The treatment room of an unpopular, now former, dentist reeked of mint, abrasion, and resignation. We sat in silence as if one of us had the wrong address. He nervously fumbled a piece of paper with which he could not find accord. Eventually, he stood up, straightened his navy-blue slacks and jacket, and needlessly adjusted the executioner-tight knot of his red tie.
“Hi, I’m Mike Pence. He held out a hand for me to shake. When I did not reciprocate, he looked dourly at his lonely hand. “Are we still not doing that?” I rescued him from embarrassment—shaking a stranger’s hands for the first time in nearly a year.
“I should shake more hands. There are still a lot of people who blame me. Look, I pardoned him; it’s not my fault he doesn’t understand I have no control over state courts. But, if you want to wear a mask when no one is around, that’s fine.” His smile was supposed to be welcoming, but it looked pained. “Can I say how happy we are to have you on the team?” Team? With the exception of a bored Secret Service agent who apparently drew the short straw, there was nothing that could be characterized as a team.
If necessity is the mother of invention, desperation is the annoying older sister who needles you when you forget your failures. I have always been a hard worker but had a track record of picking the wrong business: film developing kiosk, a Spencer’s in a dying mall, and a Long John Silver’s that both the health-conscious and the obese eschewed.
Money, like hope, readily runs through our fingers. Eventually, I needed a job. My friend, Jeff, (who admitted to not only voting for Trump, but went to several MAGA rallies without a “face bra”) told me of a position which he was sure was a good fit. Being two months behind on my mortgage, four on my car payment and God-knows-how-long on my credit cards, I couldn’t afford pride. Even though I was one shopping trip away from generic ramen, I had to ask: “this guy was president for like two months and he still gets a presidential library?”
Jeff shrugged and said “it comes with the job. Trust me, it’s a good gig—executive director of the Michael “Mike” Richard “Dick” Pence Presidential Library is nothing to laugh at.”
But I laughed. The idea of the Pence Presidential Library being remotely interesting to someone not named Mike Pence was, at best the definition of self-delusion.
“The guy’s pretty beat up. Trump blames him for everything. Republicans think he’s a sell-out. The evangelicals…well they aren’t happy until they find an apostate. And the rest of the country has moved on. He needs somebody to commiserate with.”
“You mean a loser like me?”
“Let’s just call you experienced. Can you imagine what it is like being him, having to relive his last four years? It’s enough to drive you nuts. What do you think?”
I couldn’t even muster a shrug.
“Great, Jerry said, “he’s in the atrium.” Jeff pulled on the doorknob, it came off and he handed it to me. “Who knows what doors of opportunity it will open.” He stopped and added: “But you probably should have maintenance take care of that.” I pocketed the knob as he shoved me in and retreated.
Atrium conveys a light-filled sanctuary; this room was dark and musty. A decrepit dentist chair, held together with duct tape, sat next to a battered water cooler without a jug. Next to the door was a bookcase with a collection of dental tools that could extract not just teeth, but also a confession during the Inquisition. Plaster casts of former patient’s mouths lay smashed on the floor, destined to be forever mute. The aroma coming from the third room promised, a rarely used and less often cleaned bathroom.
The once second most powerful man in the world sat at a card table, resembling a paperweight. After our illicit handshake, he orbited a stack of chairs, passing file drawers without a cabinet, a tin of generic coffee, a jar of nondairy creamer and an accordion of crushed Styrofoam cups. Predictably, there was no coffee maker.
He narrated his vision as he shambled about the room “I am eager to move forward and present a positive view of my presidency. Not just my life in politics, my life in Christ. The conscience of a righteous conservative, as it were.” If there had been a W drawer, he could have filed it under ‘Wishful Thinking.’
“You have experience in fundraising, right? Probably need to bring in your contacts as mine have been a little squirrely lately.” He should look in the G drawer for ‘Good, Luck with That.’
He stopped by a feeble chalkboard with faded admonition to floss daily on the side facing us. He unsheathed a two-inch chalk baton like he was going to conduct a chipmunk orchestra. “Your doing the fundraising allows me to concentrate on planning.”
“Are you ready for the big reveal?” He reached up for the top of the chalkboard, trying to coax it over. One good tug and it swung down liberally, knocking the chalk to the floor, snapping it in half. Undeterred, he picked it up. “I guess I will be short,” he laughed alone. “You are probably used to white boards, but all they left was a black board. Black boards. White boards. All boards matter, right?” I made a note that he should not try to be funny.
On the chalk board, he scrawled out three basic squares. He placed a crooked cross in the middle of the first square. “We are here,” he said, pointing to a square that represented the room in which we sat. He scrawled “Xstian” in the first room, “Conserv” in our room and “Rep” in the bathroom. Xstian. Conserv. Rep.
“Christian. Conservative and … Rep?”
“Republican, get it? I am known for saying I am a Christian first, a conservative next, and lastly a Republican. You see, my library will be laid out in line with my beliefs. You enter the Christian room and there will be pictures of me at church. As a deacon. As a Sunday-school teacher. I have my father’s bible and believe me it is well-worn. We could put it in a glass case in the middle of the room. And then you come to the Conservative Room and tour the display of how my huge tax cut turned Indiana into an economic powerhouse.” I nodded, but Indiana and powerhouse were as compatible as New Orleans and temperance.
“And then you end up in the Republican room. I have a great picture of me with President Reagan.”
“Are you going to hang it above the toilet?”
“No, we will renovate the bathroom and turn it into a gallery.”
“Look, I get that religion is your top priority, but what about a bit of panache?”
“Panache?” He had never heard of the word.
“You know showmanship.”
He leaned forward, looking like I was offering him the last lifejacket on the Titanic. i have to admit, I was getting excited. What if I could make the Pence Presidential Library a success, redeeming not just Pence, but me as well?
“If it were me, I would start with the Republican room, leave this room for Conservatism and put Christ in the bathroom.” I wasn’t trying to be funny. Much.
His face was the color of an early May tomato. Clearly, I had picked the wrong business once again. His voice quavered like someone who had been forgotten on the cross. “Do not. Do not insult my Lord and Savior.” We had reached the point when the pitiful collides with the pathetic. One of us needed to dominant and it wasn’t going to be me. “Get out,” he said, struggling to remember self-esteem. “You’re fired,” he blurted as the tomato ripened.
I have been let go for less but how pathetic must I be to be fired before I started. And by Michael “Mike” Richard “Dick” Fucking Pence of all people. We shared a moment of embarrassment as he involuntarily recalled what Trump’s invitation to sychofantize for four years had truly cost him. I sopped up the dregs of my self-esteem and exited through the Republican gallery.
“Wait,” a desperate voice accompanied by the clattering of leather-soled shoes echoed from behind me. His skin was now paler than the soggy page he waved. “I forgot to have you sign a NDA.”
“Sorry,” was all I could offer. “But you can have this.” I fished out the doorknob and deposited into his hand. “Who knows what doors of opportunity it will open? But you probably should have maintenance take care of that.”