The Biden White House
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Dick Van Cleef was passing through the corridors of The White House. Early morning sunshine was streaming in through the windows as the visitors on the morning tour bustled around taking photographs.
Van Cleef had been working on the set of “The U.S. Presidency” since 1980, when he started directing live theatre and television operations.
Two young actors in the role of presidential aides rushed past the tourists mouthing obscenities about Russia under their breath.
“That thug Putin is trying to get Trump elected again!”
“I know, we have to do everything we can to defend the electoral integrity of the United States.”
Members of the tour group gasped as they overheard the scripted conversation.
Van Cleef wasn’t sure why the public was so startled, it was a variation of the same script that was read out across all of the major news networks that they binged on daily. He supposed just hearing it from an “official” made it more impactful.
He cut through the Treaty Room to arrive at the Oval. Three actors were smoking cigarettes by the window. “Cortez!,” Van Cleef barked, “I pulled you in off of that coffee shop gig because I admired your work ethic. Now you’re getting lazy! You can only smoke during your designated breaks. Get the fuck out there and pretend to be running the country!”
Cortez and her buddies stubbed their cigarettes out and threw the butts out of the window. “OMG, Fuck you Van Cleef!” she screamed, “I, like, totally hate this job, ok.” The three of them burst out of the Treaty Room, slamming the door behind them.
Hurried whispers broke out among the tourists as they overheard the commotion.
“Washington is really broken.”
“This animosity between the Democrats and the Republicans is obscene. We’re all Americans, after all.”
Van Cleef strode into the Oval Office.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” he chuckled.
“Ye, ye, fuck you,” came the reply.
Frankie Sillato was sick of this role. He’d been playing Joseph R. Biden since 1972, first as a senator on radio and C-Span, then later in a full-time role on the networks as Vice President. Now he had the biggest part of his life, President of the United States.
He’d been to the Stanislavski school and studied under the great Lee Strasberg alongside the likes of De Niro and Pacino. But he’d chosen Washington over Hollywood. Back then he’d been drawn to the guarantee of a lifetime gig. Acting in Hollywood was tough, you were a big shot one day and a nobody the next.
At least in political theatre, no matter how much your character was despised by the public, there was always another storyline. A scandal here, a conspiracy there, maybe an illicit affair. The public gobbled it all up, whether they liked you or not.
“C’mon, Dick,” said Sillato, “Fuck is the deal with this dementia storyline? I gotta forget all my lines on purpose, it’s harder than you think. I’m a professional, I want to play a serious character. You really think people are going to keep falling for this schtick?”
“Frankie, please, it’s only one more year. President Reagan’s Alzheimer’s gave us some of our best viewing figures, plus all those documentaries we rolled out later with his son “Ron.” Besides, we’ve never had a serious character as President. That just wouldn’t play well with the viewers.”
“I’m not a fucking stuntman either, Dick. Falling up the stairs and tripping over carpets isn’t my MO.”
“C’mon, retirement awaits. Once this season is done you go back to your ranch and relax. We’ll come up with a poetry storyline. You appear on morning TV once in a while and talk with those pretty ladies about some haiku you wrote in your White House days, as George W. does with the paintings.”
“An actor jumped into a role,
thwack! the ratings skyrocketed,
he forgot his fucking speech!”
“How’s that for a haiku?” Sillato smirked.
“Technically, that wasn’t a haiku.”
“Ok, ok, it needs some tweaking for the 5–7–5 but the fundamentals are there. What can I do, huh? I’m an actor, not a Zen fucking monk.”
Van Cleef laughed, “You’re alright, Frankie. I’ll miss you when you’re gone. We’ll have Thurmond back as “President Trump” next season. You know how long it takes to get that guy into makeup? The bees nest hair and the orange. He’s a miserable fuck! It’s been a good role for him though, all that reality TV and the Presidency, now a couple of courtroom dramas.”
“Do you ever wonder who really runs this fucking country?” said Sillato.
“Who gives a shit, whoever they are they pay us a pretty fucking penny for a couple of speeches a week and running this White House set.”
“I suppose so, best not to ask too many questions. Get a bullet through the head like that goombah who played Jack Kennedy.”
“Right, let's run through some lines.”
Sillato started reeling off the speech he was due to give on climate change that evening.
“Well, hello, Massachusetts. It’s an honour to be with your outstanding members of Congress today…”
“No, no, no! You need to make a hash of Massachusetts. Say “Massachuuu…” and then tail off and look like you don’t know where you are for a few seconds. Look towards the camera with a hangdog look that says “Who the hell am I?” Then, slowly click back into gear and start talking about John Kerry as if nothing happened.”
“Are you sure, Dick? You really don’t think the public is going to see through this shit?”
“The public are morons, Frankie. They want entertainment, not a fucking speech about the environment. Let’s go, once more from the top.”
