Your First 100 Days

Editor’s note: At press time, the Electoral College had not yet validated the election results. If, by some miracle, Hillary Clinton is confirmed as president, the writer has refused to write a different column. “I’m not doing that again,” he said.

SO HOW ARE you spending the first 100 days of the Trump administration? Canceling your newspaper subscription and turning off your television so you won’t have to watch America becoming great again?

Would hiding under the covers make it go away? Or would it be better to crawl under the bed to keep out the scary? The latter would, of course, require vacuuming or moving the extra mattress you keep under there that only the cat uses. In either case, family members would grow weary of bringing food, so these options might require further thought.

THE FEAR IS going to be with us for a while. We’ve elected a president who has been accused of misogyny, xenophobia, and demagoguery, all words I had to look up to see if they were as bad as they sound. (Worse.) Not to mention having to spell check that last one, which to my surprise does not refer to a character in the last Iron Man movie.

And the principal adviser to our new president is an unapologetic white supremacist whose safari jacket doesn’t conceal his striking resemblance to Rasputin. (Now that I mention it, did they ever find Rasputin’s body?) And the voters most ecstatic about his presence in the White House are having difficulty keeping their arms down at their sides. (In an effort to build national unity, maybe fewer Nazi salutes would be a good start.)

IN THE FACE of such harsh reality, the best therapy I’ve found is to sit quietly in a darkened room and watch reruns of Mr. Rogers. It’s always beautiful in his neighborhood, sweet songs are sung, and people change into comfortable shoes and sweaters when they come home.

Sadly, in the 1980s many of us young hipster parents dismissed Fred Rogers as insufferably dull, preferring Big Bird to Big Yawn. In hindsight, we now realize that his was a daily celebration of the human spirit that showed our children the enduring importance of love. (Yep, we got that one totally wrong.) If ever there was a time to be reminded of our common humanity—even with those dreadful hand puppets—it is now.

Because after Trump’s first 100 days, it could get worse. Americans who voted for him will start to wonder why the coal mines are still closed and factories yet to reopen. (I hear a new Cheesecake Factory is coming to the mall, but it’s only hiring part-time.)

The bitter truth will begin to set in, like that feeling you get when you eat Skittles. The first bite is a euphoric moment of tangy sweetness, unrivaled by any other candy. And with it comes a sense of welcome emancipation from the M&Ms establishment, that entitled class of mainstream confections. You’ve chosen the road less traveled, even if it’s a little sticky.

But when you swallow a Skittle, the euphoria ends with an acrid, vaguely industrial aftertaste that suggests a petrochemical product long past its freshness date. With its subtle undertones of methanol and a hint of machine solvents—to borrow the vernacular of wine connoisseurs—it doesn’t “finish well.”

In other words, Trump voters were happy that he won, but when they step back—and swallow reality—the country will still be a jobless wasteland of anger and resentment for many of its citizens. It will leave a bitter taste in the mouth, one that will not be relieved even at the trendy white ethnic restaurants cropping up around the country. Their familiar and nostalgic cuisine—mostly ketchup-based—will be a symbolic victory for tribalism. But people will grow weary of mashed potatoes and will soon wish they had, you know, a decent taco.

PERSONALLY, I’M taking comfort in my recent discovery that Bernie Sanders lives right next door to our new office. When I occasionally crawl out from under my bed—to the frustration of the cat who had just gotten comfortable—I stand at an office window and keep watch for him. Wait, SOMEONE’S COMING OUT THE BACK DOOR! Nope, it’s a different neighbor, taking his old Clinton yard sign to the trash.

(Too soon?)