(no subject)
The doorbell rang, jarring me awake. I rolled over to check the time: almost 9am. An ungodly hour. I pulled on some khaki pants, stowed carefully on the floor the previous night, hearing what sounded terrifyingly close to a marching band tuning up outside.
I opened the front door to a fanfare of trumpets.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the 49th President of the United States.”
“Yeah yeah, thanks Rodney. Sup,” he said, the latter syllable addressed to me.
“Where should I put my bag?”
I eyed the two figures suspiciously, and then the thirty-two behind them. Two men in suits, one wearing an expensive Versace suit and an American flag pin, the other Rodney, returned and refunded the eyeing with interest. The thirty-two then blasted me with a second fanfare I had no hope of returning.
“Will you guys STOP that?” non-Rodney shouted at the other 32 non-Rodneys, before turning back to me. “Sorry about them, they insist on doing that wherever I go. I'm the President, but you can call me Pres.”
The President pushed past me, slamming the door as he went, and wandered through the entrance room into the living room, dumping a beaten brown bag against the wall.
“Nice place,” he said, taking a seat on the sickly-looking blue couch and eliciting a small regurgitation of stuffing. He looked around the room, drinking in the cracked louvre windows, the ancient CRT television, and the stolen Malibu poster on the wall. “Yessirree, much nicer than the dump I used to live in. Quiet guy, aren't ya?”
“Who are you?” I responded.
“I told you, I'm the President!”
“Why... why are you here?”
“Beth interviewed me; I'm your new housemate. Doesn't anyone tell you anything!?”
-------------
I fried up some bacon and eggs as the President watched TV; precisely 14 questions trying to exit my mouth simultaneously like so many bugs at a small door. Andrew had moved out of our sharehouse the previous week, and I knew Beth and Pete had been in charge of interviewing potential replacements for his room while I was busy at uni. What I was less aware of, was that they had selected someone. Someone claiming to be a President. I tipped the bacon onto a plate, reserving the fat and draining it onto a slice of toast. Bacon and eggs, Tony-style.
The President was watching Good Morning Australia, hurling abuse at Moira as she spruiked paper teabag holders.
“Can you believe this bitch?” he said to me as I took a seat beside him. “Comes in right on top of Bert when he's on a fuckin' roll. Thanks,” he said, grabbing the plate. “Air Force One food isn't what it used to be. Great to finally get some real bacon.”
“So... when exactly did Beth interview you?” I asked, as the President stuffed two pieces of bacon in his mouth, dripping egg all over his suit jacket.
“Oh, over the phone last week. Sounds like a real hot chick, if you ask me.” I hadn't, but he didn't seem to care.
“So I gave her a call in response to your ad, and we really hit it off. She told me then and there I could have the room. Speaking of which, I'm done,” he said, tossing his fork onto his plate.
“So where's this room of mine?”
I led the President into the small, dark room which Andrew had recently vacated. Dust and grime were scattered over the scratched wood floor, with a solitary vertical blind making its last stand against the sun.
“Wow,” the President said, as he strolled into the room. “This'll do just fine.”
“When's your furniture coming?” I asked in an attempt to make conversation.
“Oh no, this is all I got.” he said, flashing me a broad smile. “Gotta travel light!”
He opened his bag and pulled out a jumbled heap of suit pants, throwing them on the floor. “Yep, gotta travel light.”
The President sat on the ground, bunching the suit pants up into a pillow, laid his head down, and quickly fell asleep. I closed his door softly, gathered the plates from the living room, and began confusedly washing up.
TBC
I opened the front door to a fanfare of trumpets.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the 49th President of the United States.”
“Yeah yeah, thanks Rodney. Sup,” he said, the latter syllable addressed to me.
“Where should I put my bag?”
I eyed the two figures suspiciously, and then the thirty-two behind them. Two men in suits, one wearing an expensive Versace suit and an American flag pin, the other Rodney, returned and refunded the eyeing with interest. The thirty-two then blasted me with a second fanfare I had no hope of returning.
“Will you guys STOP that?” non-Rodney shouted at the other 32 non-Rodneys, before turning back to me. “Sorry about them, they insist on doing that wherever I go. I'm the President, but you can call me Pres.”
The President pushed past me, slamming the door as he went, and wandered through the entrance room into the living room, dumping a beaten brown bag against the wall.
“Nice place,” he said, taking a seat on the sickly-looking blue couch and eliciting a small regurgitation of stuffing. He looked around the room, drinking in the cracked louvre windows, the ancient CRT television, and the stolen Malibu poster on the wall. “Yessirree, much nicer than the dump I used to live in. Quiet guy, aren't ya?”
“Who are you?” I responded.
“I told you, I'm the President!”
“Why... why are you here?”
“Beth interviewed me; I'm your new housemate. Doesn't anyone tell you anything!?”
-------------
I fried up some bacon and eggs as the President watched TV; precisely 14 questions trying to exit my mouth simultaneously like so many bugs at a small door. Andrew had moved out of our sharehouse the previous week, and I knew Beth and Pete had been in charge of interviewing potential replacements for his room while I was busy at uni. What I was less aware of, was that they had selected someone. Someone claiming to be a President. I tipped the bacon onto a plate, reserving the fat and draining it onto a slice of toast. Bacon and eggs, Tony-style.
The President was watching Good Morning Australia, hurling abuse at Moira as she spruiked paper teabag holders.
“Can you believe this bitch?” he said to me as I took a seat beside him. “Comes in right on top of Bert when he's on a fuckin' roll. Thanks,” he said, grabbing the plate. “Air Force One food isn't what it used to be. Great to finally get some real bacon.”
“So... when exactly did Beth interview you?” I asked, as the President stuffed two pieces of bacon in his mouth, dripping egg all over his suit jacket.
“Oh, over the phone last week. Sounds like a real hot chick, if you ask me.” I hadn't, but he didn't seem to care.
“So I gave her a call in response to your ad, and we really hit it off. She told me then and there I could have the room. Speaking of which, I'm done,” he said, tossing his fork onto his plate.
“So where's this room of mine?”
I led the President into the small, dark room which Andrew had recently vacated. Dust and grime were scattered over the scratched wood floor, with a solitary vertical blind making its last stand against the sun.
“Wow,” the President said, as he strolled into the room. “This'll do just fine.”
“When's your furniture coming?” I asked in an attempt to make conversation.
“Oh no, this is all I got.” he said, flashing me a broad smile. “Gotta travel light!”
He opened his bag and pulled out a jumbled heap of suit pants, throwing them on the floor. “Yep, gotta travel light.”
The President sat on the ground, bunching the suit pants up into a pillow, laid his head down, and quickly fell asleep. I closed his door softly, gathered the plates from the living room, and began confusedly washing up.
TBC