[Election ‘016 002] Pataki-Cake

[Election ‘016 002] Pataki-Cake


George Pataki sat down, legs crossed, in front of a three-year old girl named Charlotte. There was nothing around them in this room; no windows, nothing on the walls, and only one grey door separate from the blue wallpaper, blue carpet, and blue ceiling. George put his hands up and followed the girl’s motions as she sang her song.

“Patty-cake, patty cake, Baker’s man,” she said in a rhythmic manner. She began swaying her hands back and forth, and George followed her movements. Their hands met; George’s left clapped against Charlotte’s right. The hands separated, and then the opposite hands met, this time George’s right meeting with Charlotte’s left.

“Bake me a cake as fast as you can,” she continued. George could not comply to her request, as he was stuck in a cyclical, roundabout loop of hands clapping. Neither one of them could stop, and it disturbed George. He did not wish to remain like this; stagnant, stuck in a current as he was. However, there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

“Pat it and shake it and mark it with B,” the girl said. He grew softer towards his resentment for his continuous situation. Eventually, it came to be a series of ebbs and flows that guided him along his life, and it provided a sense of stability he did not understand, but could not live without.

“And bake it in the oven for baby and me.” Charlotte lowered her hands. George held his up in mid-air, but Charlotte did not resume their game. A window appeared to the side, and it showed two large burning buildings. In front of the window was a tall, dark man. He was named Libya, and he spoke to George, and told him that this was 9/11. George did not understand what this meant but he soon realized all his hopes and dreams had disappeared.

A coffee shop opened up next door to the blue room. George, freed from his obligations, ventured out, leaving Charlotte and Libya to their own devices. He crossed the street and entered this new building. Inside was Andrew Cuomo, working as the barista.

“What would you like?” Andrew asked. George thought for many moments on what he most wanted to drink. His brain ticked like a broken clock, and then he answered.

“Mocha frappuccino. Large,” George answered, setting a five-dollar bill onto the counter.

“Coming right up,” Andrew said. As the barista turned around to make the drink, George himself turned around in the opposite direction, and looked out the window of the coffee shop. Hanging outside, attached to the room from where he came, was a large American flag, waving the red, white and blue. The colors were vibrant, but the reds reminded him only of blood.

“Here it is, sir,” Andrew said. George turned around, took the frappuccino, and then turned around once more, walking towards the exit. He sipped at the drink and got brain freeze. “Have a nice day,” Andrew told George before tending to the next customer.

George exited the coffee shop and, determined to have a nice day, decided to run for President.

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