greggerypeccary wrote Yesterday at 10:13am:
Dementia.
It's a little peculiar, Greggery. Sharpie doesn't sell $1000 ballpoint pens, as you'd expect. Sharpies are cheap, coming in boxes by the dozen. The real story is a little different. It goes something like this.
DL came down to start his day's work. It was 11.30, too early for lunch. The Oval office was deserted.
Donnie had spent the morning watching Fox and CNN up in his residence, as you do. He'd made his morning calls - his twice-daily regimen where he dials in his contacts and bitches, non-stop, for two hours.
The big fella sat down at the Resolute and looked at the phone, silent. He placed the black White House pen to the right of his leather desk pad. Phone, desk, pen.
Bored.
Mark, the Secret Service guy at the door, watched. DL got up to check the merch room. Previously a kitchen, the merch room had housed the big fella's tanning bed during the first half of his first term. A faker at the New York Times got a whiff and DL had to get rid of it. Sleepy Joe's staff had turned the space back into an office kitchen with a microwave, fridge, coffee cups, etc - a working space for a working office where things got done.
When DL got back in, he used the space as a storeroom for his boxes of merch - Trump flags, MAGA caps, polo shirts, umbrellas. He no longer had any use for the stuff, so he'd tell anyone who visited to help themselves.
He quickly discovered what a hit this was with visiting foreign dignitaries. Everybody's staff or kids had joked about bringing them back a MAGA cap as a souvenir from the USA. Foreign leaders basked in the kitsch irony of it all.
DL turned it into a ritual. When he got bored, he'd guess his audience's size and throw them shirts, as if he was Oprah. Visitors got their obligatory selfies with the prez. A few were tricked into posing in a MAGA cap themselves - a nice little humiliation ritual for leaders of democratic vassal states.
DL searched. Pens. White House pens were stock-standard corporate steel ballpoints. They used them in the Cabinet room, placed them next to White House stationary pads for meetings, left them around for the fake news. They cost a buck or so a piece.
The big fella had been sprucing up the White House with an interior upgrade - why hadn't they thought of pens?
He sat back down at the Resolute Desk and called Suzie.
"Pens."
Suzie knew when to speak. She'd grown up with an alcoholic father, a total lush. Suzie let the big fella's stream of consciousness flow.
"Why aren't they gold? Look at this cheap, black - I don't know -
metal."
DL examined the pen. "What do you think these are worth? Like, how much?"
Suzie wasn't sure. Office supplies weren't in the Chief of Staff's delegation.
"The White House has gotta have the best, Suzie. You saw the pen Charles pulled out when we went to England".
Suzie knew he was obsessed with that. "You want a new pen?" She asked.
"I want the whole office to have new pens! I want these Goddamn things outta here, it's a terrible look. Listen, I want... Get me the boss of Sharpie."
"The marker company?"
"They make pens! They're a Trump thing, I always use 'em. Don't you know that?"
"Sharpie".
"Get onto it! Now!" The big fella hung up.
His voice rung in Suzie's head. Things were quiet before he started work, or when he was down in Mar a Lago. Almost productive.
Suzie, in her modest West Wing office with her small laptop, small cactus and small desk. She quickly Googled and found
Newell Brands, a global chain that markets household and commercial goods. When Suzie said who she was, they put her straight through to Chris Peterson, the CEO and board chair.
An accountant by trade, Chris had worked his way up the corporate ladder through a career in similar brands. He had all the style, grace and corporate training of a Mid-Western beancounter.
"It's not every day I get a call from the White House. How are you, Ms Wiles?"
"Not bad thanks, Mr Peterson. A quick query if I may, does Newell still make Sharpie pens?"
"Make? Long story. But let me check if we're still doing Sharpie. There's been a recent restructure."
Chris went over to a whiteboard. "Pens. You want magic markers?"
"More ballpoints, I think. Have you got the brand Sharpie?"
"Right now, we're doing
Paper Mate, Parker, Reynolds - oh yes,
Sharpie, there it is."
"You're sure of that?"
"Ah, yeah". Chris went to straighten his tie, even though he wasn't wearing one. "Yes, ma'am."
"Where are they made?"
"Hang on, I'll have to check..."
"Don't worry, that's fine. We'll go with Sharpie. Are you okay to speak with the president?"
"Now?"
"Yes. He asked me to put you through."
"Sure - okay. Is there any protocol or anything? Like, I'm on a cell phone."
Chris was often required to set a password to open unsecured email attachments, and here he was talking to the White House on a cell phone.
"You should be fine, Mr Peterson. He's expecting the call."
"Okay."
Chris felt his stomach tighten. He'd voted and donated to the GOP all his life. He wasn't overly political, he didn't schmooze or attend fundraisers, but he had tweeted about the impact of tariffs on global brands. They weren't favourable. His tweets had been published in the trade news and an article in the WSJ.
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