We find the hat on the Resolute desk looking glum. Outside, the wind is making a sepulchral moan as it weaves through the nooks and crannies of the White House. We tighten to a close-up.

“Go away,” the hat says. “It’s almost Christmas and I’m depressed. I think I might be getting sick. I’m dizzy and I have a headache. Go bother Biden or Kamala or whoever.”

 

“Did your mammogram go OK?” Joe asked as he held her hands and looked into her muddy brown eyes.

“Or, or, or, was it an abortion?” He leaned in on the last word and whispered it. He knew he wasn’t supposed to say the A-word. Or the S-word. Or the N-word. Or the B-word. Or the C-word. Or the A-word.

“No, Mr. President-elect,” she said in a husky dark voice.

“You know, you ever need anything like that, my wife is a doctor, she can fix you right up,” Joe said quietly, leaning in again for a sniff of her hair. Speed Stick. And something else. Wig glue? Only Jill’s voice saying “NO!” and the memory of water spraying in his face kept him from licking her neck.

“Young women like you need Planned Parenthood the most,” Joe said. “Your, your, your, Pap Smears and boob checks, and with the cervix, the part that’s way up in there and stuff, And if you ever get pregnant, well, there’s stuff for that too. Aubergine? OBGYN? Something like that,” Joe said. He waved his hands vaguely at her chest and crotch.

“Thank you, Mr. President-elect,” she said tightly, clipping off her words.

“This is a baby oven place,” Joe said and beamed a smile at the cameras.

 

“I said GO AWAY!” the hat screamed. He poured a bottle of Jack Daniel’s over himself and staggered across the desk. He threw the bottle on the floor, and it bounced on the carpet with a dull thud.

“I SEE YOU!” the hat said, climbing a credenza. He left a slick trail of whiskey and hat vomit as he inched toward the mirror. “I SEE YOU!” he said to his reflection.

 

“Call for you, Madam Vice-President-elect,” the intercom said.

“DR. Madam Vice-President-elect,” Kamala said icily.

“Yes, ma’am,” the receptionist said.

“Dr. Ma’am Esquire,” Kamala replied, dropping her voice a few more degrees.“Yes, Dr. Ma’am Esquire,” the receptionist said meekly.

“Who’s on the phone?” Kamala demanded.

“I’m, I’m not sure, they hung up,” the receptionist said.

 

The hat lay beside the shattered mirror and sobbed.