The white lady looks at us and smiles, white-lady-ly, and is just like, He’s very shy.
And Mr. Gupta is all annoyed now, like he called this whole meeting and everything and now whatever is back there on the other side of that chain—which I guess was the whole point of it—won’t even come out. And he’s just like, Is he coming or not?
And the lady ignores Mr. Gupta and just keeps looking into the room and is like, Come on, buddy.
And the low groan gets louder and out comes this…thing on a leash—a terrifying ten-foot-tall behemoth of a man, heaving with every breath, eyes bulging, lower jaw jutted, a gnarly rag doll made of people, stuffed into a half-buttoned colonial outfit. And the room fills with gasps and OhMyGod!!s and WhatTheShit?!?!s, and the lady speaks over us and announces, Please do not alarm him. He is very temperamental.
And Mr. Gupta shouts out, Quiet? Everyone will be quiet, please, for our guest?
And Kennedy’s like, Er, ahh, what the hell is that thing?
And the lady’s like, It’s not a what-is-that-thing, it’s a who-is-that-thing.
Mr. Gupta beams: You know, a lot of you have maybe forgotten how important Presidentland is. A lot of you think maybe this is all fun and games. But actually, Presidentland is a very educational place for families. A lot of respectable people think what we do here is very noble work.
I look over at the large man-thing. It’s drooling and looking around like it’s scanning the room for an exit.
I work for Frank Fielding, says the white lady.
And everyone just kind of looks at her, like, Who?
And she says again, annoyed: Frank Fielding? The Frank and Felicity Fielding Foundation? Funding tomorrow’s solutions today for yesterday’s problems tomorrow?
And I’m like, Oh yeah, ’cause I’m pretty sure I heard that in a commercial once.
The lady is smiling super-wide now: Frank Fielding is a true visionary and a game changer. Some people say he’s like the new Steve Jobs, but I actually think he’s more like Che Guevara meets Gandhi—if Che Guevara and Gandhi were billionaires.
And Harding’s like, It kind of sounds like you got a crush on Frank Fielding.
And the lady’s like, I do not have a crush on him, because he is my boss, and besides he has a wife so that is impossible.
Please ignore President Harding, Mr. Gupta coughs out; he is very rude.
The lady continues: We at the Frank and Felicity Fielding Foundation think what you do here is so vital and necessary. After all, who are presidents if not the innovators and disrupters of history?
And Hoover shouts out, Who indeed? and Hoover’s idiot buddies start giggling, and Mr. Gupta’s like, Guys, please.
The lady continues: But why remember what history was, when instead you can experience what history is? Through samples from their distant progeny, we at the FieldingCorp Research Labs were able to reconstruct with eighty-eight percent accuracy literally up to twelve percent of the actual genetic makeup of the fathers of this nation. With that DNA data, and the world’s most powerful 4-D printers, we were able to construct our tax-deductible gift to the park—Waj’m Maj’vht. Say hello, Waj’m!
She yanks on the chain and the beast groans a plaintive, guttural wail.
Waj’m Maj’vht is a perfect genetic combination of the first ten presidents, Mr. Gupta announces proudly.
WAJ’M MAJ’VHT! the lady repeats. Washington! Adams! Jefferson!…The rest!
And Mr. Gupta continues: Not just guys in costumes, I’m saying—this guy is the actual presidents Oh no he is vomiting.
Sure enough this thing is now puking all over the floor—like for real just fire-hosing chunks all over the place. And part of me wants to cut through the awkwardness by asking the monster what it thinks of the new Drake album, but I know I probably shouldn’t in front of the white lady.
She starts stroking his scraggly hair and says, It’s okay. This is natural. People do this, Waj’m. This is natural.
And Mr. Gupta’s like, Please ignore the vomiting. Once we get the vomiting under control, Waj’m Maj’vht will be beloved by children and visitors to the park of all ages!
And that’s the end of the meeting.
* * *
—
Tuesday morning, I ask Emika at Wardrobe if she’s seen the new addition to the park.
