Once Upon a Mid-Second Period Daydream

In the months of January and February, life in Green Bay takes on a bit of a Soviet twist. It’s cold as shit, the wind is bitter, everyone walks with their head down, and every now and then I get the sudden urge to drink Vodka. I don’t drink normally, nor do I ever get an urge to, but when the 7 AM windchill pierces through my three layers of cold protection like a hot knife through butter, my mind flashes to an alternate universe where I’m sitting at an old wooden bar in Yakutsk, knocking down a shot or two.

It is in times like these where I enjoy escaping into the deepest recesses of my mind. Much like the alternate Yakutsk traveler Jackson’s bearskin mittens and a thick Russian hat, these momentary escapes bring me a little bit of warmth on an otherwise hellaciously cold winter Tuesday.

As the brilliant comedic mind who brought you blockbuster titles like “Four Birds I Could Beat the Fuck Out Of,” “Musings of a Man Who Willingly Took a Shit in a School Bathroom Today,” and “My New Year’s Resolution? Probably to Stop Killing People,” one can only imagine that the deep recesses of my cerebrum is a place filled with rainbows and sunshine where all of your dreams can come true.

And, in a sense, it is. My brain is a magical appendage. While my gaze may not betray it, at any moment I could be thinking about a number of things. I could be sprinting through a field of daisies, or working with the Mayo Clinic to cure childhood cancer. Hell, if I wanted to, I could even think of shit like Barack Obama and Donald Trump making out with no shirts on. Not saying I am thinking about it, just that I could think about it. Okay, maybe I’m thinking about it a little. It’s not as bad as you’d think it is.

Now, I know exactly what you’re thinking. “Please, Jackson! Take us with you on one of these magical journeys! I want to see what Donald Trump looks like with no shirt on!” Well, it seems like you’re in luck, at least for the whole “magical journey” thing, because that’s exactly what I’ll be doing! Unfortunately it will not be about Donald Trump’s glistening nipples. If you’re looking for that, I’d try looking for some deep fakes. It’ll change your world, man.

A lot of my daydreams take place in New York City. I’m usually a bit older. 25, maybe. It changes from dream to dream where I live. Sometimes it’s a high rise right off of Central Park (Think Larry David’s apartment when he goes to New York in Curb) where I go in between my 20 hour shift writing and directing Saturday Night Live. Other times, it’s a studio apartment where I live the ‘struggling artist’ lifestyle where I write ‘Big Bang Theory’ specs on a pirated copy of Final Draft 11 while slurping down one and a half packs of chicken Maruchan.

In this particular day dream, I’m just about in the middle, lifestyle-wise. I’ve probably got a decent job writing for an established network, and I’m dressed pretty sharply, like a Jewish man who’s an extra in a New York Christmas movie. My coat is almost down to my shoes, and I have a pair of thick gloves on my hands. My breath forms a mist in front of my face.

I’m not sure why it’s still cold in my daydreams. I mean, you’d think I’d want to escape the horrible below zero temperatures of my humble Wisconsin abode, but for some reason it’s winter in NYC as well. Maybe it has to do with all those Christmas movies.

Anyways, I turn into my local coffee shop, expensive screenwriter’s laptop in hand. In this daydream, Final Draft 13 has been purchased legitimately. After I order my coffee and sit down, I begin to sip my coffee like I would think James Bond sips his coffee. I swirl it around in my cup and scan the coffee shop for a while before someone catches my eyes.

There, sitting a few tables down from me, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She also happens to be the granddaughter of a prominent U.S. political figure. That’s right, folks: it’s Natalie Biden, granddaughter of current President Joe Biden.

Now, if I saw Natalie Biden in real life, I probably would double over in my seat and fight tooth and nail not to vomit my previously ingested cup of coffee all over the table in front of me. I’d probably also lose that fight. Hell, even after all of the fluids have been forcefully flushed out of my body in front of a crowd of beanie-wearing, goatee-sporting New York coffee drinkers, I still probably wouldn’t be able to stammer out any combination of syllables, let alone an assertive and attractive greeting.

