| General Fiction posted February 23, 2025 | Chapters: |
...5 6 -7- 8... 
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I woke up one mornin' feelin' fine...
A chapter in the book No - Say It Ain't So!
NO! Say It Ain't So, Ch. 7, 8
by Wayne Fowler
These two short chapters are combined for efficacy. In chapter eight, I toy with the 1st person POV issue. If I change all the names and do a rewrite, I might also change to third person.
In the last chapter Trump took Tom on the European tour with him, visiting Zelenskyy in Kyiv and speaking at NATO headquarters. Trump made the jet detour to his golf course in Scotland. At home Trump imposed tariffs on Canada and Mexico. Hakeem called to congratulate him for the successful European tour, as well as to solicit help on a voting rights bill. He gave Trump a positive report on Phil Jansen’s welfare.
Chapter Seven
I woke up in a cold sweat. It was only 2:20. I couldn’t stay in bed and slobber in my fear but I didn’t want to go out and trigger Tom into getting up so early. I was in a lather.
The source of my fright was Phil, my own self. He had a life. The house was nearly paid for. It wasn’t much, but it was the nest egg, worth about $400,000 on today’s market. And the lot was splittable. My plan was to sell when I could draw Social Security and live cheaper in the Ozarks, within driving distance of my brother and my favorite nieces and nephews and their kids. With my old, but perfectly serviceable camper, it was a dream life, camping in state parks or wherever, going to kids’ ball games, house sitting for family while they traveled.
But the house payments had to be made. Insurance payments. Utilities kept on. I couldn’t afford a lot of late fees or shut-off and turn back on charges. And car insurance… if you lapse, you get charged higher rates. And my truck needed serviced. Oh, and my job. I was copy editor at the Washington Post. Not a writer, just an editor. But I enjoyed the work and would like to continue another five or six years. I probably already lost that job. Lost a good job just to be the President of the United States!
I was about to sweat thru the fresh clothes I’d put on after a shower.
After my second shower, fear once again consumed me. Trump had my wallet and my keys. Had he already destroyed my life? Poisoned my relationships? He’d been loose, running chaotically through my stuff for how long before being taken care of according to Hakeem? With his lifestyle, I could have massive credit card debt looming. And what about when we switched back, assuming that ever happened? Oh Lord, the very thought of being imprisoned in this body the rest of my life!
Who could I trust to get things in order? Trust no one. Tom and Hakeem. And who did Hakeem feel it was necessary to bring into the loop? Surely someone. He couldn’t do the legwork required to take care of Trump… me. How could I impose on Tom to check on my whole personal life? Maybe he could contact my brother… but there would be too many questions. And knowing Thad, my brother, he would demand to see me, to move me to his home. Can you imagine, Trump in my body at my brother’s house? Not for a minute. He’d be committed.
Tom would do whatever it took. And Hakeem could get him my wallet and keys, but it would take time. Could I survive around here without Tom? I’d not only grown to depend on him for my safety, but for my sanity, as well.
It was going on three when I lumbered my obesity under a painted face to the kitchen where Tom was pouring coffee. “Wonderfine,” I said. He looked at me and simply said, “Phil”. I nodded, accepting the extending cup with gratitude.
Yes, Tom would be glad to take care of Phil. I would call Hakeem and get Tom the wallet and keys. I would detail Phil’s particulars to Tom. And most of the next two days I would mostly hibernate in front of a TV. Kill me now. Not in the ear, shoot me in the eyes!
+++
“I want different Secret Service agents. Rotate them. Different every day, but I want familiar faces, not surprised every morning with a stranger outside my door. Just get it done.” My conflicting commands exasperated Betty, I know, but that was the point.
“And I want different carpet here in the oval office: red, white, and blue… the flag and the stars right in front of my desk. And I want to rename it. No more Oval Office. It's more like a circle, don't you think? From now on it's the Round Office. And anyone who doesn't say that is fired.”
“I can have drawings made,” Betty offered.
