Tennis At Mar-a-Lago

Ayesha was ambitious, good at school, and now had a real job. When her mom asked her to keep an eye on Dad, the pint-sized first-grader took the assignment to heart. Later that afternoon, on hearing noises in her dad’s study, she tiptoed to the door. The wood felt rough as she pressed her ear against it. Her heart raced in anticipation. From TV, she knew parents usually take drugs or kiss other people behind closed doors.

Dad was talking, but the words he used were confusing. “The testicular biopsy results show a stage 3 carcinoma…” He was a doctor at Good Samaritan (a weird name for a hospital) and he often spoke using strange words.

It was quiet for a long time. He must be listening to someone on his phone. His voice finally broke the silence. “Yes. I will find a way to break the results gently to him.” 

Her dad said goodbye to whoever he was speaking to, and when his footsteps echoed on the other side of the door, she rushed back to her room to do her homework.

**

The following day, his cryptic words burned in her brain. What sort of secret life might he be up to? She wished she could ask her hamster what those strange words meant. Before she talked to her mom, she would ask her best friend, Jasmine.

After school, as they played video games at Jasmine’s house, Ayesha asked, “Do you know what a testicular dancer is? My dad said that yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” Jasmine shook her head. “Maybe it’s like a breakdancer, but different?”

“Jasmine’s mom,” Ayesha called to her in the kitchen, “what kind of dancer is a testicular dancer?”

She popped out of the kitchen and her eyes bore into Ayesha’s soul. “Honey, don’t ask me words like that. Did you hear that from your daddy?”

“Yes,” Ayesha chirped. “He’s a doctor!”

Jasmine’s mom pointed at the TV, where a strange old man was calling someone stupid. “Isn’t your dad that man’s doctor? Does this have anything to do with him?”

Ayesha hesitated. “I think so. But he told me not to tell anyone he’s his doctor.”

“Who would have imagined he has,” Jasmine’s mom leaned in like she was about to spill juicy gossip, “a testicular dancer.” She laughed, a cackle that echoed through the room. “And he has a black doctor!”

“Why’s that?” Ayesha asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Never mind.” Jasmine’s mom gazed out the window while shaking her head. “I think I’m going to telephone a journalist I know at the Miami Chronicle. They’ll want to hear about this.”

Ayesha didn’t know what the word ‘journalist’ meant either and returned to playing Animal Crossing. She soon forgot all about this strange conversation and the weird words adults use for things she didn’t understand:.

**

When the phone call came, Luna Rodriguez at the Miami Chronicle found the subject of a ‘testicular dancer’ more interesting than Ayesha did. The headline would be hotter than a jalapeño in a South Beach sauna, she said, if it was true.

“And her dad is an oncologist for him?” 

“Yes sirree,” Jasmine’s mom confirmed. 

“But you don’t have any evidence?”

“I’m not lying.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Maybe we will fire a torpedo their way and see how he reacts.”

**

Luna called her husband at home for moral support. He answered, voice muffled by the blaring TV in the background.

“Guess what I heard today?” She launched into the details and explained it all to him.

Her husband’s response crackled through the phone. “Are you going to break the story?”

“I will try,” Luna said. “This is big news. Because if he wins the election, it will be the end of American democracy, forever.”

Her husband, ever the skeptic, had to add, “But isn’t he 79 years old? How long can forever be?”

“Why can’t you ever just agree with me?” That is what husbands were for, to keep their partners honest, and miserable.

**

Her managing editor would never approve, so she picked up the phone and launched the torpedo on her own. “This is Luna Rodriguez with the Miami Chronicle.” 

An aide at his campaign office asked, “Why haven’t we heard of you?” 

She resisted the urge to say, “Because I write for the Arts section,” and instead, lied. “I’m helping Fran Francis on a story.” 

Fran–a Pulitzer prize winning political journalist at the Miami Chronicle–said hello to Luna once at the annual Christmas party. 

“I see,” came the response from the other end of the line.

Luna pressed on, “We have a very credible source who says the candidate is having a delicate health issue. Does the campaign want to make a statement?”

