Dream, Hillary

I'm out to dinner with a group of friends. It's a nice place. Somewhat dark and mostly red and tan. The place pushed two tables together to accommodate my group. White tablecloths, lots of crystalware, short candles burning inside wide glass containers, nice centerpiece, plates on chargers, folded white linen napkins, extra forks, water glasses, wine glasses, everyone in my group has their own cocktail as they are seated.

Off to the side in the low light with flickering red color, there are a spattering of similar tables with married couples and people on dates. Then Hillary Clinton comes in with a group of people but sits alone on a raised platform facing the small group of tables. It is an intimate setting. My group is off to the side. She looks lonely, disappointed, defeated, exhausted, and old.

I break away from the group and sit next to her. She appears an old woman such as you see in nursing homes. She is bitter, frail and weak. I say to her, "you are my favorite First Lady." And I think as I'm saying it, "Why am I lying so much? No wait, this is actually true. Casting back to that time, she actually is the most interesting First lady. All the others are duds. Except one who's more like a permanently scowling man. Wives of republican presidents simply are not that interesting."  It's what happened since then that brings her down in estimation.

She said, "Thanks. Lotta good that does. So where were you when I was running for president?"

"Well, come on. I couldn't actually vote for you for president. Why would I want to do that?"

I gave her the opening to tell me why I should have voted for her. Twice.

She tells me her story again in self aggrandizing terms leaving out all traces of anything negative. She gets angry in her telling. It gets her blood up. And this is the feeble part, she aggressively smashes her hand into my face as she talks about herself, but it doesn't hurt, it's weak, it's a fail-smash, and I don't interrupt her. I just angle my body away momentarily, then pull back in closely. As she speaks she punches my arm, jabs my necks, bops my head, I'm the punching bag to her story, I represent everyone she would like to hit,  but none of it hurts.

I had ample spaces for interjecting all the reasons I could not possibly vote for her. Riding on husband's coattails, carried aloft by party, made senator of New York with no more portfolio than being First Lady, her obnoxious sense of entitlement, behaving as imagined royalty, achieving nothing while in office, using her foundations as laundry for pay to play corruption, selling her political office to highest bidder, using her office to amass fortunes, concealing her activities with a private server, destroying evidence. Her considering her communication hers and not ours while she was in office. I never mentioned Benghazi. Never mentioned the very many questionable untimely deaths of people close to her and her husband.

I held back a lot to allow the nursing home patient space to regurgitate her story in her words. A kindness extended to a sufferer of dementia and other physical ailments piled up. Respect extended to a person who used Party so thoroughly to grab so much national attention and then fell ignominiously. I just sat there and listened.

"You're a rough story teller."

The couples at the tables all laughed at once. They were noticing this going on, they were listening to Hillary's story more than they're they were enjoying their dinners. She took precedence over the meal that they came out for. She was more interesting than that. This clued Hillary and me that we have an audience of Hillary admirers.

So now she's talking to them as audience, and I do not contradict anything. I have plenty to say, but hold it all back. She said, "There's a lot more to me and than just my life in politics. The media never covered any of my other interests."

"Like what?"

"Well, this might surprise you but I actually enjoy cooking and baking. My speciality is cookies."

I thought, "You told us you're not Tammy Wynette standing by your man, staying at home baking cookies. What happened to that?" But I didn't say anything. I let her talk about her cookies.

She reached in to her purse and produced a cellophane package containing a cookie. And this is odd, she half didn't want to give it me because she understood I am one of her political opponents and to her that means I'm an enemy.  One of her only enemy types. There are no enemies to people like her except all we Americans to her immediate right. The ones preventing her from ultimate power. We're not even reformable.

I held the cookie but didn't open it.

Then she handed out the same little square cellophane packages from her purse to the couples who had become her audience. All of them voted for her. All of them were very interested in her story and how she was handling me. For them, this was the best floor show ever.

They opened their packages and the cookies inside expanded to larger size than their package. They puffed up when out of their package and the air hit them to tender spongy type cookies, each one different with various fillings, and colorful dots inside them. Very imaginative cookies, actually, well thought, well produced, well packaged and good tasting with interesting texture. Her cookies were ace and the diners really enjoyed having them. None of the diners saved their cookie for souvenirs. I thought, "Man, these cookies could actually be valuable in terms of historic keepsakes, but none of the people kept them, they were too interesting examining them. This woman here, really is American history. They abandoned their dinners to favor Hillary's cookies. They were a real hit.

While the diners were distracted examining, discussing, sharing, and eating their colorful sponge cookies, I said to Hillary quietly, "Are you sure you want to give this to me?"

Being the cheapskate she is, being a vindictive old woman, a hag, actually, and not wanting to waste one of her valuable cookies on a foe, she said, "No" and took back the cookie she gave me and put it back in her purse.

Indian giver. On top of everything else. And there went my valuable historic keepsake.

End.