whole Foods county or a Cracker Barrel county. Counties where a Whole Foods Market is present tend to vote for the Democratic candidate, while counties with a Cracker Barrel franchise tend to vote Republican. In 2020, Joe Biden won 85% of Whole Foods counties and 31% of Cracker Barrel counties. In 2024, Donald Trump won 22% of Whole Foods and 74% of Cracker Barrel. (See the table below.)

This idea of self-sorting troubled me. One night this past weekend, I fell into a restless sleep, and my father came to me in a dream. He looked pretty good for a man who passed in 1958 and would have been 132 years old this year. I brought him up to date on the family news, but then his brow furrowed and he grew very serious.

“Charlie, something is bothering me,” he said. “Is it true you live in a Whole Foods county?”

“Yeah, Dad, it’s right down the street, though I didn’t know that when I bought the place.”

“Son, you know we are Cracker Barrel people. Working class through and through. Remember the lesson I taught you—a working man only has two things going for him, his union and the Democratic party.”

“But, Dad, you don’t understand. People in Whole Foods counties tend to vote Democrat, and people in Cracker Barrel counties typically vote Republican.”

“What?! How the heck did that happen? Whole Foods Democrats and Cracker Barrel Republicans? It makes no sense to me.”

“Well, sorry to say this, Dad, but it turns out the working-class folks switched sides. They felt abandoned by the Democrats.”

“That’s a bitter pill! I was a twenty-year Navy vet and a proud union member, Boilermakers’ local, AFL-CIO. Never crossed a picket line and never voted for a Republican in my lifetime.”

I tried to change the subject and cheer him up a little. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it’s hard to find a Made in the U.S.A. label on anything these days. The shipyards are gone, as are the steel mills, and the domestic car companies teeter on the brink. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell him I’ve been driving Hondas for years now.

I let him fade away, shaking his head over the idea of Cracker Barrel Republicans. Deep in the background of my dream, Bob Dylan was singing, “The Times They Are A-Changin’.”

 

 _____

 

 

 Whiplash and the Cage

 

As the resolution of the Iran war alternates between announcements that a deal is imminent and threats of massive bombardment against Iranian targets, Kristen Welker, the host of “Meet the Press,” sat down with Secretary of State Marco Rubio for a candid interview.

Welker: Thank you for being with us today, Secretary Rubio. There are reports that many cabinet members are suffering from what is being called “bilateral spiral whiplash,” caused by twisting their necks from right to left, again and again, as the president’s position changes.

Rubio: That is not true, Kristen. A perfect example of fake news.

Welker: Uh…sir, why are you wearing that neck brace?

Rubio: A simple accident at home. It has nothing to do with Iran.

Welker: Ooookay. Sir, I understand there are new initiatives underway to bring a close to the conflict.

Rubio: That’s true, Kristen. We decided to put the question to a committee of AI platforms, including ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini, and Grok. We asked this committee to weigh the administration’s position on a settlement versus that of the Iranian side.

Welker: Very interesting. And what did the committee decide?

Rubio: Unfortunately, there was no consensus. In fact, the exchange between the participating AI’s became so heated that it caused three data centers to melt down.

Welker: Yes, we heard about the data centers, but not the cause. This is breaking news, Secretary Rubio. In view of the AI meltdowns, where do you go from here?

Rubio: We decided to take the humanist approach. We put the question to a panel of three wise men.

Welker: Hmmm…that has biblical overtones. And who are the three wise men?

Rubio: At the president’s direction, we selected Elon Musk, Joe Rogan, and Spike Lee.

Welker: Oh my! That’s quite a group, Mr. Secretary. May I ask why Spike Lee?

Rubio: Well, as you know, both Mr. Lee and the president are avid Knicks fans. It’s a New York thing.

Welker: And what did this august panel recommend?

Rubio: It’s an interesting solution, Kristen. The cage that has been erected on the White House lawn will remain in place after Sunday’s UFC match. At a date to be determined, President Trump and Ayatollah Mojtaba Khamenei will meet in a winner-take-all match.

Welker: Winner-take-all?

Rubio: Yes. If President Trump wins, the U.S. position will be implemented, point for point.

Welker: And if the Ayatollah wins?

Rubio: Again, point for point on their side, including lifting of sanctions and unfreezing their financial assets.

Welker: You realize the president will be eighty years old.

Rubio: Ha! The president says, "Khamenei can't carry my jockstrap."

Welker: And what about the Strait of Hormuz?