Fortunately for daydream Jackson, this isn’t real life. Without even the slightest tinge of bile in my throat, I grab my coffee, slide out of my chair, and sit down right across from the granddaughter of our glorious President. Without skipping a beat, I’d say something straight out of a shitty Rom-Com. “Is this seat taken?” or “This isn’t where I parked my car!” spring to mind. She’d laugh, and give me those ‘post laugh’ eyes that daydream women always give you after they laugh. Mission accomplished!

Anyways, the daydream would skip into a bit of a montage sequence. I mean, I sat down next to her, said 4–8 words, and she laughed. In the world sprung up from the recesses of my brain, that’s probably grounds for marriage, let alone a wonderful montage of our budding romance. We’d do all the relationship montage things. Twirl through the park, sit on a Ferris wheel, drink a milkshake through two straws, splash each other with water, you name it, we did it.

Now thoroughly in love with each other, it would come time to finally meet the man himself — Joseph R. Biden. By this point, I would have met the rest of her family and most likely killed it. I would sit down with her little cousins, pretending to be a monster while they run around and try to crawl all over me.

The adults of the house would gather around on one of the Biden family member’s beautiful patios, watching me frolic with their offspring, displaying the masterful touch of the ideal future son/brother/grandson/uncle-in-law. “Wow,” they’d say, sipping their Martinis around the fireplace as I wowed them with one of my many Goblin-oriented comedic/satirical pieces, “Natalie really did win the lottery.”

Impressing the majority of the Bidens would be easy. In fact, in the context of the day dream, impressing the Bidens HAD been easy. After a series of dinners, only one man stood in the way of me and true, undying love. The head honcho. The president of these great United States of America.

The gathering we would be invited to would be a very formal affair. Natalie and I would go out shopping weeks in advance, picking out the perfect outfits for the big day. We’d rent a limousine and have a pristine looking man with a British accent drive us to the dinner, where he would stand outside the car patiently with his arms crossed politely.

The house the dinner was taking place at was massive. Crystal Chandeliers would be hung from the ceiling, casting their fragmented glow around the room and onto the walls. In the corner, a band will be playing some form of fancy ambiance, as tuxedo’d multi-millionaires mingled across the marble floors.

For plot significance, I’d get a little bit panicked. My chest would tighten up, and I’d forget how to breathe for a second or two. Natalie would take me aside and look me in the eyes.

“What’s wrong?” She’d say, stroking a lock of hair from my eyes.

I’d tell her that I was having second thoughts. Not about her, but about me, this kid from Green Bay who now found himself with the girl of his dream standing on a marble floor that was trod upon by a net worth of billions of dollars. I’d look off into the distance, solemnly, before confessing that I didn’t feel good enough for her.

I’d collapse a bit posture wise. A tear would come to my eye, even. A Scrooge-type character dressed in a black suit would look in our direction and scoff at my vulnerability. I’d look up a little, scared to look up at Natalie. However, when I do, her eyes are soft. She has a little smile on her lips.

I’d wipe a second tear from my misty eyes and look at her. She’d launch into this beautiful speech about it doesn’t matter where I came from or something along those lines, and then we’d have a loving embrace and all of my worries would be quelled, and then she’d take my hand and we’d go to the 1000 foot long dinner table and sit down right next to Joe Biden.

Even though this daydream takes place seven years in the future, he still looks as handsome as ever. Just a little bit, well, wrinklier. Even in my invincible daydream form, I’m still kind of shitting myself. He tries to say something to me, but his soft, wispy voice is whisked away in the commotion of the other guests taking their seats.

