“Wish I could say the same about you,” Trump called out after them.
When they were well out of earshot, Emma tore into Jimmie.
“What the bloody hell was that all about? You made me look like a bloody fool. Why didn’t you apologize?” she hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I heard he didn’t like it when people apologize,” Jimmie said. “That he sees it as a sign of weakness. He’s never apologized in his life.”
Emma paused in front of the double doors. “If, in the future, you throw up on somebody-especially if it’s the president of the United States of America-you apologize.”
She swiped her badge and waited for the light to go green. While he had never paid much attention to politics, he’d done some reading online to prepare for his first day on the job. The former Situation Room was the brainchild of John F. Kennedy. Although Trump had rechristened it the “Boardroom,” this was the same room where Bush had given the orders to invade Iraq. Where Obama had orchestrated SEAL Team Six’s assassination of bin Laden. Where Bill Clinton had probably gotten a handy or two.
Emma held the door open, and Jimmie stepped into the darkened room. Somehow, they’d beat Lewandowski down here. Jimmie ran his hand along the wall to the right. “Is there a light switch in-”
“SURPRISE!!!”
Chapter Ten
Surprise! You’re Dead!
At the sound of the party horns, Jimmie jumped a half foot into the air. If his shoes hadn’t been Velcroed on tight enough, he might have leapt right out of them.
Emma caught him as he fell backward and helped him stay upright. He stared with confusion at the assembled group of revelers who had thrown him for a loop. The looks of shock on their faces were in stark contrast to the pointed party hats on their heads.
“Who in Trump’s name is this bozo?” an old white guy asked. Jimmie was in the middle of a sea of old white guys. He blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Eventually, the old white guys resolved into individual faces. There was Lewandowski, who’d already arrived after all. Secretary of Transportation Eastwood. Secretary of Defense Nugent. The newest members of the Supreme Court, Justices Giuliani and Philbin. The only person who didn’t fit the profile was Donald Trump Jr., a slightly younger white guy.
“This,” said Emma, “is Trump’s new ghostwriter, Jimmie Bernwood.”
“Did we ever find out what happened to the last guy?” some suit-and-tie said. “He went off backpacking the Pacific Crest Trail after reading Wild, and then…”
A sea of disapproving faces turned on the schmuck who’d asked the question. Jimmie was too panicked to really care about “the last guy” right now.
Emma guided Jimmie to a leather chair at the head of the long table, which filled the center of the room. He started breathing again. Oxygen was good. Oxygen was very, very good. He loved oxygen like A-list actors loved nannies.
“And here he is! President Donald Trump!” shouted Justice Philbin as Trump entered the room. Everyone again yelled, “SURPRISE!!!”
Jimmie was ready for it this time. He barely broke a sweat. How Trump had changed so fast, he had no idea. Perhaps he had a pit crew of stylists standing by at all times, ready to change him like a race car with a blown tire.
The room burst into song.
“FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW, FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW…”
Jimmie mouthed along. He was slightly distracted by the world map plastered on the giant video screen covering the far wall. There were a number of red dots inching their way across the Atlantic Ocean. To an untrained observer like Jimmie, it appeared that American battleships were converging just off British shores. It was a little disturbing, to say the least. He tuned back in to the song just in time for the second verse.
“HE FINALLY OVERTURNED NAFTA, HE FINALLY OVERTURNED NAFTA, HE FINALLY OVERTURNED NAFTA, WHICH NOBODY CAN DENY!”
“Thank you, everyone, thank you! We did it!” shouted Trump over the hubbub. “Global warming-now that’s something we can all deny!”
The crowd roared with laughter. The Nuge set a large cake on the table. It had an image of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes urinating on a crude drawing of the US Capitol Building. It was like one of those decals Jimmie had seen along the border, which had the cartoon character pissing onto the word “Mexico.”
As the crowd moved in on the cake and Giuliani’s shrill cries of “I want a corner! I want a corner!” grew louder, Jimmie’s attention drifted back to the video screen. Something was happening off the coast of the United Kingdom, all right. But as the graphic repeated itself over and over, Jimmie dismissed it as nothing he needed to be concerned with. Although relations between the United States and the United Kingdom had cooled off considerably since Trump took office, this was the former Situation Room. Trump and his Security Council ran through different situations at this table. Just because a graphic had been put together didn’t mean it was happening-or was even going to happen. It was just a situation. One of hundreds, perhaps.
Trump smacked John McCain on the back. “Hey there, Johnny boy! They let you out! Wait-can I say that?”
“Actually, Mr. President, I was hoping to ask you a quick question. It’s about a spending issue with-”
“What is it with you guys? Always politics,” Trump interrupted. “Come in for a meeting next week. I never talk business when there’s cake-rule fourteen in The Art of the Deaclass="underline" The Expanded Coloring Book Edition. You gotta lighten up a little, Johnny.”
“Well, at least I tried,” said McCain with a good-natured laugh before sulking toward the exit. Trump didn’t notice; he’d already moved on to the owner of the Washington Wizards, Ted Leonsis.
“Ted. Teddy. Hope the NBA doesn’t mind-it’s going to take a little longer to expand into Mexico. Necessary evil. This is such a great, great move otherwise for our country. More jobs means more butts in the seats at your games, though, am I right?”
Jimmie kicked himself for leaving his notebook in Emma’s office. Some biographer he was. He was trying to jot down notes in frosting on the back of his hand but was concerned it would melt away before he could transcribe it. He would have to be better prepared tomorrow.
If he still had a job tomorrow. What was it that guy had said? Did we ever find out what happened to the last guy? Even if he wasn’t fired for throwing up on the president, Jimmie worried that he wouldn’t be holding onto this job for very long.
Chapter Eleven
The Whole Shack Shimmies
Somebody cranked up The B-52s’ “Love Shack” on the surround sound stereo system. The map on the video screen dissolved into an iTunes screen saver. For a meeting room, the Boardroom had some serious bass. Probably needed it for all the videos of explosions.
To Jimmie’s dismay, the cake was chocolate. Not really Jimmie’s thing. He was more of a vanilla guy, at least as far as desserts went. He’d accepted a piece, however. He didn’t want to be “that guy”-you know, the prissy coworker whose tastes are so specific that you’d probably catch them wanking at work before you caught them eating carbs.
Oh, who was he kidding? He already was “that guy”-the one who’d thrown up on the president on his first day on the job. If word hadn’t spread yet, it would soon. Not that he’d ever been one to mingle with his coworkers.
You’re a journalist, he told himself, trying to swallow the sponge cake without making a face. These aren’t your coworkers-these are your subjects. And then another thought crossed his mind: You’re not a journalist. Not any longer. Not when one of your subjects is bankrolling you.