The Gay Executive
All the Emergencies We Need Declared – For Now
“Where are they?”
President Donald J. Trump rasped the question into the telephone receiver from where he sat at his Residue Desk. At that moment, the acting assistant of the unofficial office of some project or other1 appeared in the doorway of the Oval Office, his usual bevy of acting deputy assistants just behind him.
“No — wait!” Trump set down the receiver and frowned at the small crowd. “Well?”
The acting assistant, whose name was Tim, made a short bow, then applauded. The bevy of acting deputy assistants applauded. President Trump stood up and applauded, then grabbed the phone receiver.
“Never mind, they’re here.”
He clicked the receiver down onto the presidential phone set from which he had taken it. There were two phone sets on his Residue Desk, which mildly troubled him when he wasn’t busy running the country. And he wasn’t busy running the country, not this week anyhow, not yet anyhow, because although it was already Monday morning again, the start of Week Twelve of his second presidency, he didn’t know what to do. But the acting assistant had finally shown up, and Trump had no more worries about running the country, so he could return to wondering about those two phone sets.
“Sir!” Tim called out as he stepped forward, proffering a silver platter that held a low stack of as if crisply starched, exceedingly thin, pure-white folders. Those folders seemed to contain no other substance than the soft luster of pure white, a luster that caused Trump’s inner being to tremble just looking at them.
Tim bowed again briefly but could not applaud because of that platter, so the bevy of acting deputy assistants (often referred to as the Choir) still crowding the doorway behind him applauded. President Trump stood up and applauded, then sat down, looked at Tim and the platter.
“They look very nice, as always,” Trump confessed, but groused: “There aren’t that many.”
“Five, Sir. One for each weekday,” Tim assured him and placed the platter with the crisp, glowing folders on the Residue Desk. “Here you go, Sir.”
Trump continued to fret. “Not that many.” He tilted his head to look sideways at the short stack. “Numbered?”
“Not this week, Sir. You can issue one each day or as many a day as you want in any order you want.”
“No de-pen-den-cies?” Trump pronounced the word carefully.
“Nope,” Tim affirmed cheerily. “None.”
“No emergency declarations to go first?”
Tim smiled broadly. “We pretty much have all the emergencies we need declared.” A pause. "For now."
“If I sign more than one of those one day, I won’t have anything to sign the next day,” Trump cagily pointed out.
Tim opened his arms magnanimously. “As you wish, Sir.”
“No, it's not. I kinda like having more than this. I kind of like having two a day.”
Tim shuffled uncomfortably, but said nothing.
“Well, okay,” Trump conceded. “If that’s all they got, that’s all they got. Thank you very much. But tell them to pick up the pace. They’re not running out, are they?”
“Oh, no, Sir!” Tim reassured him. “No worries. They’ve got them planned week by week for . . . well . . . a long time.”
Trump waved Tim away. Tim pivoted, returned with sprightly step to join the Choir standing at attention in the doorway, then pivoted again to face Trump moodily contemplating the short stack of crisp, pure-white folders on that silver platter. Tim and the Choir broke into applause and a few cheers just one more time. Just one more time, President Trump stood and applauded with them. On Trump’s resuming his seat, the group pivoted and was gone.
Trump continued to stare at the platter of folders. His assistant chief of staff, whose name was Kim, ventured to take a step out of the shadows where she had stood motionless during the platter’s delivery.
“Five,” Trump grumbled to her. “I like more than that.”
“You’ll get more next week, Sir,” she reassured him.
“Not numbered. So how do we know who to round up?”
“It doesn’t matter this week,” she reassured him. “Tell me when you’re ready, I’ll let them know, and they’ll send the group in.”
“Not the same group, I hope?” Trump asked, showing real irritation now.
“No, Sir. They’ll be varied, of course. It just doesn’t matter who they are.”
“What’s in this batch?” Trump wondered.
Kim risked taking a step closer to the Residue Desk and the Residue President who sat behind it. “I can read them to you, Sir.”
“No!” Trump crossed his arms protectively over the platter and its contents. “No one touches these until I sign and throw that Sharpie at someone.” He sighed. “But at least something got here. Wonder what kind of hell will break out this week because of these?” As he spoke, his face transformed most unusually. He looked happy, relaxed. He patted the stack.
“My executive orders,” he mused dreamily. “I love them.”
Tim and his bevy of assistants likely came from the office of Project 2025, but since Trump had resolutely disavowed knowledge of any such thing, Tim certainly couldn’t say so without confusing just about everybody.
“Most people hate changing their minds,” he said, “but I like to change my mind. It means I’ve learned something.”