The Last Sane Man at the Party

The powers that be have spoken: Kamala Harris is your running mate. Okay, Joe, you think to yourself; one foot in front of the other. What’s for lunch today?

You already had lunch. That’s right. What a joke this is. Your assistant gave you lip the other day about calling all black people the same on national television. You don’t remember that. What you remember is trying to throw the Hispanics a bone, but apparently the word “diversity” actually means something to these people. You tend to use it as a compliment, usually when it refers to food or nice clothing. “A diverse combination of flavors,” for instance, or “a diverse collection of impressive patterns.” That means its good, doesn’t it? Whatever. It’s all some kind of mumbled backwards speech that they play to trap people into weird word games.

They tell you you’re going to be president. But you’ve run campaigns before. This isn’t your first rodeo. This isn’t anything like how campaigns are supposed to be run! Okay, you admit, there were a lot of problems in 1988, and it’s not like you got this far in 2008, either. But the handlers weren’t as obvious in their complete disinterest in their subjects back then, were they? You weren’t treated like an old potato, were you? You actually made decisions back then, right? You find it difficult to remember some of that.

Kamala Harris, though. What is the world coming to? That can’t be right, you think to yourself. That just isn’t right. It’s not even that she’s black, or whatever she is, or even that she’s a woman. Times have changed, okay, you get it. That’s fine. You’re all on-board with this liberation stuff. Women are people too, you’ve always believed that. The problem is she has all the charm of a wood chipper. The disdain in her voice is palpable even in public. She isn’t fooling anyone. It just isn’t professional! The woman needs to learn to hold some dignity for the public office once in a while. She doesn’t have to like you—hell, you never got along with most of your colleagues!—but she should at least pretend.

The new face of the party, you’re told. You were told that when you were chosen to be Obama’s running mate. The new face of the party back then: a guy they could only say was “probably” born in the US, whose dad was a visiting student from Kenya, and had a record of… well.. your thoughts trail off as you notice how tired you look passing a mirror. That’s not good, you think to yourself. Smile, Joe, you’re on top of the world! That was something Obama was good at: smiling, charming people, pretending. Politics is a play, but that Kamala woman…

It’s best not to think about it.

Well, Kamala does the boss one better. Neither of her parents were American. Of course, they are now, you mentally correct yourself. And she was at least born here.

They want to replace you with her. You’re not stupid. You weren’t going to run this time, but they coaxed you into it. And you do want to be president, but let’s be honest here. You’re almost eighty, you don’t sleep as well as you used to, you forget things now and then. As you make your way to the office for another video call, you ask yourself again how they talked you into do doing this. It makes you a little queasy.

You refuse to believe you’re losing your mind. You know your handlers have been on guard around you. They walk on eggshells, the press throws you softballs. You get it. But they’re ones behaving irrationally. They confuse your dyslexia for dementia and your age for senility. It’s like they’ve never met an old person in their entire lives. You’re not a crazy old coot, you’re just an old coot! This is what America used to look like when you were a kid.

But you get it. Times have changed. You’re on the ball. The new face of the party is, you still can’t help but grimace, Kamala bloody Harris.

If you win, and you still don’t really expect to, she’s going to be president. If you win, the progress you’ve worked so hard for over your career, even if you admittedly thought it was mostly nonsense, is going to be running the country. And that’s not good. That’s not the country you remember.

You miss your time as VP. Who wouldn’t? You miss your time as Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman. You miss how fun politics could be. You miss being young.

They sit you down after finishing your makeup—always the most tedious parts of these interviews—and you get to stare at a screen and pretend like this simulacrum of personal exchange holds any real meaning to anyone. In a few minutes you’ll talk about something or other, and you know you’ll trip your way through this one like you’ve done for the last several, but it’s the best you got. And anyway, nobody really cares.

You miss Beau.

Kamala Harris. They’re really going with her.

What a brave new world.

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