Seen it, she’s like. Who do you think made the costume for it?
I immediately feel stupid for asking. Of course Emika would know all about it, what with Wardrobe being so close to Mr. Gupta’s office and right next to the Extra Office Where No One’s Allowed.
She zips up the back of my suit and I’m like, What do you make of it?
I think it’s kind of neat, she shrugs. Science and all.
And I’m just like, Yeah, I get that part of it—and I definitely do get that part of it—but I guess from where I’m sitting it’s like, maybe ease up a little, Science. You know? It’s like, where’s the fire, Science?
And she’s like, Yeah, no, I get that too. I like the eyes, though.
The eyes?
Waj’m’s eyes? Did you see them?
And I have to confess I did not spend a lot of time looking into the eyes of the puking monster.
They’re soulful, she’s like. Those eyes have seen a lot. Ten presidents, right?
And I’m like, That’s what they say.
And Emika gets all thoughtful: Ten men in one body—I feel like there’s a lot going on in there—I mean, when he’s not vomiting.
And I’m just like, I guess it takes all kinds.
And she gives me a quirky little smile and says, Guess so.
If there’s a thing I like about Emika it’s that she sees stuff kind of crooked like that. Like to say that Waj’m Maj’vht isn’t just a monster but ten men in one body with real soulful eyes. It’s funny, but also kind of sweet. I don’t really get the science of it, so I don’t know if that’s how it actually is or not, but like I said, it’s an interesting way to look at it.
Benjamin Harrison swings by my post after lunch and I tell him what Emika said, about Waj’m being ten men and all, and Harrison thinks that’s pretty hilarious.
Look, man, he says, I spent all morning at Founding Fathers Square, and let me tell you, that dude is barely doing the work of one man.
And I’m like, No?
And he’s like, Dude’s tied to a pole like a tetherball. He mostly just sits there, jabbing the ground with a rock. Every once in a while, he blurts out a phrase, like “the insurmountable folly of intransigence,” but mostly he just kind of grunts and falls down.
And I’m like, Sounds like those scientists maybe got a little too much James Monroe in there.
And Harrison’s like, Haha.
* * *
—
Meanwhile, Ramona needs to go to the clinic to get the results of her blood work, and Mom wants me to come with, in case the news is bad. It’s on a Thursday of course, which is the worst time to miss work, on account of Thursday’s a big day for field trips.
I try to tell Mom, Things are weird over there. It’s not a good time to ask for time off.
And she’s just like, I’m sorry your sister picked a bad time to get sick; that was real selfish of her, huh?
And I’m like, Why do I gotta go? If the news is bad, what difference does it make?
And Mom is like, Ramona needs to know that you’re there for her.
And I’m like, I’m there for her by going to the job that pays for our rent and covers her medical costs.
And Mom is like, Will you just ask?
So then like an idiot, I’m sitting outside Mr. Gupta’s office end-of-day Wednesday, waiting for him to finish up whatever meeting he’s in. I’m sitting in one of those dinky chairs he’s got in the waiting area right outside and I’m hearing him shout t
hrough the walls: People are asking, Where’s Washington? Where’s Andrew Jackson? And they are not happy with your…confounding simulacrum.
And I hear the white lady say, Okay, I acknowledge your feedback and I am internalizing it. What I’m hearing is we were too bold with our pilot program. Obviously, we’re putting too much pressure on one hybrid to try to capture the magic of guys like Washington and Jackson and what have you.
And Mr. Gupta’s like, I mean, those are some of our most popular guys.
Well, what if you hired back the original ten and we gave you a new hybrid? One who replaced your least popular guys? That’s low risk for you, and it gives us the chance to work out the kinks.
And Mr. Gupta’s like, Honestly I’ve soured on this whole cloning ten presidents at once idea. Maybe we should just stick with the people in costumes.
