The View From The Balcony: Clash of the Geriatric Titans

A pea soup fog blanketed The Square last Saturday night, swallowing most sounds and making the streetlights glow like the ghosts of fireflies. It was London-like and I half expected to see a werewolf lurking in the murk. I realized I had fallen asleep—again—and been locked in—again. I suppose that if one is going to be locked in anywhere in Oxford, the upstairs bar at City Grocery is without question the best lock-up joint in town.

It was the muffled sound of over-priced shoes coming from the east and west that had stirred me from my slumber. I could barely make out the approaching shadowy figures. All I could see from my perch on The Balcony was two men in long woolen coats coming face-to-face. They stopped at the door to the bar and tried to open it.

“Well, damn!” said the smaller man. “They said they’d leave it unlocked.”
“Don’t worry,” said the Big Guy. “I got this.”

I heard the scraping sound of metal against metal. The Big Guy was picking the lock. He shoved the door open and footsteps ensued.

I hobbled behind the bar when what to my wondering eyes did appear at the top of the stairs but two candidates who were vying for the highest office in the land—T-Rump and J ō b ī. They looked as surprised to see me as I was to see them.

I welcomed them and offered drinks. J ō b ī wanted beer—Irish if possible. “Make sure there’s a good head on it. I like a good head,” he said. T-Rump ordered a Shirley Temple.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “but Shirley Temple is dead.” T-Rump looked a bit baffled. “Then I’ll have a mocktail—any mocktail—as long as there’s tail in it.” So I got J ō b ī his beer and mixed as many non-alcoholic beverages I could for T-Rump, adding a heavy dose of bitters and hot sauce with a twist of lime. J ō b ī took a long drink from his beer, leaving him with a hefty beerstache.

T-Rump glugged his mocktail, belched like a sperm whale’s blowhard hole, then turned orange. His comb-over poofed to the ceiling as though he were passing gas from the blowhard hole on top of his own head, then came back down looking very much like the pile-of-sh*t icon on the internet. He hurled his glass at the Falstaff sign and gave me the stink eye.

J ō b ī and T-Rump went to The Balcony and sat in the northeast corner where the streetlight, usually blinding, emitted an eerie green glow ala Ghostbusters. I returned to the southwest corner, sipped vodka, and tried to eavesdrop.

I couldn’t hear much, but every now and then I could make out words like “witch hunt,” “c’mon man!” “border fences,” “Ukrainium,” “top-secreted files,” “jail time,” “stolen erection,” “Steamy Dan Yells,” and “Vlad-the-Pootin.” At times T-Rump would go ballistic, stand up and gesticulate wildly while rabidly raging. He looked at me and yelled, “I know you’re listening, Weaks! You’d better not be a Leeky Weekie!” J ō b ī quietly sipped his beer and chuckled, still with a heady beerstache and his signature teardrop aviators.

T-Rump whipped out an old deck of cards for a game of poker to decide who would be the other’s running mate—Tater Tot or George Santos. J ō b ī inspected the cards and said, “I’m not playing with that deck. There’s an ill deuce in the stack.”

Enraged, T-Rump stormed off The Balcony and down the stairs, fuming all the way while J ō b ī waddled behind. At the door the two took opposite directions. T-Rump railed and flailed his arms as he tried to get into the Lyric. He shrieked, “Where’s a strip club when you need one?!” J ō b ī shuffled off to Buffalo, stopping to check out the window display at Square Books. Before turning the corner he looked up at me, grabbed his pants for a better stance, jumped up high, clicked his heels, and lightly touched down while whistling Happy Days are Here Again.

I left a generous amount of cash at the bar, locked up, slid down the lamp post, and headed home. A terrifying thought crossed my mind and an Arctic chill shot up and down my spine. I realized the worst: the USA was now closer than ever to being led by a dicktater.

…and that’s the View from The Balcony.

Randy Weeks is a Licensed Professional Counselor, a Certified Shamanic Life Coach, an ordained minister, a singer-songwriter, and an actor. He plans no further leaks from this excursion into Bizarro World politics. Randy may be reached at randallsweeks@gmail.com.