What's Your Party?

At the sound of the peal, Shaquay Elon rushed to the door of her Newark, Delaware home.

She opened it and found Mareala Fanty. They embraced.

“Look at you!” Shaquay said with elation and a bit of surprise. “You’re George W. Bush.”

“How’d you know?” Mareala asked with a coy smile.

“The cowboy boots and the Clint Eastwood squint.”

“That’s right.”

“Where’s Trayson?”

“He’s unpacking all of the food.”

“Oooh, I can’t wait to get my nibble on if he cooked.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“Girl, everyone knows you can’t cook. Stop.” Shaquay said with a laugh.

“Watch it now, before you get impeached again Donald!”

Shaquay dabbed at her spray on orange skin and coiffed blonde wig.

“This party’s going to be huuuge!”

The two friends laughed. “You’re so crazy!”

Trayson came to the door. He wore a long prosthetic nose and a receding hairline.

“‘You don’t have [me] to kick around anymore.’”

“Tricky Dick Nixon,” Shaquay said as she hugged Fanty.

“Of course.”

“You can put that pot on the stove for it to get warm,” Shaquay said.

“Is Delancey here? I didn’t see the car.”

“It’s in the garage. He’s downstairs concocting his get-up. You know he has to outdo us every year,” Shaquay explained.

Then, footsteps from the lower level increased.

In full on white face, Delancey Elon erupted from the lower levels. He sported short hair that curled. His face remained so alabaster it seemed like it would crack under pressure. The faces of his wife and guests told a tale of horror mixed with curiousity.

“Who are you supposed to be, babe?” Shaquay asked, hesitation growing in her voice.

“You can’t tell? I’m the one and the only, so far. The man from Hawaii who made his mark in Chi-town….”

“I…we’re supposed to be Republicans this year, Del’,” Fanty said in a low voice.

“Why the white face?” Mareala asked.

“He’s half black half white like the cookie!” Elon answered.

“Yes, no, you see there are degrees to this, honey,” Shaquay reminded her husband.

“This year we’re the stupid party. We’re ‘the don’t know what to do’ Republicans. Last year we were the ‘do nothing or too much Democrats.’” Shaquay slowly walked towards her husband and grabbed him gently by the arm. He shook her off like a tree branch in the wind.

“I don’t care. I have to project how horrible President Obama actually was. Besides the Affordable Care Act, he was the first president to be totally against America and what it stands for which is reason, selfishness, and capitalism. No one gave him the memo that to be the leader of the free world, you’ve got to be honest.”

“Hello, do you see what we’re dressed as?” Marealea asked. She pointed to the three other people in the room.

“All I am saying is that to a degree, Obama slips much lower than Nixon, Bush, and Trump combined. He was the worst president because, in part, he precipitated the arrivals of Trump and Biden.”

Shaquay wanted to change the subject, desperately. She put her hands together and smiled.

“There’s some wine on the kitchen island. Feel free to pour yourself some. I know I could use it right now,” she added.

Fanty went over to his friend. “Del,’ we get that you’re upset about the whole Obamacare thing. We are too. But this party calls for the Republicans to be ridiculed. We know that Obama was abysmal but we should save that for next year.”

“But then it wouldn’t pop. You should have seen the expressions on your faces. You all looked as shocked as a fork in the socket. No, I’m keeping the white face. I’m keeping this light suit that he wore. I’m about to break out and sing ‘Sweet Home Chicago.’

“Don’t.”

“I want to do something. He was such a disappointment. He’s the blues. Everyone pined for a black president and what did we get? A little Stalin, a little Mao. He’s not a degree of evil matching those monsters but he hints at them.”

“Just breathe, man. We’re going to have some wine and eat some good food. We’re going to do impressions of the presidents that we dressed up as originally. For you, I suggest that you reach into the closet and pull out your Bush Sr. outfit from last year, you know the one with the funky socks?”

Elon contemplated. He shook his head vigorously. “No, I can’t do it. I want to be Barack. I want to be the one who knew that medical administrators, doctors, nurses, and patients would be hurt by his vicious law. He had to have known, too. His thirst for power just pushed him to the point that he made such horrific changes to the spirit of the Declaration and the Constitution. No, I’m going to throw this party as the nickel slick former HNIC.”

Fanty looked baffled. He tried to gather the words but they would not launch from his lips. He looked at his watch.

“Hey, I can make it to the store and get another costume. Reagan! You can be Reagan!”

“No. I’m Obama. I’m going to enjoy this party representing the most anti-American president in this great nation’s history.”

Fanty looked around the room and found a mirror. He held it up to Elon. The white paint stared back at him and almost looked like chalk had covered his skin. Elon took a long look.

“I’m standing on my choice. You can hold up mirrors or pictures on your phone. None of that will change my decision to express my deep concern for how the 44th president was a step backward for the United States. Okay, so SEALs killed Osama bin Laden on his watch. He didn’t do it personally and he probably had misgivings since he wondered about America’s foreign policy and how it squares with the Sermon on the Mount. I’m telling you, the guy is a phony and a fraud. Just like this white paint against my black skin. He was of mixed races and exhibited mixed principles. That shouldn’t have been tolerated but the American people being ‘so racist’ somehow voted for him twice.”

Shaquay and Mareala crowded around the two men.

“We’re going to drop the costume party idea. It’s done,” Shaquay snapped.

“He’s coming around,” Fanty replied.

“No, Trayson. This is not what this party is supposed to be about. We know Obama was terrible. We don’t need to be reminded of that all day,” Mareala retorted.

“And the Republicans are that much better? Nixon?! Bush, Jr.?! Trump?!”

“Again, remind yourself of the degrees of evil. Obama is lower than them all because he represents both the man who never was and the man who knows it and the man who could have been,” Shaquay responded.

Then, Elon started tearing at his face. The white face paint mixed with blood and he gnashed his teeth like a wild animal. He ripped off his suit jacket and threw it on the ground. Fanty, Shaquay, and Mareala stepped back in acute fear. Like a seance or a reckoning of the soul, Elon showed his red and white covered black face.

“Call for an ambulance! Get some gauze and hydrogen peroxide,” Shaquay directed.

Once the ambulance had arrived, the paramedics put more dressing on Elon who became unconscious. His eyes shut like curtains.

“C’mon, now talk to me,” Simon Deon spoke to Elon.

“There…having…my party…” Elon struggled to get out through the bandages.

“What’s your party? Stay with me,” Deon stated.

The ambulance actually went to a mental hospital. It showed manicured lawns and people not zonked out but engaging with other patients in the waning hours of the day. The medical professionals took Elon to the urgent care facility. His face had no deep lacerations but just some minor cuts and bruises. He already begun to heal. His eyes began to open. He felt the sting of his nails in his face and turned to a mirror to see streaks of white and traces of red. He sat up.

“There’s the champ,” Nurse Damien Galford said.

“We’re going to get you all patched up and find you a bed. But before that, we have a few documents to sign. Here’s one regarding the Affordable Care Act....”

Elon rose up and made a mad dash for the door and actually took off like he was in flight, bandages acting like streamers as he ran.