When the commotion settles down, he tries again. His voice is still soft, but Natalie translates for me well enough. He talks to me a little bit about my profession, where I’m from, basic small talk. I feel like I respond to his questions well enough, but I don’t get the sense that I’m blowing him away like I did with the rest of the Bidens

When it comes time to dig into our dinner, a strong Russian woman named Vreya with massive biceps comes to Joe’s side. She takes our meal, a brandy-glazed veal shank, cuts it into strips, and puts the meal into his mouth. Then, the grabs his jaw and his head and vigorously slams his jaw and upper teeth together to fully chew his meal.

It’s a little bit disgusting, but oddly beautiful. Sure, Natalie and I get sprayed with some purple-brown mushy bits of baby cow, but the vigor and passion with which Vreya smashes Joe’s skull together is mesmerizing. It’s akin to a fight clip you see someone from your Geometry class post on your story, that one of two kids whaling on each other in the science lab. It’s primal. Ugly. Disgusting, even, but you just can’t look away.

Suddenly, Joe lets out a small gurgling sound. Natalie leans closer to him and asks him what he meant to say, but he continues to gurgle. Frantically, he points to his throat. He’s choking! I look over at Vreya, who must have missed a bit of bone or something. She wraps her strong Russian arms around the President’s midsection and attempts the Heimlich maneuver but for some reason, the lodge isn’t missing.

Joe begins to panic, flailing his arms about and jumping up and down. In a moment of chaos, he thrusts his elbow behind him, catching Freya in the midsection and causing her to double over. Crumpled on the ground, he begins to writhe in pure, unadulterated, terror.

The whole place is in chaos now. Men in suits are everywhere, screaming “Is there a doctor here?” Natalie rushes over to her grandpa’s side, pinning his flailing form down. She looks at me, real fear in her eyes. “Help him!” she shouts, jostling with his bony appendages.

“How?!” I ask, trying to formulate a plan among the chaos surrounding me. He doesn’t have much time left.

“Stop him choking!” She screams. There’s tears in her eyes.

In a moment of blind heroism, I rush over to her side. Joe’s skin is turning a dangerous shade of blue-purple. His struggle is getting less and less invigorated. I can see the life fading out of his eyes. Frantically, I try to think of a way to save him. Across the table from me, esteemed guest Jerry Seinfeld (What? It’s my daydream.) rocks back and forth in a little ball, crying.

Seinfeld… Seinfeld! That’s it!

I remove my sport coat and roll up my sleeve. To my right, Natalie says something like “What are you doing!?” For once in my life, I ignore what she’s saying. I wiggle my fingers, and in one swift motion I stick my hand all the way down his gullet. I can feel my hand pass through the smooth insides of his mouth and across the fleshy bulb of his uvula.

I pry around his throat with my fingers, looking for the culprit. After a few seconds, I feel a piece of congealed veal lodged down in his tubes. With a bit of surgical finger work, I pry the wet brown mass out of his intestinal system and throw it onto the floor.

Joe lets out a gasp and sits up straight, looking around. He turns to me. “Y-you saved me,” he says, still struggling to catch his breath. Out of breath and covered in Joe Juice, I can only let out a bewildered nod. He looks at me for a second. Time seems to stand still.

In an instant, he pulls me into an embrace. He’s sobbing. I think I’m sobbing too, come to think of it. I bury my head into his bony shoulders. He pulls out of the hug and grasps my shoulders in both of his hands and says two words: “My son.”

I look back at him, confused, “Don’t you mean grandson?”

He looks back at me with the same serious expression. “I said what I meant.”

The instant he finished his sentence, the room erupts into rapturous cheer. Natalie rushes to my side, wrapping me in an even tighter embrace than before. All around the room, cheers break out “Jackson! Jackson! Jackson!” We fast forward a bit to my formal adoption by Joe Biden and marriage to Natalie Biden (Despite me being her uncle? Weird. Whatever. Sorry Natalie.) As we kiss to make the marriage official, the scene fades to black.

And so ends the story of Jackson Heller-Biden. Or, well, at least until ELA tomorrow.