And the white lady’s like, Mr. Gupta, I am very surprised and disappointed to hear you say that. Do you not remember the agreement your bosses signed with FieldingCorp, giving us an ownership stake in the park so we could beta test new biotechnologies? I would hate to take you to court over this, especially because everyone at the foundation still believes so passionately in the mission of Presidentland and the potential of our work to make history come alive.
And Mr. Gupta’s like, Please, no one needs to go to court.
And the lady’s like, I completely agree. So, we’re definitely on the same page there. Plus, we’re on the same page as far as the Waj’m rollout being unfortunately premature. We all got a little excited, which is not a crime. This is why we try things. We need to allow ourselves to fail, so that we can fail upward. We’ll try again with different presidents, yes?
And Mr. Gupta’s like, We can try.
And the lady’s like, Lower-status presidents?
And Mr. Gupta’s like, Yes.
And the lady’s like, Marvelous. I knew you could be reasonable.
Well, I might not be the sharpest commemorative butter knife in the presidential gift shop but I’m not a complete moron, so I know this isn’t great news for old Chester A. Arthur.
I duck across the hall into Wardrobe, where Harrison is still getting out of his costume. I tell him the whole thing, and he’s like, Well, we’re fucked.
And I’m like, No. Yeah?
And he’s like, Look, man, I’m Benjamin Harrison—the less famous Harrison. Think about that for a second, I’m less notable than the guy who was only president for a month. And you’re Chester A. Arthur. Your primary achievement was like the Peabody Referendum or some bullshit.
And I’m like, Pendleton Reform Act.
Who gives a shit? We’re bottom ten, easy, any way you measure it. If they’re getting rid of ten presidents, you’re a goner. I’m a goner.
When I get back home and Mom asks me what happened with the asking for the time off, I just say it’s a no-go.
And she’s like, What the hell does that mean, it’s a no-go?
And I’m like, Sometimes things are no-gos, Mom.
* * *
—
So now I’m figuring my days at the park are numbered. Don’t get me wrong, this is a true bummer, because we for real need the money right now, but I’m not thinking I’ll miss the park itself much. I certainly won’t miss all the dipwad presidents who work here.
When I was a kid, I used to come to Presidentland and dream of being a president one day—like that’s how small and stupid my imagination was, I thought dressing up in a big suit and putting on a big foam head and acting all fancy at a theme park was like the height of importance and sophistication. The truth is the whole place is just a bunch of assholes, and it turns out making an asshole a president just means you end up with an asshole president. Probably could’ve guessed that—being president doesn’t change you, not really; it just brings out more of the you that you already are.
But I will miss Emika in Wardrobe, and maybe the idea of not seeing her every day is getting me sentimental or maybe all that time in the suit in the hot sun is making me stupid or maybe since I’m probably going to get canned soon I just don’t give a shit anymore in any direction, but whatever the reason, I decide to ask Emika if she wants to get a drink sometime after work.
As soon as I ask her, I regret it, because first of all, of course she doesn’t, and second of all, where am I going to take her? The only bar I ever go to is the one in the back of the bowling alley, and you can’t really take a girl there, because it’s full of weird old guys who are all trying to sell you hand soap, on account of this pyramid scheme that took certain pockets of the town by storm last year. I feel like if I tried to take Emika to a nice bar—like a wine bar or an upscale club or something—the bouncer would take one look at me and be like, Are you kidding me? And Emika would look at me and be like, You know, I didn’t see it before, but now that I think about it, this bouncer’s got a point, as far as the “Are you kidding me?” part.
But then I forget all of that, because Emika says: I’d love to.
So now I’m thinking: Fuck the Pendleton Reform Act, because Chester A. Arthur’s new primary achievement is getting Emika from Wardrobe to get a drink with him sometime after work.
For the whole week pretty much I’m floating on air. Like even when Mom tells me the results from the clinic aren’t so good, I can’t help but be an optimist about it. I go into Ramona’s room and I sit on the side of her bed, and I’m like, Clinics. What do they know, right?
And Ramona laughs, and coughs, and is like, Total quacks. I told Mom, no more medical advice from people who take seven years to graduate college.