“No. No drawings. New carpet. And get these…” I pointed to the portraits of past Presidents on the walls. I want landscapes, nice landscapes. But no mountains, I don’t like mountains.” I waved to Betty, leading her on a tour of the White House where I had little idea of it’s various rooms.
“And stop the tours. These people just want to steal the ashtrays.” Of course there were no ashtrays in the White House, but I knew what I meant. “Who wants a parade of losers trompling through their house. It’s my house… isn’t it? Isn’t it?” Betty didn’t know that I wanted the question answered.
“Yes sir,” she mumbled, following along.
“What’s this?” I didn’t wait for a reply. “Dishes? This is a wasted room. Somebody could have their office in here. Clear out all these dishes. Nobody uses them anyway, Am I right?” I gave Betty time to respond. “See all this space and these ropes? Like cattle. This place is like… I don’t know, cattle pens. I like my cattle on a plate. Don’t you Betty, a nice sirloin?
“Where does this hallway lead? Oh, outside. What are those bush things? Roses? I thought the First Lady got rid of those. They look dead.
“What do you mean, they’re dormant? Put something in that’s not dormant. It’s a disgrace. Football. When do the football players come? You know the champions always come to the White House? Like the lancers come to the castle and, you know, salute the King. They come to the White House. They haven’t played the Superbowl yet? Oh, well make sure I’m here. You know, in the White House when they come. What do you mean if they come?”
“Well, Mr. President, sometimes the team, or individuals if they are Olympians, belong to the other party and…”
“That’s not possible. The champions come to the White House and… just make sure I’m here that day.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Okay. You get the point. The White House redecorating. Right?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And no more tours. Then we can get rid of these ridiculous ropes and ugly plastic runners on the floor. Tacky. You know tacky?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Okay then. Which way is the elevator? I’m going to lie down for a while.”
“Sir, Elon Musk has an appointment for two o’clock. You agreed to a meeting.”
“Postpone it to three. No, make it four. No, make it tomorrow.”
“Sir, you’re going to California tomorrow.”
“Good. Make it tomorrow afternoon.” I walked into the elevator and pressed the close door button.
Chapter Eight
I woke up the next morning confused. My head was throbbing with each pulse. It was bad enough that I thought I might, if I ever got out of bed, call on Dr, Schweitz to take my blood pressure. Then I rolled to my side and felt something amiss. The clock on the bedside table read 3:41, but it was a different clock. And there was no window where there had been. And no TV on the wall. I sprang out of bed on wobbly feet, wishing I hadn’t moved so sharply. This was not the White House. The bathroom mirror confirmed what the sight of the pajamas I was wearing told me – I was Phil Jansen.
Running to the front door of the little cottage I’d never seen before, I discovered the front door locked, a deadbolt requiring a key to unlock, preventing exit. The back door from the kitchen was locked, but I could open it. Though barefoot, I ran out, nearly destroying an aluminum screen door in the process. The sizeable backyard was enclosed with a ten-foot high cinderblock wall. The top four feet appeared to be of a different construction than the bottom six, old work, but different. I figured that the government added the top rows after buying it – probably for some sort of safe house. The steel walk-through gate at the back was secured with a padlock.
Back in the house, I discovered that my special phone was back in the White House in the bedroom with Trump. After taking care of business and getting dressed, I sat sipping Diet Coke, waiting for daylight to do a better recon of my situation.
+++
Tom’s POV
“Good morning, Mr. President.” I didn’t expect any response, let alone a wonderfine of any sort. He didn’t. I opened a Diet Coke that he wordlessly accepted. Can I fix you anything? A sausage biscuit, an egg benedict?”
“A sausage biscuit, please.”
He sat waiting for the frozen Jimmie Dean to be ready.
While he ate, I absented myself, waiting for him to leave the floor before entering his quarters to begin my duties… and to retrieve the special phone.
