By Mollie Fermaglich

I sit in a spacious room, eagerly awaiting Democratic Presidential nominee Joe Biden. Okay – it’s not really a room but a finished basement, stocked with enough canned goods and bottled water to have sustained both the French and the German armies at the Battle of Verdun. In a corner, an open chest is filled to the brim with Twinkies, Spam and non-dairy creamer, items that rival only cockroaches in sustainability.

Red, white and blue campaign signs implore voters to text United to 30330, and this reporter is still not sure what this means. Is it some sort of secret Martian language? A discount coupon from RetailMeNot.com? Biden’s version of the Binary Code? I consider asking him but decide I’d rather get my first “Come on, man!” for something more memorable.

The basement is That 70s Show on steroids. There’s a giant screen TV, the old version of Supermarket Sweep is on mute. Pool, ping pong and foosball tables dominate one half of this enormous space. On the other side there is a convincing replica of a Tiki Bar – thatched roof, Tiki lights and torches, plenty of bamboo and rattan, an assortment of plastic tropical cups fashioned after carved-out cocoanuts and pineapples. A large wood sign, Joe and Dr. Jill Biden’s Tiki Bar – Welcome, Pirates and Wenches!” hangs in the back, over bottles of dark and light rum, Kahlua, Cointreau, fruit liquors, tequila and a half-empty bottle of Manischewitz Concord Grape Wine.

A toilet flushes and Joe Biden, wearing his iconic Aviator sunglasses, wipes his hands on his trousers as he greets me.

“Mother always told me to wipe my hands after using the little boys’ room!”

He grabs an open bag of Skittles from his pants pocket and offers some to me.

I politely decline.

“Sure? Tropicals! All out of my favorite – the original Sweet&Sour. First, they’re sweet, and then they’re sour. Wonder how they do that?”

Once he’s settled in, I ask if he’s ready to get started, and he removes a black bandanna mask with cut-out holes for eyes and ties it around his head.

“Can’t be too careful. Hehehe..”

“Uh, sir – that- that’s a Lone Ranger mask…”

“So it is. I’d ask you to be Tonto if we were still allowed to call the Native Americans, ‘Indians,’ but – darn that political correctness – sometimes it just gets in the way of the – you know – the – the thing!”

I exhibit a modicum of patience but I don’t know how long I can keep it up.

“How is it out there?” he asks.

“Out where, sir?”

“Come on, man! Out there there! I’ve been cooped up in here for months. Debbie Wasserman-Schultz’s idea. I’m pretty sure they named those Little Debbie Snack Cakes after her. Terrible for my health but I love those Zebra Cakes – the white icing and chocolate stripes, and can you beat those Pecan Pinwheels? I don’t think so…

She needs one of those Mason-Peloton hairbrushes. Dr. Jill Biden has one and it makes all the difference…”

“Pearson, sir. Mason Pearson.”

“That’s what I said – made of Boar’s Head…”

“Bristles, sir. Boar bristles.”

“Exactly.” He pauses. “You think they use the Sausalito Turkey Breast or the Maple Glazed Honey Ham?”

I am truly in awe of his lack of brain function, but I have a job to do.

“So – everyone insists I stay in this bunker. You’re one of us, right, soldier? Watch out – the Gerries could break in at any moment. Those Panzers could turn this place into a flapjack in two seconds. Luckily, I own a few other houses… Can’t call them ‘Krauts’ anymore, or they’ll cancel me.”

Oy. Oy Oy Oy.

“The DNC said that if I stay here long enough, I could win that HGTV Dream House! But then we’d have to worry about the Zombie Virus, because if a Zombie bites you, you become a Zombie, and then, who would vote for me? Vote for Me – Joe Biden, Bring Back Better.” Because things go better with Coke? Well, that’s what they say…”

I ask the vice president to take a couple of deep breaths so we can, at long last, start the interview. I notice what looks like a tiny ear-piece in his left ear, and ask about it.

“What a silly question – come on, man! You can’t decode the Hardy Boys’ Mystery of Smuggler’s Cove without one of these, you lying dogface pony soldier!”

Here we go…

“Vice President Biden, what a summer we’ve all had. The pandemic, which you claim you can help cure once you are in office. How would you do that?”