Yeah, I’m like, Bunch of slowpokes! Myself, I’m a cynic, when it comes to clinics.
Clinic cynic, Ramona rasps, and I can tell she’s getting tired, so I say one more thing, which is: Hey, the main thing is it’s gonna be okay.
And she closes her eyes and says, Yeah. It’s gonna be okay.
* * *
—
Well, meanwhile, the date with Emika goes south before it even begins. And of course it does, because why did I think I ever deserved a thing to happen to me that was just wholly good?
Look, she’s like, just as we’re sitting down. I need to say something right off the bat. I don’t know why you asked me for drinks, and I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I think I should tell you, I’m kind of in love with someone.
And I’m like, Oh, cool, no, that’s no problem. The someone you’re in love with is me, right?
And she looks all uncomfortable and is like, No, sorry.
And I’m like, No, I got it, I was just making a joke.
And she looks even more all uncomfortable and is like, Oh, cool joke.
And I’m like, Well, this is going great.
And she’s like, I really do like you as a friend, though, and I was stoked you wanted to spend more time with me.
And I’m like, Well, good news is things won’t be awkward for you at work after this, on account of I’m probably getting fired soon.
And she’s like, Why do you figure that?
I tell her what I heard, about how Mr. Gupta and the white lady are going to bring back the first ten guys and replace ten other presidents with a new mega-president, and what Harrison said about us both being doomed.
And Emika goes, But you can’t lump yourself in with Benjamin Harrison. Of course Mr. Gupta would want to get rid of him; that guy’s a dirtbag. He’s always looking at my boobs from inside his big giant president head.
How can you tell?
Because the whole head tilts down.
Why doesn’t he just look with his eyes?
I don’t know! He’s an idiot. But what I’m saying is you’re not like that. You’re a hard worker and you’ve got a good attitude mostly, which actually sets you apart from a lot of the other guys here. If it’s my opinion, I think you should fi
ght for it.
But here I’m like, What’s to fight for? If he’s going to replace the bottom ten guys, either that’s me or it’s not. There’s nothing I can do.
And Emika’s like, Hold up, did you say bottom ten guys?
And I’m like, Yeah…
Emika thinks for a second, then leans in close. Listen, she’s like. I’ve been spending some time in the Extra Office Where No One’s Allowed…
And I’m like, No shit?
And she’s like, I know technically I’m not allowed in there—no one is—but I’m usually the first person at the park, other than Amir from Security, and it’s so peaceful in there…
And I’m all, Isn’t that where the big guy lives?
And she goes, I could probably get in trouble just for talking about it. But my point is the white lady has kind of made it her office, and so she and Mr. Gupta have a lot of conversations in there.
What kind of conversations?
Well, I don’t know. Like I said, I just go in there early in the morning, and then I leave before anyone else shows up. But they’ve got a big whiteboard in there with all the presidents’ names on it, and they keep rearranging it, putting them in different orders.
What’s the order based on?
I don’t know, but Washington and Lincoln are always right at the top, one and two. And the bottom keeps changing, but it’s usually like Hayes, Pierce, Fillmore, that kind of thing.
And me? Chester Arthur?
Emika frowns and then says, Like I said, it keeps changing.
So it’s not set in stone who the bottom guys are—it’s not like based on historical importance?
Honestly, if I had to guess I’d say it was based on merch sales.
And so then I’m thinking that’s fucked-up, because I just don’t have that much merch to move. But then another part of me is like: Well, there’s a chance.
So on the bus ride home, I’m doing the math in my head, like, Okay, who’s definitely staying? Definitely all the recent presidents—everyone back to Franklin Roosevelt if I’m being honest—because old-timers love getting their pictures taken with presidents they’ve lived through. And the first ten—there’s no way they’d bring them all back just to fire them again. So, that’s already twenty-four people who are almost definitely not getting fired, and I haven’t even gotten to Lincoln yet.
Someone Who Will Love You in All Your Damaged Glory Page 19