Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [43]
“The oldest man on earth?”
“Yeah, right, that. I’m embarrassed that my history is so rusty, but wasn’t marijuana totally illegal in your time?”
Taft smiled. “Your history is indeed rusty. Remember, I come from the age of the Prohibition movement. There were all manner of people and organizations obsessed with telling America what it should or shouldn’t eat, drink, think. Oh, the tiffs Nellie and I would have over the subject! And from what I’ve come to understand, Prohibition is long past, but that mentality persists.”
“So what was your take on it?”
“That’s a complicated question. As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes you must pick your battles when you’re in office or trying to get there, especially when it comes to political expediency. Let’s just say my views on the matter definitely evolved, and I tried to edge near the center of the debate as much as possible, if you don’t mind the oxymoron.”
“Uh, no, I don’t mind. But weren’t you a judge before you got mixed up in politics?”
“I was. But being a judge is easy. You side with the law, any law, even if personally you don’t agree with it. If, that is, you’re a good judge. And you side with it by deciding its most germane and just interpretation.”
“Hmm. So you bend the law as far as it will go—and that makes it stronger.”
Taft gave Kowalczyk a stern look. Then he laughed. “A great legal mind trapped among the rank and file of the Secret Service!”
“Hey, screw you, buddy. Seriously, though. How do you feel about, I don’t know, the war on drugs and all that?” From the kitchen, the crudest, most obnoxious music imaginable began to pour out. “It’s a different world, in case you needed a painful reminder.”
Taft looked at his belly and shrugged. “The war on drugs. I’ve read about it. Sorry to answer rhetorically, but who am I to judge what someone else puts in his body?”
As if waiting for those very words to be said, Rob hurried out of the kitchen with a steaming pail in each hand and a large platter balanced on top. “Your nacho fries,” he said, depositing the buckets on the table between them. Judging from its odor, the gooey, orange substance may have once had congress, albeit brief, with some distant relative of cheese. Then he set down the platter. “And one dozen Bombers, with an extra thrown in, on the house.”
Taft couldn’t recognize a single thing on the palm-sized buns. Meat of some species protruded in dripping shreds from the edges of the sandwiches. Slices of melted cheeselike matter, the same color as the glop that coated the French fries, swam in some iridescent commingling of sauces and gravies. Sliced vegetables, already wilted beyond recognition, made a token appearance. Something else, though, lurked under the bun—something pale and rubbery.
“Rob, if I may ask one small question.” Taft pointed at the Bomber. “Is that what I think it is?”
Rob’s face broke out in confusion. “Can you, uh, be more specific?”
Taft nudged the rubber substance with his fingernail.
“Oh, yeah, totally!”
“A fried egg.”
“Oh, no. It’s not an egg. It’s the bomb! The bomb in the Bomber! All natural, all handmade. Organic junk food, dude!”
With that, he flipped the “Open” sign and began wiping down the nearest table. Over his shoulder he said, “You guys are my last customers, so take your time. I’ve got to clean up and get ready. It’s New Year’s Eve—2012, dudes! It’s gonna be a fucking insane year. Mayan prophecies and the big election and shit. I can feel it. Just as long as those crazy Taft assholes don’t turn the clock back a hundred years.”
“Actually,” said Taft, pointing at the mountain of untouched Bombers and uttering a sentence he didn’t often have cause to use, “could you kindly wrap these up to go? And one other thing: where exactly is the best place in the neighborhood to celebrate New Year’s Eve?”
“Wait a second, Bill,” said Kowalczyk, but Taft held up a hand.
Rob pumped his fist, sending water from his cleaning rag spraying everywhere. “Yeah, man, that’s the spirit! I’d recommend the bar next door, the Whole Hog.