Spooky Action at a Distance

By Melissa Westbrook

The night before last, I stood over Lindsey Graham watching

him sleep. In, out, in, out – he wasn’t snoring but he did drool

a bit.

It was boring so I left.

Last night, I watched Mitch McConnell sleep. He snores and

it makes his jowls flap like chicken wings. Like Daddy and Step-

mom, McConnell and his wife sleep in separate rooms. I used to

think that was weird but seeing how these guys are when they

sleep, now I get it.

Me, I rock myself to sleep.

I wander my apartment, taking a drag from my mod and

pondering my next move. Wandering the hallway –- I truly have a

great place, thanks Daddy! –- I stopped and looked at myself in a

mirror.

I remember reading in a magazine a long time ago where

Christie Brinkley explained that she had nothing to do with her

looks; they came from her parents. So I researched her parents.

Perfectly ordinary but somehow all the best parts of them

migrated to her. My parents are fairly good-looking people but

somehow I got the worst of their features. It’s just not fair.

Comparisons start at home and it’s hard when your sister is

considered the beauty in the family. And to find out that,

originally, your sister was supposed to have your name but her

mother rejected it. So then, I come along and I get stuck with

it. Daddy won as he usually does.

Mama and Daddy divorced very soon after I was born. My Mama

imprinted on me her own sweet disposition and for that I’m deeply

thankful. And her great legs; I can’t forget those.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw the video of Daddy

being interviewed after my birth. He was asked, who did I favor,

mom or dad?

“She’s got her mom’s legs. We don’t know whether or not

she’s got this part yet, but time will tell,” and he cupped his

hands up to his chest. I was a one-year old at the time.

I saw my sister was recently asked what she got from her

parents. She said her mom showed her how to be a powerful,

successful woman. But when her mom worked for Daddy in 1987, he

said her salary was—"$1 and all the dresses she wants.”

Seriously,Sis?

And what did she get from Daddy? Her fucking moral compass.

I mean Daddy was cheating on her mother with my mother. Jesus H.

Christ, I could laugh for days on that one.

Most of my own inner life and salvation came from reading.

Poor Mama, one time she worried out loud that I was reading too

much and I said to her, “What mother actually says this?” She
looked at me, then dropped to the floor, sobbing. I had to hold

her for over an hour; I never again said anything about her

parenting.

My sweet mom gave me another gift. The love of music and,

in specific, oldies. I would not know half the songs I do except

that she was always listening to music and singing along.

Daddy’s lack of interest in me picked up just a bit in my

teens. Like when I had a swim party for my sweet sixteen with my

friends. In bikinis. I found out later that he actually pinched

someone’s ass. Gross.

There was one trait that he did give me. Focus. Which would

not seem to be what I would have gotten from someone that I saw

so little of and who seemed to care about me even less. What I

hear when I think of him is that voice saying, “Focus, sweetie,

focus.”

During high school, I had developed a special -- if uneven

-- kind of focus and I worked it like a hooker in a hurry.

I became interested in physics. Daddy was baffled and said,

“What the hell do you need that for?” But, for once, I ignored

him.

Physics was fascinating, learning about teleportation,

dematerializing and my favorite, quantum entanglement or what

they call superposition. Meaning, when particles get together or

link across a distance. I became obsessed.

Albert Einstein saw entanglement and called it “spooky

action at a distance.” Seems like he thought it a bad thing to

break the laws of physics. Not me.

 I found out that just five years after I was born, Caltech

physicists teleported a photon from one sealed chamber to another

chamber over a couple of feet.

I wanted to learn my own kind of teleportation, to get far

away from anything or anyone. Starting out, I wanted to be able

to move myself into my bedroom closet. And one day, I did. I

dubbed this new ability, Still Travel.

After the very first time I used Still Travel, I recalled a

Phil Collins song Mama used to play where he sings, “I’ve been

waiting for this moment all my life.” Exactly. I also remember

when I saw the movie “Carrie”, all I could think was, “What took

her so long to bust out these moves?”

So I practiced. It’s harder to go thru a closed door than

an open one but eventually I could do that as well. I never gave

up pushing harder.

I had a couple of close friends in high school but when our

girlhood changed to womanhood, they were more interested in looks

than books, here than there.

I guess maybe that’s not fair; I also scared them when I

had seemingly gone into the bathroom and then I was sitting right

next to them. “I’m a cat burglar; it’s a gift” I would tell them.

