The Debate
The candidates are in James Brown chocolate chairs, in a pool of soft white light
The spotlight leaves everything, except what it sees, in darkness, and out of the darkness comes Jake Tapper, elegant in evening dress, the whites whiter than white. “Good evening, gentlemen, and welcome to the debate. More a discussion, really, as we have learned manners with which we govern our behavior, have we not, gentlemen?” Tapper was fucking around. There was no live feed in progress.
“The Donald waved to a nonexistent audience, practicing for when the red lights came on the cameras.
Joe raised a hand toward the blind cameras. “I was born to run,” he quipped, playing up his friendship with The Boss as a ploy to secure the youth vote.
Tapper came around front and joined the other two men at a Four Hands Abaso coffee table, on which Tapper had earlier placed a lime green teapot and three matching cups. In the tea there was ecstasy. “You’ve gotta try this,” Tapper had told them.
“We’ve tried everything else,” the Donald said.
“You’ve tried everything,” Joe said. “I didn’t do drugs.”
“You didn’t used to do drugs,” The Donald said. “That changes tonight.” He tasted the tea, and then he tasted it again. “What is that? Cinnamon? I love cinnamon. My grandparents loved cinnamon.”
“It’s in your makeup,” Joe said, sipping the tea. “Vanilla is what I’m tasting. I love vanilla. How long until we go live, Jake?”
Tapper savored the tea without answering the question, “A rush of cinnamon on the nose. It melts away, and the vanilla comes forward, leading a ragtag band of woody and herbal notes.”
The drugs kicked in.
“Good luck gentlemen,” Tapper said. “It’s show time.”
Tapper had given The Donald 180 mg of pure MDMA. Joe got half that. The massive dose of molly hit The Donald and opened him wide for a few moments.
“The only time I was truly happy was when I was looking at fabric swatches for the interior of the 757,” he said. “I wanted to do interiors, loved fabrics, but my father was horrified. Roy wasn’t, though.”
“You seem to be actually telling the truth,” Joe observed. “I wondered about all your play acting at being a tough guy. I think you’re terrified of something soft and vulnerable that’s inside you.”
“Stormy said something like that. I call her horse face, a play on whore’s face, she knows what I’m saying. A woman’s face can get hard, working in adult films all the time. Some people call them adult films. I call all of it pornography. I asked her, ‘What’s the difference between an adult film and pornography?’ She said, ‘Sir, it’s the socks.’ I said, ‘What do you mean it’s the socks?’ and she said, ‘In pornography the men keep their socks on.’ I said, ‘Maybe it’s because of funguses. The floors must be horrible.’”
“Fungi,” Tapper corrected.
“So are you,” The Donald said.
“Tapper said. “Joe, do you want to respond?”
“Thank you, Jake, I will. Donald, did you see what you did there? You felt that vulnerability, something true, as The Whale would say, about your love of choosing swatches, and then your defenses kicked in and you called Stormy a fuck-face. That wall can’t come down if you don’t admit that you’re terrified of strong women.”
There was a protracted pause, during which The Donald became emotionally paralyzed, overwhelmed by feelings coming up from his gut, feelings blocked for sixty years by buckets of fried chicken and greasy animal byproducts. The ecstasy broke through the wall.
“You have to feel it before you can own it,” Joe said. “You have to surrender that ego or you can’t be the German Jesus.”
“I love you, man.” The Donald reached over and put his hand on Joe’s knee. “No matter how many times I call you a criminal with dementia, just ignore it. It’s locker room talk.”
“It’s projection, Donald,” Joe said, gently but firmly removing the hand. “You want to even the playing field, so if you can’t keep up with other people, what choice do you have but to drag them down to your level?”
“I knew we could sit down like gentlemen with good manners,” Tapper said. “Isn’t this better than a podium and a teleprompter?”
“Ddon’t mention Teleprompters, Jake.” The Donald said.
“Why not?”
“Because I read at a third grade level.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Joe said. “You wouldn’t believe some of these third graders today.”
“It feels so good to tell the truth,” The Donald said. “I never knew that. It wasn’t just how the swatches looked, you know. It was the way the fabric felt between my thumb and forefinger. My father made me hide that part of myself. Look at this piece of shit suit. I dress myself this way as deep cover. I try to be a tough guy, but De Niro, Schwarzenegger, Denzel, none of them like me. DiNero wants to punch me in the face. I want them arrested, and brought to me in my palace, so I can decide if they live or die.”
“That’s an immature attitude,” Tapper said.
“I’m just three,” The Donald said. “I’ve had to lie all my life about how old I am.”
Joe said, “Everybody knows, Donald. They know your pain, always attracting the most vulnerable, uninformed, poor white people. It’s your shadow, Donald. That’s who you hate the most, but you’re tied to them for eternity, because they’re like you. By denying your love for swatches, you made bad taste into your deep cover. Now you can’t get back out.
“How much money do I have to have before I’m not poor white trash?”
“I’m afraid you can’t buy your way out, Donald. You can’t talk your way out of it either.”
“An asshole is an asshole,” Tapper said.
“When you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all,” The Donald said.
“You’re lying again,” Joe said. “And you’re grinding your teeth.”
“More tea?” Tapper asked. He looked directly into the camera. “This is like dosing a fucking horse,” he said.
