“Your breasts are a common good,” Bernie said, never breaking eye contact with her chest. It was two hours until their rally and he had insisted they come to the stage alone to discuss strategy.
“OK, Boomer!” Sandy said brightly. She contorted her face and took a selfie, and then did it again and again.
“I am not a boomer,” Bernie said, the left side of his face sagging. “I’m the greatest generation. The greatest. Just the best.”
“Aw,” she cooed. “You’re so cute, like an old Granpa raisin.” She tried to smooth some of his hair into place but danced back as a trembling hand reached for her left breast.
“Naughty,” she said and smiled, her large teeth sharp in the lighting of the stage.
“‘From each according to her ability, to each according to his need,’” he said in a reedy voice and then licked his gummy lips.
“OMG, is that Oprah? I could totes see Oprah, like, saying that,” Sandy squealed.
“Marx,” he said roughly. “That’s Karl Marx.”
“Is he on Instagram?”
“He died in 1883.”
“So he’s not on Instagram?”
“This is, like, basic stuff,” Bernie said, his face drawing into itself as a wave of pain crossed his chest. “I thought you were a Democratic Socialist.”
“Hashtag socialism,” Sandy chirped. “Hashtag social justice, and like, hashtag lifegoals.” She scratched idly at her crotch through the thick material of her dress and giggled to herself.
“Do you even know what any of that means?” Bernie asked, massaging his left arm.
“Socialism means that you, like, should be all nice to people and stuff,” she said, smelling her fingers and wrinkling her nose. “Rich people are so mean. Be nice, not mean.”
“‘Be nice, not mean,’” he repeated.
“That’s my 2024 slogan! Hashtag PresidentSandy!”
Bernie closed his eyes and sighed.
“Selfie!” she said, throwing an arm around the elderly man and snapping a picture.
“My eyes!” he said. “The light!”
“I didn’t use the flash,” Sandy said. She pried a wad of gum from her back teeth and stuck it to the back of one of the leather chairs on the stage.
“I’m so happy your breasts are here to support my campaign,” Bernie said.
“I’m, like, more than, like, just, you know, my breasts, Bernie,” Sandy said. “I also have an Instagram feed and my Twitter account is just, like, killer.” She held her phone out for the old man and scrolled through pictures of brunch and selfies with Illy and Sheedy.
“I see you know a Negro,” Bernie said. “Very progressive. I knew a lot of Negros growing up in Brooklyn. Great people, just great. You know I grew up in Brooklyn, right?”
“And I, like, grew up in The Bronx. We both have a lot of street smarts.”
“A street-tough Jew like me should be President,” Bernie said.
“Ew. You’re Jewish?” Sandy asked. “I thought you were just white.”
“You got a problem with Jews? Huh? Do you?” Bernie asked, puffing out his aching chest.
“Illy says Jews are ruining the country and Sheedy says they run Fox News. And that Fox News is bad.”
“You need better friends, I think,” Bernie said gruffly.
“Hashtag SquadGoals!” Sandy whooped.
“Karl Marx was a Jew. Jews have always been at the forefront of the Socialist movement.” Bernie said. Red-faced and gasping, he sat down heavily into one of the chairs on the stage.
“So Jews are nice?” Sandy asked doubtfully.
“Very nice,” Bernie said in a strangled voice.
“You seem nice,” Sandy said. “At least when you aren’t yelling.”
Bernie slumped forward in his chair.
“I said ‘At least when you aren’t yelling,’” Sandy repeated, louder, and kicked the side of his chair.
“They shouldn’t have given us leather chairs,” Sandy said as his medical support team rushed the stage.
“Cows are friends, not food,” she said over the whine of the defibrillator charge. “Or chairs.”
“Moo,” she said over the shouting and scramble. “Moooooooo.”