I tried some singing at 17 and released an ill-fated, auto-

tuned song. But I truly love music so I dove into music

appreciation courses. It’s more than just hearing music -- it’s

learning to listen.
 To my great delight, I found a cross-reference between

Einstein and John Coltrane. Who knew?

Apparently, Coltrane was into Einstein’s work and talked

about black holes and such. He was quoted as saying he hoped to

create music of his own that would match Einstein’s physics

discoveries. That makes sense because, as Thelonious Monk said,

“All musicians are subconsciously mathematicians.”

And what helped Einstein when he found himself stuck on a

problem? Music. He’d just get up and leave his study, play his

piano for 30 minutes, and then go right back to work. Love,love,

love that.

I followed Daddy and my sibs to Penn. But I didn’t join

them in majoring in business so maybe that was my mistake. I even

joined a sorority to see if I could find some real sisters. But

when you are rich (not really) and famous (make that have a

famous last name), that type of sister stuff can be very phony. I

so wanted the actives to like me. But I was never sure they did.

I did live off-campus -- my one win over Mama and Daddy --

because I wanted to practice Still Travel every day so I needed

to be alone. Some people played video games; me, I was the game.

I graduated from college, kinda thinking my Daddy was not

waving me on to the next chapter of my life but waving goodbye. I

had a few high-rolling friends like Lindsey and we partied in

Mykonos; I think it both surprised and pleased Daddy. But it

changed nothing between us.

I grew more and more confident in my Still Travel ability.

I was in Calvin Klein one day, trying on clothes and decided to

give it a go. I had never done this outside my dorm or apartment.

And guess what? I popped right into the men’s dressing room. A

couple of guys seemed to dig it but I got out fast.

Time passed pleasantly. I graduated and went onto law

school as rich kids do.

I thought that if I were fortunate enough, I’d find a good

guy, let Daddy walk me down the aisle, and then exit stage left

from that side of the family. I didn’t think I’d be missed.

And then, as the song goes, it was the end of the world as

we know it.

Well, not for me, of course. Oddly, my father being a world

leader wasn’t going to affect my life at all except that he had

to publicly acknowledge me in front of millions. For anyone who

thought there could be nothing good from him winning the

election, I selfishly say, there’s that.

I thought that I didn’t care what he said or did in his

elected role. I mean, my father going to church? For real?

Please.

And then there’s the issue of our family. My sister seemed

to sit at his right hand. Her brothers, Tweedledee and Tweedledum

hover around the edges like wayward disciples.

My father likes having young women around so it didn’t

surprise me to see gorgeous women like Hope and Madeleine working

closely with him. I’m not sure it occurred to anyone to ask me if

I might want a role in all this.

But then came Maddy’s indelicate talk with media types when

she had a little too much to drink. She said Daddy didn’t like to
take photos with me because I look fat. Well, I do have a fat

face and I got it from him. Go look in the mirror, Daddy.

After that got out, I posted on Instagram a poem by Rumi

that speaks of knowing a person, “Because I have chosen to dwell

in a place you can’t see.”

Which is true because Mama gave me the strength to be me

and because I have a power that no one else will ever know about.

However, as time went by, I saw -- in nearly every

direction -- that Daddy was hurting people I care about. Blacks.

Gays. Women. Basically, everyone who didn’t look like him.

My concern continued to grow and so, reluctantly, I tried

to talk to my sister about what was unfolding across the country.

She furrowed her brow as if I was speaking a different language.

First came the pat on the arm and then in her breathy Marilyn

Monroe voice she said, “It’ll be okay, wait and see.” Then she

smiled that non-smile – you know, the one where it doesn’t reach

her eyes. I smiled back but I don’t think she realized with that

simple statement she both flipped the table and broke the camel’s

back.

America, I’m coming to the rescue.

Trying to figure out a likely day and time wasn’t that

hard; except for out-of-country travel, he was either at the

White House or Mar-a-Lago. Which place would have better

security? W.H. in D.C. (I also thought -- for sure -- that he

might have cameras in the bedrooms at Mar-a-Lago. Gross.)

I had one key logistic in my favor – Daddy really likes his

privacy. Lucky me.

