Jeb Bush Still Thinks He Can Win 2016 Presidential Primary

January 19th, 2019. Blackfoot, Idaho.

Jeb Bush flicks on the light to a storage room tucked in the back of Tony Chen’s American Chinese Cuisine. “Every Saturday they kick me out for mahjong, but they promise to not touch my posters.” I ask Jeb if they keep their promise. He doesn’t respond.

In cutout, glossy letters taped above a whiteboard reads “Jeb’s President Room!”. Graphs etched on butcher paper are tacked to the walls. There is a list of people who promised Jeb they would vote for him. On the whiteboard is a hand-drawn map of the United States. Looking closer, I appreciate the amount of effort put into all the major rivers. I also notice that Iowa, a significant state in any presidential primary, is entirely missing. “It’s hard to draw,” Jeb reminds me.

Where there is no statistical data or voting pledges, there are words of encouragement from Jeb himself.

Jeb, you’re so fast!

You slept great last night!

I bet you’re ten feet tall!

I ask Jeb what he does day to day for the campaign. Mainly phone calls. “Maybe four or five a day? I have to do it when Tony is not around. There is no phone in here so I have to do it in the kitchen.”

I ask him how he is getting the numbers for people to call. Allowed access to a political party’s phone bank can be expensive. He’s excited to explain. “A phone number is ten numbers. Some people say it’s eleven, but you don’t have to dial the 1.” He winks. I am tempted to clarify my question but I’m stopped by a list of phone numbers dialed yesterday.

111–111–1123 No Response

111–111–1124 No Response

111–111–1125 No Response

111–111–1126 No Response

If Jeb didn’t already know, I tell him: it’s 2019. Donald Trump has been president for two years. The probability of Jeb winning the 2016 GOP primary is statistically impossible.

Jeb leans back in his chair. “If I listened to every newspaper say that the 2016 election is over I wouldn’t be running my campaign anymore.”

Exactly, I say. He rolls his eyes. The corners of his mouth are blue. He had a popsicle for lunch.

What makes you think you should be president, I ask. He blushes and shrugs. I ask him again. He giggles. “Sorry, I get nervous around beautiful women.” I tell him that I am a man. I am 48. I have a full beard. I describe my body in great detail. It doesn’t matter: Jeb Bush thinks I am a beautiful woman and won't answer my question.

Resigned, I head for the exit. Jeb jumps out of his chair and onto a desk. “Wait, do you really want to know why I think I should be president?” I nod. After two deep breaths, he sings the first two verses of “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” from Les Misérables. It is beautiful and heartbreaking. Somehow, in his way, he answered my question. I can tell he wants to sing the third verse but he can’t remember the words. I offer to read him the lyrics. He declines. “They didn’t have phones back then.”

There is a knock at the door. It is Saturday. The mahjong players have arrived. Jeb grabs a plastic bag of loose papers and opens the door. He reminds the mahjong players of the promise they made to him about the posters. One of the older mahjong players pretends to slap the area of Jeb’s pants where his scrotum would rest. Jeb flinches. The men close the door behind us.

In the hours when the men are playing mahjong, when Jeb can’t toil away on his forgotten campaign, what does he do? I ask him.

He shrugs. “Pick up trash?”