There was the muffle of someone holding a hand over the phone. “The balls on that woman…” Then her voice came back, loud and clear. “We will get back to you.” 

The line went dead. Luna was left wondering what her next move would be.

Fifteen minutes later, the campaign announced a press conference on Twitter.

**

Luna watched the drama unfold on MSNBC. She hadn’t received an invitation to the briefing.

His face filled the TV screen, a familiar frown now a portrait of defiance. “A terrible woman is spreading fake news about me. A terrible lady. The worst.” He raised his voice. “I don’t have cancer. Cancer is for losers. A person like me could never have cancer. If I ever see a cancer, do you know what am I going to say to it?” 

He paused, eyes narrowing. “You’re fired!”

And like that, he spun around and walked off-stage. The small crowd of hangers-on assembled erupted in applause.

**

A week later, Luna snuck into a black-tie event in Palm Springs that he was giving a talk at. She hovered around the edges, eavesdropping. 

“I don’t want to sit down. It’s uncomfortable to sit down,” she heard him say after someone offered him a seat.

Luna recalled where the cancer was located. She moved in, held out her microphone, and asked, “Do you have any opinion about Netflix’s The Three-Body Problem?” 

“Never heard of it. What’s it about?”

“It’s about a system that should have two round planets, but instead, has a third mass added to it which throws everything off.”

Despite holding a press conference to call her the worst journalist in America last week, he showed no indication of recognizing Luna Rodriguez, Arts columnist for the Miami Chronicle.

“I don’t know anything about that show. And hearing about it makes me tired.”

“Then have a seat.”

“I don’t like sitting. Sitting is for weak people. Weak people.”

He prowled the room continuously through the night, shaking hands and making small talk, and after dinner, gave the keynote speech.

“The best doctor in the country said I have the biggest balls. The biggest balls, right here. That’s what America needs–” 

“Why does he keep talking about his balls?” A journalist close to Luna asked. “I don’t know,” someone else whispered. Luna Rodriguez smiled in the knowledge she was the only one in the room who did.

“My opponent has the smallest balls. The smallest balls. Microscopic–” 

**

The next week, on a rare rainy day in Southern Florida, Ayesha overheard her dad talking on the telephone again.

“Yes. Yes. The surgery has a 98% chance of success.” Another long pause. “Yes, you could say that. Tell him it will be like a hole-in-one. I’ll use golf metaphors before the operation.” 

That night, over dinner, Ayesha’s dad looked at her mom and frowned. “He asked me for a favor.”

“Asked you?” her mom asked incredulously.

“He asked me to come to lunch and bring the whole family. He says he likes to get to know people before he takes his clothes off.”

“Oh my, what is he proposing? I knew that man—”

“I meant take his clothes off for me, his doctor. You don’t need to look at his… well, you know, balls.”

“Dad, what are you guys talking about?!” Ayesha asked.

“Honey, we are talking about golf.”

**

The next day, Ayesha was wearing her best outfit for the lunch party. Among a crowd of adults, her dad introduced her to the strange man she had seen on TV.

“Hi little girl, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I love children.”

“I heard you also like testy dancers!” Ayesha said.

“I love dancers. Dancers are great. Have a shrimp roll,” he pressed a small plate into her hands. “Your dad is the best doctor. Phenomenal.”

“He fixes people. Every time.” Ayesha grinned with pride.

“Listen up kid. You look like a genius too, believe me. You’re gonna be huge, maybe even president someday. After your dad, your dad the doctor, makes me better than ever, we should play tennis. Two geniuses, two tremendous people, the best, playing tennis. So what do you say, kid?”

**

Disclaimer: This work of fiction navigates the delicate balance between reality and imagination. While certain elements may bear resemblance to historical figures or events, they are intentionally exaggerated for satirical purposes. Readers are encouraged to approach this narrative with discernment, recognizing that it exists within a parallel universe where gravity occasionally winks and metaphors take physical form. Any perceived allusions to real-world personalities are coincidental and should not be construed as factual. Proceed with intellectual curiosity and an appreciation for the absurd.