 What time should I visit? I know he eats McDonald’s in bed

as he watches tv. Like at 6:30 pm. Who’s in bed at 6:30?k

I had visited the official residence before. (Bastard

wouldn’t let me have the Lincoln bedroom.) He would either be in

the master bedroom or the living room outside it. Stepmom had her

own room down the hall and the chances were off the charts that

she wouldn’t be staying the night. Or even visiting.

All that was left was to fly to D.C.

I kept to myself at the airport. No one even tried to talk

to me. It was almost like being with my father.

I had thought of wearing a MAGA cap as a joke. But I

didn’t.

I stayed at the cheapest hotel I could find that would be

within a mile to the White House. Oddly, it was named the Baron

Hotel. Poor little guy, like me, he’s not much in Daddy’s eyes

either but that’s one family secret we all want to keep in check.

I had to use a girlfriend’s credit card to make the

reservation but asked about using cash to pay the bill at the end

of my stay and they were all for it. In God we trust; all others

pay cash.

I arrived and the hotel was all the horrible things that

Trip Advisor had said it would be. It was a place with carpet so

dirty it was hard to discern a pattern and an indifferent front-

desk clerk who barely looked up from his cellphone.

The big day dawned and, while it was sunny, it was also

bitterly cold. I thought that cold would also keep him indoors,
cozy in bed with his Big Mac. I stayed inside most of the day,

just reading and conserving energy.

I wore all black attire, just because, I don’t know – it

looks so gangsta. I really wanted to wear a Guy Fawkes mask but I

wasn’t sure Daddy would get it. I also wanted to be able to see

peripherally so I had practiced whiting-out my entire face with

stage makeup, painting on a jagged-edge black-and-white mask

around my eyes and then I made my lips overly large with red

lipstick. Last, I pulled on my purple, Jane Fonda-in-Klute wig. I

looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, bathed in fluorescent

light. I didn’t recognize me.

At the appointed time, I got up and made sure the hotel

door was bolted with the chain on. I stuck a chair under the

doorknob. I stuffed a towel along the bottom of the door to

prevent light from coming in. Experience has taught me that Still

Travel needed near-total darkness. I pulled the curtains tightly.

The best method I had for Still Travel was to be in a fetal

position. But I didn’t want to appear in the room that way in

case he was right there. But curled up in some fashion really

helps so I did the next best thing and sat on the bed with my

legs crossed. I dropped my head, the wig covering my face. And I

started to breath deeply. There was no “ohm” to it, no sound at

all. It’s just a massive mind-body collection of energy, to

concentrate towards one place.

Yes, I know. If it’s this hard getting there, how do I get

back? Oddly, luckily – it’s much easier to get back. The best
way to explain that is, like orgasms, it’s hard getting to one

but coming back down is easy.

Time to go. And 5,4,3,2,1 and there I was, in the living

area of his White House suite. I went quietly thru the living

room and locked the door to the hallway. Quickly, quietly I

entered the bedroom.

There were fast food wrappers on the king-sized bed in the

empty room. Then I spied the light under the bathroom door.

Wonder which of Daddy’s hotel robes he’ll be wearing – the

Trump International Beach Resorts one with the dimpled texture or

the plain “Trump Hotels” smooth one. My money is on the old-

school dimpled one. (Although Step-mommy told me once that he

goes thru them like toilet paper because of his bronzer

addiction. She said he had wrecked more than one of her dresses

that way as well.)

I worried if I just appeared on the bed he would get the

wrong idea. A kind of Jeffrey Epstein gift. But I’m not my

sister; I’d bet he never wanted to sleep with me.

I had wanted to just appear before him – it seems the most

unnerving to people - but popping out from the side of the bed

would have to do.

I knelt down on the side of the bed away from the bathroom

door and waited. In a few, the door opened, I heard a belch and

knew he was coming. He lumbered onto the bed, the mattress

denting under his girth.

I waited. He switched on one of the three televisions in

front of the bed.

 I popped up like a jack-in-the-box. That look on his face

was worth all the worry and effort to get there. I saw his hand

moving to reach up to the headboard.

“No, no, no,” I said. The robotic voice that came from my

mini voice-changer device did the trick. He withdrew his hand.

FOX News was spewing out its venom but the noise worked to

my benefit.

“Good boy,“ I said, “You can keep eating.”

