All Hands On Deck
At the White House post-Shayrat missile strike
Evening, April 7, 2017
Trump turns off the news, smiling at the thought of smoldering Syrian rubble and forthcoming praise from Steve Doocy. He orders everyone out of the room. “Not you, sweetie.”
Ivanka and Donald watch as everyone files out and Bannon winks as he closes the door behind him. Trump waits five seconds and opens the desk drawer. He pulls out a tape measure and places it on the Resolute desk, making yet another nick in the wood.
“Measure Daddy’s hands.”
“Not again.”
“It’s going to work this time.”
“You know that — — ”
“Measure. Daddy’s. Hands.”
She sighs and walk over. Donald puts his hands flat out on the blotter, fingers spread like he’s tracing a hand turkey.
Ivanka pulls out a length of yellow measuring tape. Donald nods. “From the base of the wrist to the tip of the middle finger,” he says.
“I know, dad.”
She stretches the tape to the tip of Trump’s middle finger.
“Well? What’s it say?”
Ivanka shakes her head and Donald yanks his hands back to his chest as if he’s seen a spider. He closes and uncloses his fists.
Ivanka breaks the silence. “I’m sorr— — ”
He raises one index finger and slowly lowers it to the intercom button. “Call in Sean.”
The door creaks open, revealing a man chewing gum. “Mr. President.”
“Avert your eyes, Spice.”
Sean looks down. He stumbles forward as Bannon shoves him into the room and closes the door, keeping post outside.
“Look what you did, Spice.” Donald holds up his hands. “Look at them. Do you see?”
Sean looks up.
“Did I tell you to unavert your eyes, dickhead?”
Sean shakes his head and looks back down.
“Why didn’t it work, Spiceman? Any idea?”
Sean shakes his head again, but keeps his gaze down.
Trump turns to Ivanka. “You can go now. Daddy loves you. Send in Banno.”
Ivanka crosses to the door and opens it. She smells the sour mash before she sees Bannon.
“Get some rest,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Tomorrow’s another day.”