Rubio: No matter who wins, the Strait will be open to international traffic under the management of a consortium headed by Jared Kushner and Mohammed bin Salman. There will be a reasonable toll for passage, of course, with the revenue split equally between the U.S. and Iran.

Welker: Mr. Secretary, what about the critical issue of the highly enriched uranium? What happens to all that weapons-grade material?

Rubio: If the president wins, it will be shipped to the major population centers in California—Los Angeles, San Francisco, and San Diego. It will be Gavin Newsom's—or his successor’s—problem to deal with.

Welker: And if the Ayatollah wins?

Rubio: Yes…well…uh…

Welker: Mr. Secretary?

Rubio: If he wins, the material will be shipped to Mar-a-Lago and stored in the bathroom and other empty spaces where the documents President Trump removed from the White House were kept.

Welker: Three wise men, indeed! Will Spike Lee write the script and direct the movie?

Rubio: Now you’re just being unpleasant, Kristen.

The conversation continued. I switched channels, hoping for some World Cup action. Go U.S.A.! 

_____

 

 

 

 

 THE SNAKE

 

Imagine if you will, late October 2027. The campaign for president has shifted into high gear, with candidates from the major parties and several minor ones fighting for position. And yet, President Donald J. Trump has not endorsed someone to succeed him. The two leading contenders are Vice President J.D. Vance and Secretary of State Marco Rubio, both lobbying furiously for the coveted endorsement.

Now the president has come up with a scheme to decide the issue. Each candidate will audition in the Oval Office by reciting the president’s favorite poem: “The Snake.” Trump’s reading of the poem was a favorite feature of his campaign rallies, and his base loved it, roaring approval on every occasion. And so, his endorsement, and perhaps the fate of the free world, hinges on the competitive recitation of a hitherto obscure poem.

In the ornate office of the Secretary of State, Marco Rubio meets with his chief aide, Jasper “Jaz” Dinwiddie…

“Jaz, you’ve got to be kidding me! We’re going to have a competition over who can best recite 'The Snake'?"

“I kid you not, sir. Now, let's get to it. We don’t have much time to prepare. Let’s take it from the top.”

“Ah, geez…” Rubio mumbles. “Okay, here goes…

On her way to work one morning / Down the path ‘longside the lake

A tender-hearted woman saw a poor half-frozen snake…

“Wait, wait…hold it, Mr. Secretary.”

“What? What is it, Jaz?”

“That just won’t do, sir. You sound like—no offense—Little Marco. You need to read it like Trump reads it.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this, Jaz.” Rubio shakes his head.

“Pick it up with the fourth line…with more conviction, a lot more umph, okay?”

Rubio takes a deep breath…

His pretty colored skin had been all frosted with the dew

Oh well, she cried, I’ll take you in and I’ll take care of you…

“Better, sir, much better!” Jaz cries.

 

We switch now to the residence of Vice President J.D. Vance, where his wife Usha is mentoring his practice session. The vice president recites…

Take me in, tender woman / Take me in, for heaven’s sake

Take me in, tender woman, sighed the snake…

“Okay, J.D., hold it right there. Do you want his endorsement or not? You’re reading it like you are the tender-hearted woman. You have to read it like the snake!”

“Ohmygod, Usha! This is humiliating. It insults my intelligence. I’m a graduate of Ohio State University and Yale Law. Peter Thiel is on my speed dial—”

“None of that matters, J.D. Now, start with the third stanza, and try to sound like the damn snake!”

Vance wipes perspiration from his brow and begins…

She clutched him to her bosom, You’re so beautiful, she cried

But if I hadn’t brought you in, by now you might have died…

The vice president’s wife sighs loudly. “This is starting to feel like Mission: Impossible, J.D.”

 

Finally, the day of the audition arrives. Rubio and Vance sit in the small foyer just outside the Oval Office, waiting to be called in. They glance at one another, but neither speaks. And then a well-rehearsed, booming voice is heard from within…

Oh shut up, silly woman, said the reptile with a grin

YOU KNEW DAMN WELL I WAS A SNAKE BEFORE YOU TOOK ME IN!

The sound of applause is heard, followed by murmured congratulations. Vance and Rubio look at each other in shock and disbelief. The door to the Oval opens and Secretary of War Pete Hegseth steps out of the office. He looks at Vance and Rubio and grins.

“Let’s see you top that…losers!” Hegseth struts away, leaving his fellow cabinet members dumbstruck.

Stephen Miller appears in the office doorway, holding a gold Trump meme coin. “Okay, Marco, J.D., let’s flip a coin to see who goes next. J.D., call it in the air.”

The gold coin ascends toward the ceiling, turning over and over, glinting in the light.

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