“What the hell do you want?” he asked gruffly, trying to

hide his discomfort at being caught off-guard. Gesturing,

he growled, “There are guys right outside that door who

could snap you like a twig,”

I regarded him for a moment. “Aren’t you interested in who

I am?”

“I could give a rat’s ass,” he sneered.

I pouted. “Now you’re hurting my feelings; I came all this

way and this is the welcome I get?”

He suddenly lunged clumsily at me, shouting, “Hel-!”

I stood there calmly, not moving, my hands at my sides,

controlling my energy, watching him fall back against the

mountain range of pillows behind him. Then I loosened the grip

around his throat. Did I mention I had a new twist to Still

Travel? I do.

He choked, trying to catch his breath.

Then I asked, “Not going to do that again, right?” He

rubbed his throat and nodded grimly.

 He was hunched over, his paunch making him look like a

woman about ready to give birth. He looked at me, glowering.

“Tell me what you want already,” he snapped.

I walked to the end of the bed, watching him the whole

time. I took out a list from my pocket that I had prepared. I

watched his face; he looked scared but true to form, bellicose.

“You want me to change the Supreme Court? Let those

illegals out of their cages? What?” he said in a rush. I found it

interesting that he seemed to go right where I wanted even before

I got there.

Tucker Carlson droned on.

I looked at him and quoted, “Leges Sine Moribus Vanae.”

He went slack-jawed for a few seconds, then said, “You need

to speak English in the U.S.A.”

I sighed. “It’s the motto of the University of Pennsylvania

– “Laws without morals are useless.”

“So you looked up where I went to school, so what?”

Not the master of irony, clearly.

He went on. “Money? I’ve got money. Not a lot liquid, it’s

all in my buildings but I could get some. But I need a guarantee

you won’t kill me.” He pleaded, “I won’t tell anyone you were

here.”

I had to stop myself from laughing out loud. “Of course,

you won’t. You can’t.

I imitated him - ”’One minute she was here and the next she

was gone. Really, you have to believe me.’ Your base will finally
think you are nuts just like the rest of the country already

does.”

He sat there like a spent piece of wood in a fire,

smoldering. He did manage to keep stuffing fries in his mouth.

“You could try being nice,” I offered.

He almost did a spit-take with the fries.

“Nice? Listen up, lady, niceness is one of the few luxuries

I am not interested in. It gets you nothing in this world.”

We stared at each other for a long minute and then he

narrowed his eyes. I realized that, even in this moment, he was

trying to negotiate. Holy shit.

What the fuck do you want?” he said quietly. The situation

had finally illuminated itself to him. There was no deal to be

had.

“Look you bitch, I’m offering all I can but my patience is

wearing thin.”

It was disappointing. I thought he’d be meek. I had thought

he and I might have a few additional encounters and over time, I

might be able to get him to back off some of his more atrocious

works. After all, it would seem odd for him to flip 180 degrees

in just one day.

That wouldn’t be happening, I knew that now.

He put on his patented NYC face of “C’mon!” This was all

going nowhere and I was getting tired and trying to Still Travel

when you’re not 100% isn’t a good idea.

It all felt like a mistake. And then it came to me.

 I dropped my head to concentrate. I could tell he was

weighing what to do but I had already started to contract his

throat muscles. He gagged and gasped and I took him right to the

edge of dead. He got very red, then gray.

Then he passed out and somehow, I knew it had worked.

I walked over and kissed his forehead and whispered,

“Rallentando, Daddy, rallentando.” All that musical knowledge can

come in handy when you want to give someone a nudge.

The next day, the headlines blared, “President suffers

massive stroke.” FOX News spoke reassuringly that he wasn’t going

to die but that he would probably never walk again.

Or talk. He’ll never talk again. They left that out.

Imagine that -- my father never again being able to jeer or

bluster or demean or bad-mouth.

There seems to be a lot of talk about President Pence.

But the way I see it, if we want a president with an

alliterative name, why not President Pelosi?

I’m the odd one out but still, I smile.

The End

DISCLAIMER: Daddy, the character, is based on President Donald

J. Trump. The unnamed woman character in this story is based on

Tiffany Trump. The events or incidents portrayed here are

fictitious.
The views and opinions expressed in the story are those of the

characters only and do not necessarily reflect or represent the

views and opinions held by individuals on which those characters

are based.

Some statements made are based on recorded history. But this

story is a work of dramatic fiction; any comments, thoughts or

statements are my invention.