“Wear masks. That’s my campaign. Plain and simple. And it’s a better slogan than ‘Bring Back Better.” Also, chicken soup. I like the Progresso Chicken Noodle, but you could do it Jew-style, plucking those disgusting feathers, skimming that chicken fat off the top – that’s the best part, you know. “We used to call it schmaltz, back in the old days on the Lower East Side. Where I was raised…”

“Sir, I thought you were from Scranton, Pennsylvania.”

“And I thought you were Vanna White. Now everyone’s disappointed.”

You’re what Grammy Hall would call a real imbecile. Now, I can continue.

“Many Democratic cities were decimated this summer. Minus those who peacefully protested, Minneapolis, Portland, Chicago, New York, just to name a few, were destroyed – looting, beatings, Molotov cocktails thrown at police, gangs breaking into restaurants, frightening and threatening diners…”

“Defund the police! Defend the police! Defund the police! Defend the police! Defund the police! You see, I just have to keep track of where I am, so – you know – I don’t accidentally shout “Defend!” when I should be yelling, “Defund!”

“Sort of like saying you were in Vermont when you were actually in New Hampshire. Ohio when you were in Iowa.”

“Exactly, you Shetland pony cavalry lamb shank!”

“Fine. Sure. Moving along, Mr. Vice President, you have been quoted as saying that “Antifa is an idea, not an organization.” Do you still believe that?

“Well – I’m not sure. I had an Aunt Joan. And there was Aunt Rosalind, Aunt Helen – she used to tuck a ball of Kleenex under her cardigan sleeve…”

“Focus.”

“No, no. I can’t recall an Aunt Tifa. I’ll have to check that Ancestry.com and get back to you. They’re running a 30- day free trial next month.”

“The President of the United States, sir, has got to be the most difficult job in the world…”

“I beg to differ – I think it was those plate spinners on the old Ed Sullivan Show.”

Of course you do. “But the stress, Mr. Vice President. At 78 – how can I put this? Most of us start losing some of our mental skills, multi- tasking becomes more difficult, our memories are less sharp.”

“Why, you camelback, Gouda cheese-neck pint of Butter Pecan Bedouin…”

Sir, you confused your wife with your sister, couldn’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance, forgot the preamble to the United States Constitution. Some of your critics say you’d have trouble reciting the alphabet.”

“Ridiculous! A-O-C-D-E-F-another letter…”

“With all respect, the alphabet doesn’t start with A-O-C.”

“It will when I’m elected. I promised. I signed something with LegalZoom, promising I’d do that new Green Deal. It’s one of those crazy Crayola marketing ideas – every year they get rid of some crayon colors and add new ones. A few years ago, they ixnayed Violet, Raw Umber, Lemon Yellow. “And now AOC and Bernie say it’s time for the greens to go. Good-bye green. Aqua Green, Caribbean Green, Forest Green, Sea Foam Green-nothing wrong with my memory, you Peruvian Heirloom Tomato-smashing Tee Totaler!”

“I know this is another sensitive subject, sir, but can we talk for a minute about Hunter…”

“Russian disinformation. Disinformation – that’s a great Scrabble word, don’t you think? So, let me ask you this – where’s Hunter? Haha – beat you to it!”

“Yes, well he seems to have made some sweet deals both with Ukraine and China, two countries that, coincidentally, you were in charge of during the Obama administration.”

“So? I love borscht. I love Roast Port Lo Mein – the way they sneak those little scallion pieces in…”

My phone rings, not a minute too soon. It’s my editor.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vice President – I have to take this call,” I say, inching over to the Tiki Bar for some privacy. There’s a glass filled with stale cigarettes. I wave at Biden, asking if he’d mind. I stopped nine years ago but I didn’t care. It was either this or a Xanax the size of a third base bag, and I was all out.

“We have nothing, Jim,” I say. He’s – I don’t know – he’s not all there, and the pieces that are there – they’re all in the wrong place. Like Picasso’s Portrait of Dora Maar – you know, with her lips on her forehead, her eyes stacked one on top of the other.”

I hang up and reach for my coat. “Well, Mr. Vice President, that about wraps things up for us. I want to thank you for your time…”

“Don’t go! It gets so lonely down here.”

“Where’s Mrs. Biden?”

