Dregs rehearsal

“He became President of the United States in that moment, period” — Van Jones

[A large room, about 30’x30’, with beige soundproof padding on the walls and ceiling, and floor covered with plain darker-beige carpet. On a stage at one end of the room, illuminated by spotlights and flanked by teleprompters, is a podium with the Presidential seal. There is a very small escalator to one side of the stage. Some wooden chairs face the stage; a few are occupied by ASSISTANTS holding iPads and wearing headsets. Some cameras are set up around the room, and a control panel manned by TECHNICIANS midway across. Others mill about. Standing in front of the stage are Vice President JD VANCE, former White House strategist STEVE BANNON, and former White House physician and current Texas Congressman RONNY JACKSON, wearing, as is his custom during these experiments, a white lab coat, its pockets stuffed with various inhalers and vials.]

BANNON: I don’t think there’s that much light on him at the event.

JACKSON: This is for biometrics. We want to see how he responds.

BANNON: You know if he complains you’ll have to —

JACKSON: He won’t complain.

BANNON: Oh. You sound sure of yourself.

JACKSON: Put it this way: If he does complain we tweak the Formula.

BANNON: So it makes him docile?

JACKSON: No, not docile. Just hard to rattle. Harder. Harder to.

BANNON: OK.

VANCE: I’m not hearing any of this.

[Neither JACKSON nor BANNON look at him.]

BANNON: We know.

VANCE: The president’s gonna kick ass this So-Too.

BANNON: [to JACKSON] Doesn’t affect motor functions, though?

JACKSON: Oh, that’s better than ever. Wait’ll you —

[Small commotion. A little flatbed truck comes in from the back. People start applauding. In the bed of the truck is TRUMP, reclining on a chaise lounge. He is lightly smiling but his gaze is distant. VANCE pumps his fist and goes “Woo-hoo!” The trucks stops near the little escalator, which starts running. Applause continues. A long ramp pops out of the truck bed and one end gently lowers; TRUMP gets up, waves, walks to the ramp. VANCE rushes to the truck bed and offers his hand. TRUMP smacks VANCE’s hand away. VANCE laughs and applauds. TRUMP waddles down the ramp with no apparent trouble, then mounts and rides the little escalator to the riser, his thumb in the air. He walks around the stage smiling and waving; he shadow-boxes, does his little arm-dance; the cheers continue, albeit with some strain. TRUMP goes to the podium.]

TRUMP: How we doin’. Wow! Wuh-ow! That mic is hot.

JACKSON: Too hot, Mr. President?

TRUMP: Not too hot for me. Maybe too hot for you guys.

JACKSON: Great for us, sir.

TRUMP: OK, so what do you want, do I read this? [Gestures to teleprompters]

JACKSON: Might as well, Mr. President, it’s free rehearsal.

TRUMP: Not like I need it. I don’t need it.

JACKSON: No, you don’t, sir!

BANNON: Why don’t you just improvise?

[Pause.]

TRUMP: [Shading his eyes] Who’s that, Steve?

BANNON: Hello, sir, yes, it’s me. Sir, why don’t you just say what you feel? Because we all know what the speech is gonna be.

TRUMP: Yeah, buncha shit.

BANNON: Exactly.

VANCE: Aw, no!

JACKSON: It’s a great speech!

VANCE: You wrote it yourself!

BANNON: People don’t care about a speech, Mr. President. They care about you. It’s you they want to hear. Just say what’s in your heart.

TRUMP: What’s in my heart.

[Pause.]

OK, you wanna know what’s in my heart? You really wanna know?

VANCE: YEAH! YEAH!

[VANCE pumps his fist and looks around. People clap, some say “yeah.” TRUMP reaches into his pocket, pulls out an inhaler, takes a puff, puts it back.]

TRUMP: Alright. ‘Cause I’m gonna tell ya. That’s what you want, alright? ‘Cause I’ll tell ya, I’m gonna tell ya. I feel pretty good.

VANCE: YEAH! [Pumps fist, looks around]

TRUMP: I feel good, but I’m sick, folks. I’m also sick. I feel good but I’m sick. Sick of sitting there, listening, people are talking, stupid people, foreigners, over and over don’t even make sense. I feel good, but I’m sick. Sick of —

[TRUMP unleashes a series of racist and ethnic slurs.]

Not to mention the Polacks.

[Pause.]

Can we get a laugh track in here?

VANCE: Ah ha ha ha ha!

[TRUMP voice gets louder as he goes.]

See, I’m sick with what that guy had at that thing, the awards. Tourette’s. What he had, Tourette’s, did you see that, where you say this shit, and they can’t say anything because they say, he’s sick, you’re sick. Can you believe it. So you can say it. As much as you want. And folks, I’m telling you, I’m sick, too, and I’m not gonna hide it anymore, and you shouldn’t have to hide it either, what was it the guy said?

[TRUMP says the n-word querulously. He repeats it less querulously. He says it repeatedly, getting into some semblance of a rhythm.]

Like the rappers, right? They say it all the time. We’re gonna get our friend out here, the lady, Lady Bunny, from Sesame Street. The lady rapper. We’re gonna rap this son of a bitch, rap rap, son of a bitch bitch bitch, a-bitch-bitch...

[TRUMP starts rattling off the n-word again; it sounds like the speeding-up part of “Rock Island Line.” It seems to overtake him — maybe the first time in his life something like music has done this to him. He takes frequent breaths which quickly becomes labored, his face florid; his nose runs. JACKSON has sneaked onto the stage behind him; he brings a long tube to his mouth, suddenly blows air through it; TRUMP’s hand flies to his neck and he collapses. Several ASSISTANTS rush toward him; a silent strobing red alarm light is seen and a team in white coats with a stretcher come in to assist the fallen TRUMP.]

JACKSON, to BANNON: Knew I should have dialed back on the disinhibitors!

BANNON: Can you get me some of those?

VANCE: Hey! Am I president now? [Walks around the chaotic scene; imploringly] Hey! Guys! Listen, am I president now? Does this make me the president? Guys! Am I the President of the United States —

[VANCE’s hand flies to his neck and he collapses. BLACKOUT.]