Or The Biden That Would Not Grow Old
[This is a slightly-altered excerpt of Chapter 13 in the Peter Pan novel by J.M. Barrie, where Tinkerbell visits Peter and warns him of the poison Captain Hook added to his medicine. Tinkerbell intervenes and drinks Peter’s medicine instead. I’ve changed a couple of names and details but left most of the original prose intact.]
Then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.
“Let me in, Joe.”
It was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in excitedly, her face flushed and her dress stained with mud.
“What is it?”
“Oh, you could never guess!” she cried, and offered him three guesses. “Out with it!” he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long as the ribbons that conjurers pull from their mouths, she told of Trump’s capture of the fabled American Working Men and Women.
Joe’s heart bobbed up and down as he listened. Everyday God-fearing Americans bound, and on Trump’s pirate ship; they who loved everything to be just so!
“I’ll rescue them!” he cried, leaping at his weapons. As he leapt he thought of something he could do to please her. He could take his medicine.
His hand closed on the fatal draught.
“No!” shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard Trump mutter about this deed in many of his ranting speeches.
“Why not?”
“It is poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Who could have poisoned it?”
“Trump.”
“Don’t be silly. How could Trump have got down here?”
Alas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for even she did not know the dark secrets of the captain’s cabin. Nevertheless Trump’s words had left no room for doubt. The cup was poisoned and Trump was immune.
“Besides,” said Joe, quite believing himself, “I never fall asleep.”
He raised the cup. No time for words now; time for deeds; and with one of her lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the draught, and drained it to the dregs.
“Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine?”
But she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air.
“What is the matter with you?” cried Joe, suddenly afraid.
“It was poisoned, Joe,” she told him softly; “and now I am going to be dead.”
“O Tink, did you drink it to save me?”
“Yes.”
“But why, Tink?”
Her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on his shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear “You silly ass,” and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the bed.
His head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt near her in distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter; and he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it.
Her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said. Then he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get well again if Americans believed in democracy.
Joe flung out his arms. There were no American voters there, and it was night time; but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the Neverland, and who were therefore nearer to him than you think: men and women in their sweatpants and loungewear, workers taking showers after twelve-hour shifts in the warehouse.
“Do you believe?” he cried.
Tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate.
She fancied she heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she wasn’t sure.
“What do you think?” she asked Joe.
“If you believe,” he shouted to them, “clap your hands; don’t let Tink die.”
Many clapped.
Some didn’t.
A few beasts hissed.
The clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to their nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink was saved. First her voice grew strong, then she popped out of bed, then she was flashing through the room more merry and impudent than ever. She never thought of thanking those who believed, but she would have like to get at the ones who had hissed.
“And now to rescue democracy!”
The moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when Joe rose, belted with weapons and wearing little else, to set out upon his perilous quest. The crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound, not a movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the next tree, or stalking him from behind.
He swore this terrible oath: “Trump or me this time.”
Now he crawled forward like a snake, and again erect, he darted across a space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his dagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy.
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Note: Both the 1911 novel and the 1928 play script for Peter Pan are now in the U.S. public domain.
Paul McCartney, writer and performer of songs such as Yesterday, Hey Jude, Blackbird, When I’m Sixty-Four, Let It Be and Wonderful Christmastime (for completeness’ sake), will turn 82 this June 18.
McCartney just concluded his “Got Back” tour of Australia, Mexico and Brazil; each of his concerts lasted 2 hours 40 minutes and included over 30 songs from his Beatles, Wings and solo careers. He will be appearing at a “Keep the Party Going” Jimmy Buffett tribute concert two weeks from now.
Speaking of keeping the party going, a younger man hopes to do the same here in the U.S. His name is Joseph R. Biden, and he won’t turn 82 until November 20. Like it or not — and many do not — Joe Biden has been keeping the Democratic Party going. There may be many worthy Democratic leaders, but Kamala Harris, Gretchen Whitmer, Gavin Newsom, Stacey Abrams, Raphael Warnock et al haven’t exactly lit the I’m-Young-and-I’m-Strong candles under the party electorate.
Democrats who have been going out of their way to undercut Biden because of his age should ask themselves, why not trash McCartney? Or 60 Minutes journalist Lesley Stahl? She’s 82. Or Patrick Stewart (Picard) who will be 84 in July. I have no reason to question the faculties of any of those people any more than Biden’s.
I’m not denying that 80-year-olds are statistically closer to death than 70-year-olds. And that 70-year-olds are closer to death than 60-year-olds. And so on. Maybe Democrats should just wait a few terms and nominate Billie Eilish for President in 2036, her first year of eligibility. Hey, she just won an Oscar! Eilish is a proven winner, Biden-supporter, and statistically not liable to die within eight years of her election. We all seem to agree that this is what matters most, yes?
Billie Eilish, God bless her soul,
could be my President when I’m eighty-four.
If I survive that long and can still check a box,
I would vote for her, I say why nox!
Until then, Joseph Biden remains our Democratic candidate for President, Donald Trump remains the anti-democratic candidate for President, and Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. dutifully fills the role of America’s 2024 check-your-brain-at-the-door candidate. It’s such a simple choice. Why are people making it so complicated?