A Dream: The rooftop patio of a red brick restaurant. Bougainvillea, Spanish iron hinges everywhere, flamboyant Toucans, a great concourse of friends and family — and Joe Biden, who is my responsibility for some reason. He’s standing in one of those shower stalls you see on the beach, except that it’s up on the top of the restaurant, and Joe appears confused by his options, fully dressed as he is in a suit.
“Do you want to take a shower, Joe?” I ask him.
He shakes his head no.
“Well do you want a chair so that you can sit down in there?”
He steps out and grabs a neck tie, sitting loose on a table, and whips it into a bowl full of salsa, and appears amused and befuddled by the results.
Later, up in the podium seating of an auditorium, I’m seated near Joe, who is waiting to speak but looks confused to the point of catatonic withdrawal. It’s clear he won’t be able to stand up and walk to the microphone. His handlers look worried and I feel the impulse to predict, “Kamala will be president tomorrow or the next day.”