“You mean Dr. Biden, you yellow-bellied, pot-holder, beeswax hussy!” He stands and grabs my calf. “Please, please! ask me another question! I’m just hitting my stride.”

Side-eye.

“Okay, sir. One more. What do you think your chances are of winning, sir?”

“I’m going to. After all, poor kids are just as smart as white kids. You’re looking at the next senator from the great state of Delaware. After all, I have 180 years of senatorial experience – can anyone beat that? I don’t think so.”

“You do know you’re running for President of the United States…?”

“Of course. It’s like Vice President, except for the first six letters.”

We both smell the smoke at the same time, and it is followed by a deafening smoke alarm. Secret Service men scramble down to the basement and within minutes, a fire truck and three police squad cars surround the house.

Two firemen kick open the basement door, and behind them, a frantic Dr. Jill Biden pushes her way toward her husband, an old school black doctor’s bag in one hand.

The Vice President can’t stop coughing, and his wife, trying to stay cool, shouts, “He’s had two aneurysms!”

She places an arm around his shoulder and whispers, “That is true, Joe? It’s not like that NAACP-endorsing-you lie, or being first in your law school class, or that you’re a real college professor. I don’t want to say you had two aneurysms and find out at the ER that they were just panic attacks…”

He nods in between coughs. “I swear!”

She opens her doctor’s bag and takes out a thermometer and holds it to his head. “Don’t worry – I’m a doctor!”

The fire, a small one, ignited when I stubbed my cigarette out in a rattan ashtray, is quickly put out with a bottle of club soda. “Well,” I say, “we’re lucky his wife is a doctor.” Biden giggling, tells us, She’s not a real doctor.”

“What?”

“She’s always introduced as ‘Dr. Jill Biden!” I say.

The fireman points out that she’s wearing a white doctor’s coat.

“I like to humor her. Nags me less. Technically, she is a ‘doctor,’ but that’s because she has a doctorate. In education. She teaches at a community college – we’re so proud of her.”

“Then you’ve lied to the entire country by omission, Mr. Vice President. Look at her now in that lab coat! Everyone assumes she’s a doctor-doctor…”

Suddenly, Biden’s breathing becomes shaky and shallow. The fireman calls to his partner, “Quick – he’s turning blue!”

His wife rushes over, helps her husband lie down on the floor, and opens her doctor’s bag, grabbing the largest thermometer I’ve ever seen, pressing the round end to his forehead.

“What’s it say?” one of the firemen asks, laughing, “that the turkey’s almost done? We have one of those down at the station house. It’s a meat thermometer.”

“Is not,” ‘Dr.’ Jill says, opening the top button of her husband’s shirt.

“Someone – you!” she points at me. “Don’t just stand there! Hand me some gauze!”

I find some gauze in the bag, along with an Ace bandage, some Calamine lotion, a Chobani Black Cherry yogurt, small tin of Altoids, tube of Charlotte Tilbury matte lipstick, and two Depends in a Zip-Lock bag.

I hand her a gauze roll, which she places on the floor.

“Alcohol wipes! Blood pressure cuff! Defibrillator!”

I dig deeper – there’s a huge Larry & Larry’s Protein Chocolate Chip cookie, busted up but still in its foil wrapper. No defibrillator.

“Clear!” she yells at us. “Clear! Come on, Joe, stay with us – breathe! Breathe!” and then proceeds to wrap his toes in gauze.

Suddenly, Biden pushes himself up on his elbows and asks for my phone.

“You’re in good hands, honey,” she shouts, her back to us as she double-knots the gauze. “Good thing you married a doctor!”

He turns to me. “I can’t die. Not now – I have a Senate race in a couple of weeks. Hand me your phone!”

“My phone?”

“Look, you Australian Sheppard Jello-loving geranium sniffer, he whispers, “I play along with her but, come on, man! My life’s in jeopardy! I need a real doctor or it’s curtains for me!

He grabs my phone and, as Dr. Jill applies press-on gel nails with a lovely fleur-de-lis design onto each gauzed toe, he dials, nervously counting the number of rings before someone answers.

“Finally! County General Hospital? This is Senator Joe Biden, and I need an actual doctor here, stat! Is George Clooney on call tonight?”