I called Hakeem, but did not leave a message. When Trump’s – Phil’s – phone rang a little after noon, I answered it. “They’ve switched back,” I replied to Hakeem’s greeting.
The silence made me think he’d disconnected. He knew better than to ask if I was sure.
“What can I do?” he finally asked, forever endearing him to my bosom.
“Sir. The switch lasted ten days. We don’t know what caused it, or if it will repeat. And if it does, for how long the next time. I’d like to help Phil. But if we released him, what would we do when and if the switch happened again? Could we get Phil, Trump, back to safety?”
Again, the silence was unnerving. I appreciated that Hakeem took time to think, but… Tired of waiting, I asked him. “Congressman, is there any way I could get to Phil and, I don’t know, at least let him know what’s going on?”
“Sure. But tell me. Did Trump, this morning, act as if he was aware that he’d been in someone else’s body the past ten days? Does he know that he’s been someone else?”
Now it was my turn to freak him out with the silent treatment as I thought about the ramifications of both Trump and Phil’s amnesia. Because Trump was unaware. “I’m guessing, sir, that Trump is just now learning the extent of what he’s done the past ten days and he’s thinking that he might be losing his mind. He won’t want to let on, for fear of the 25th.”
I could hear Hakeem nodding his head.
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can with Phil’s address and how to approach the house. You might consider a couple days of vacation, or sick leave, until we get a solution. I want to stay away from having a man inside the White House, some Watergate-type scenario.”
“If you would like, you can take our friend home, to his house, but only if you can get him back to the safe house if…”
“With a dart gun, I could. Thank you, sir. I’ll leave this morning. And I’ll have the phones, mine and Trump’s with me.” We disconnected and I left the White House within the hour supposedly with Covid-like symptoms.
+++
“You’re kidding, right? This is some kind of joke and they accidentally picked me instead of Michael Douglas?”
“I saw that movie. It was a good one. Sean Penn. No, Phil. You wanna go for lunch and I’ll explain the last ten days? We need to go to your house and take care of your business, too. But just so you know… well, you won’t know. But I’m going to inject you with a tranquilizer gun…” I reached into my pocket and showed it to him. “… if you Jekyll into Trump.”
Phil laughed out loud. “Let’s go,” he said. “Take out pizza?”
I nodded.
+++
The pizza wasn’t that good, but Phil liked it. I guess being Trump for ten days would do that to a person.
“You’re kiddin’, right? We went to the U.N.? I met with foreign dignitaries. And Zelenskyy? Oh man, I wish I remembered. I think it's there, just fuzzy. Man! I bet Betty Goodman wants to kill me.”
I chuckled. “And the Secret Service. They probably do too. Phil, you need to think hard about your last day… and night, before the switch happened. Whad you eat? Whad you do? Did you do some sort of meditation? Watch some weird thing on TV?”
Phil thought, saying nothing before going into his bedroom. He came back out with a paperback novel. “I was reading this. Ten days ago? On one hand, it was just last night, but on another, it was years ago.”
He handed me the James Patterson and Bill Clinton book: The President Is Missing. “I dog-eared where I left off,” he said, pointing toward the book. The dogear was page 277 of the 528.
“Do you mind if I read for a little bit while you take care of whatever you need to? Pay bills and the like? Maybe call and see if you still have a job?”
Phil’s face paled, draining of blood. His shoulders slooped. “I never thought…”
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to comfort him. Just do what you have to do for a little while anyway. I paged back to the previous dog-eared page, sat down and began to read. Learning nothing, I turned back to the beginning of the book and began skimming. I saw nothing paranormal anywhere. When Phil came into the room and sat down, I gave it up, handing the book back to him.
“Think of anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m fired is all I know.”
“One thing I thought of, “I began … “in case we switch again, get a locksmith out here to dead bolt that back door, keyed locks on both sides. I don’t think Trump could get free, but bad guys might be able to get in. And they might convince Trump to unlock the door for them.”
photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman
Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Artwork by nikman at FanArtReview.com
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