I’ll admit, I didn’t think the White House operator would put me through to the president.
Not because he’d be off doing presidential things; I figured he wasn’t in. Perhaps at a local ice cream parlor. Napping in the West Wing. On a Delaware beach. Picking out sunglasses. You know, important stuff.
“Hello?” his voice sounded gravely. Maybe he hadn’t had his morning cup of instant Sanka. (Grandma used to douse hers in powdered creamer.)
“President Biden?”
“Call me Joe.”
“OK, thank you, um, Joe.”
“Who is this?”
Wow. You don’t know who you’re talking to, yet you invited me, a random stranger, to call you “Joe” as if we play gin rummy every Thursday afternoon at the Senior Center?
“Johnny Rooster, I’m the publisher of the Christian County Trumpet in Christian County, Missouri.”
“My ma used to have chickens. In fact, we raised chickens until I went to grad school. Had to wring their necks, too. Not a joke. It’s hard feeding a family of seven on a limited income.”
His voice crescendos, gaining strength with every syllable.
“Yes, sir,” ” I reply. “We had chickens when I was growing up. Invariably, more than a few would roost in our old mulberry tree out back, instead of going into the safety of the hen house. Dad sometimes woke me up in the middle of the night to shoot a possum that climbed up after ’em. He’d hold the flashlight, and I’d pull the trigger.” I make a booming sound with my mouth.
“AR-15?”
“No, sir, an over and under single shot .410 shotgun 22 rifle combo with a plastic stock.”
“I had one of those once. Used it to shoot moose in North Carolina, or North Dakota, or… No joke! Thing musta had a rack the size of a steam engine.”
I pause, unsure how to respond. He continues:
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Rooster. Johnny Rooster.”
“Cock-a-doodle doo to you.” He laughs off-handedly. “What are you all about, Rooster man?”
“I publish the Christian County Trumpet, a news and opinion blog—“
“I’m a Christian. Always went to mass growing up. Even preached a sermon. True story.”
“Christian County is where I live, it’s the name of the county.”
“I agree. Christian country is what we are. A nation diverernded not by it’s people, but by its susurrendars of religion.”
“Excuse me?” I lean forward, straining to understand.
Coughing and spitting on the other line. A gurling sound, like a muffled gag.
“Are you ok, Mr. President?”
“Never seen anything like it,” comes a whispering voice from the grave. “It’s uncanny. Abonimal. Abismal. Incomprehesiml..oh, you know. It-it-it…it means, um, it’s, uh, um, it…you…you know,” the whisper loses steam and settles for silence.
“How do you feel about Kamala Harris taking your place?”
“Shes a fine president. She will be one day, too.”
“What are you doing day to day to earn your salary?”
“What?”
“Presidential salaries are $400,000 per year. What are you doing day to day to earn that?”
“Investments. Portfolios. Hunter has that in his department.”
“Not what I asked. What are you doing to earn your money each day? How are you serving the American people who pay your salary?”
The word “salary” suddenly sounds like I’m talking to myself. I am. The line is dead.
Secret Service spies, no doubt disconnecting the call. Hmph! Oh, well. I tried, America!
Click here for my conversation with Donald Trump.
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