A little time off
But you can’t hide
The White House has its own pharmacy that, until recently, could perhaps best be described as a hot mess, according to a recent investigation report from the Department of Defense’s Office of the Inspector General…
The investigation was prompted by complaints in May 2018 alleging that an unnamed “senior military medical officer” was engaged in “improper medical practices”…
The staffer told OIG investigators that ahead of overseas trips, the staff would prepare packets of controlled medications to be handed out to White House staff. "And those would typically be [the hypnotic] Ambien or [the stimulant] Provigil and typically both, right. So we would normally make these packets of Ambien and Provigil, and a lot of times they’d be in like five tablets in a zip‑lock bag…”
— Ars Technica, “The White House has its own pharmacy—and, boy, was it shady under Trump.”
[A decent-looking but suspiciously under-furnished, under-cleaned one-bedroom apartment in Greenacres, Florida. Shades are drawn on the few windows. A TV plays some daytime talk show for ladies. Former White House physician, now Congressman DR. RONNY JACKSON, dressed in a dirty track suit and cheap Nikes, is sitting on a nondescript couch in front of a coffee table, smoking crack. Suddenly there’s a banging on the front door. JACKSON freezes; banging continues. Pause. It appears someone is unlocking the door. JACKSON hastily grabs a nearby small metal trash can, dumps the works in it, and is preparing to take it out when the door opens and DONALD TRUMP, dressed in his usual suit, comes in, followed by three of his usual seedy pseudo-Secret Service agents. JACKSON freezes.]
TRUMP: You burn a tire in here?
JACKSON: [Putting the can to one side] Yes, Mr. President, I mean, there was a, a awful car wreck just a while back and all the tires all caught fire.
TRUMP: Bullshit. You think I don’t know what crack smells like?
[TRUMP steps forward. The AGENTS close the door behind him.]
I was king of New York in the 80s. Got in all the nightclubs. I saw it all. You got Glade Mist or anything like that?
[JACKSON nods.]
Where is it?
JACKSON: Under the kitchen sink.
TRUMP: [To one of the AGENTS] Go get it, spray it around here.
[The AGENT complies. TRUMP, to JACKSON:]
I never made you for a crackhead, Ronny.
JACKSON: I’ve been under a whole lotta stress, sir.
TRUMP: What, that OIG report?
[He pronounces it “oyg.”]
They don’t even name you.
JACKSON: [His anxiety rising] “Senior military medical officer.” Who do you think that’s supposed to be? Who will anyone think it is?
TRUMP: Ah, whole lot of nothin’. Pep pills, sleeping pills, who give a shit.
[The AGENT returns and sprays.]
[To the AGENT:] Don’t get that on me. [To JACKSON] Relax. When we get back in, we’ll get it expunged. [To the AGENT] That’s enough. [To JACKSON] What can they do to you? You’re in Congress. They couldn’t even put Santos in jail.
JACKSON: I’m sure you’re right, Mr. President. I just lost my head.
TRUMP: Is that so.
[TRUMP takes a very large handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, unfolds it.]
Because I don’t think you’re worried about Congress or OIG or any of that shit. Sit down.
[TRUMP steps forward. JACKSON sits. TRUMP puts the handkerchief on an open spot on the couch.]
You don’t mind if I sit.
[TRUMP drops his bulk on the couch. He sniffs, coughs.]
Jesus, how long you been laid up, you smell like a dead rat.
JACKSON: I’m so sorry, Mr. President, if you want I can go wash up.
TRUMP: You’re not going anywhere. You know when you didn’t show up yesterday I got worried.
JACKSON: It’s just stress, sir. I didn’t want you to see me like this.
TRUMP: I think you didn’t want me to see you at all. I think maybe your feet are cold.
JACKSON: Huh?
TRUMP: Cold feet. You know. Guy gets spooked, maybe he sees his shadow. Maybe he thinks, not such a good idea to keep working for these people. I could get in trouble. But what can he do? They got so much shit on him, it would blow up like a big shit balloon, like the Hindenburg of shit. So he says: Maybe I hide out awhile, do some drugs, relax, then run back to Washington. Maybe they’ll forget me because they got problems too.
[Small pause.]
Only I don’t forget.
[Small pause.]
You got another little in-house pharmacy to take care of. Remember? And we’re not looking for pep pills and sleeping pills. We need you to fix the Formula. It ain’t doing the trick. You seen my speeches lately?
JACKSON: Yes, sir.
TRUMP: You’re a doctor. Am I on the ball 100%?
JACKSON: [Almost preemptively flinching] Not 100%, sir.
TRUMP: And since you’re my doctor, if I’m not 100% you got a Hippocratic oath you gotta take care of me, right?
JACKSON: But, sir, if I may say, you sound very good now, sir. I mean, no slurring, complete sentences, extremely lucid and, and very good.
TRUMP: That bum we got holding the fort, he said he never saw a man do so much Adderall. Saw me taking it, said he thought it was a snowcone. Look at this:
[TRUMP takes a handful of little bloody wads of toilet paper out of his pocket.]
I had a three-hour nosebleed. I almost passed out. They wanted me to put tampons up my schnozzola, I said no.
[TRUMP puts the wads back.]
We gotta fix the Formula, and you’re the best man for the job.
JACKSON: [Miserably] Yes, sir.
TRUMP: OK. We got a car for you. [To the AGENT] You with the spray-can, stay with him. [The AGENT nods. To JACKSON] Clean yourself up and come over. We’ll get you in the sauna and sweat that shit out, then you go to work. Capisce?
[TRUMP stands up, goes to the door, which one of the AGENTS opens. TRUMP turns in the doorway.]
Don’t worry. When we get back in it’ll be happy days. There won’t even be an OIG.
[TRUMP leaves with two of the AGENTS; the last one closes the door, turns and stands staring at the wall. JACKSON sighs.]
One little touch with these sketches that I love is how Trump, like any good mob boss, knows where all the stash houses and safe houses are, and holds the keys to all of them. He may be an addled fuck-up, but he remembers where all the bodies are buried and he doesn’t let any of his capos slip the leash without yanking them back.
That Trump’s staffers were popping pills as if they were breath mints is one of the least surprising reveals about his administration. The only surprise is there wasn’t a more flourishing market for anti-anxiety meds such as benzos. It has to be pretty stressful to know you’ve been sucked into a rolling criminal enterprise, and neither reporting it or extricating yourself from it are viable escape routes in the immediate future.
I read the report, and was surprised to be reminded that Ronny [what grown man still wants to be called Ronny?] Jackson began his term under Obama.