“I have to say, I really admire him,” enthused Pumphrett, my old Choate classmate and newly appointed White House counselor. We were sitting in the mezzanine restaurant of Trump Tower observing the scene below as a tall and imposing former Governor described to a motley crowd of reporters his newfound admiration for the man he had—but a few weeks before—judged a poor excuse for a human being.
“Are we talking about Governor Romney?”
“Good Lord, Romney!? Of course not! Just look at him down there. The man could teach our State Department a thing or two about groveling. No, I mean Steve Bannon. This was all his idea, you know.” He pointed toward the still gesticulating Romney and the few reporters who hadn’t yet wandered off. “Bannon realized that if they dangled a carrot they could squeeze the last drop of dignity out of poor Mitt on national TV. It’s a sort of genius.”
“And you admire that?”
“Well, not just that. I admire Bannon’s whole package: the pompadour, the open-necked shirts, the scuffed leather jackets and especially the designer stubble—so deliciously studied, so wonderfully insouciant. Just imagine the primping it must take every morning to seem as though you haven’t primped at all.”
I am inclined to take Pumphrett at his word on all matters of grooming, knowing the fascination the subject has always held for him. Still, I wasn’t eager to picture the hirsute Bannon at his morning ablutions and, to change the subject, asked my companion to confide his impressions from his recently concluded first meeting with the new White House Chief Strategist.
“He’s a chubby cheeked cove, you know, the sort who look much the same at sixty as they did at 12. I suspect that’s what the stubble is meant to disguise. Back when I was actively breeding (Pumphrett was referring, I duly note, to the period before the Pumphett family stables had been auctioned off to settle the improvident heir’s gambling debts) I would have pegged him as late-stage Orson Welles out of Chucky from those demented puppet movies. But he’s perfectly pleasant if you stay away from certain topics.”
“And did you?”
“Unfortunately, no. As you know, Cushy, I’m backslid Episcopalian myself—Easter every leap year and a farthing in the poor box—but I knew Bannon had made a speech at the Vatican, so I ventured a casual remark about our wonderful new Pope.”
“A safe gambit, one would have thought.”
“On the contrary. It seems the speech was in the old Pope’s time, and no sooner had this morsel passed my lips than Bannon’s wattles swelled, his eyes took on a reptilian glint and he went all Mel Gibson on me. Onward Christian soldiers, final showdown with the godless—that sort of thing.”
“What did you do?”
“I managed to steer the conversation to the elites and how they’re diddling the masses. Well, that set him off in another direction, and he started ranting about exploitation of the workers and deviance and cultural rot. At one point or another he described nearly everyone I know. As far as I can tell, he’s some sort of god-bothering Marxist reactionary. But I kept my cool and just kept nodding, fit to dislodge my bridgework.”
“Weren’t the other diners staring at him?”
“They wouldn’t have dared.”
I was puzzled, and so I ventured: “If Bannon’s down on élites, why would he extend the hand of friendship to you?” Now, Pumphrett moved closer and spoke under his breath, which I judged to be about his standard 86 proof.
“He’s building alliances,” he confided. “He says—and this was on the strictest Q.T.—that the President has a few quirks. In fact, he said, the problem at the new White House was ‘quirks and jerks’, and loyal staff would have to work together to do something about both.”
“Quirks?”
“Yes. For one thing, Bannon says, our new President doesn’t read. He can read, of course, but everything has always been oral with him – the more so nowadays. So all depends on who speaks with him last. Priebus supposedly controls this, but Priebus is…” (here Pumphrett paused). “To tell the truth, Cushy, he described Priebus with an anatomical vulgarism no gentleman would repeat. So I’ll just say that Bannon doesn’t think Priebus will be a problem. Flynn’s another matter. (This was an obvious reference to the professional soldier and amateur theologian Michael Flynn, the new National Security Advisor). Bannon knows I’m going to work for Flynn, so—he said—he wanted to warn me.”
“Looking out for your interests, was he?”
“He said I should be prepared to abandon ship. Flynn had already smudged his copybook by trying to pad the payroll with his otherwise unemployable progeny. Fortunately, l’affaire du pizza parlor Comet Ping Pong had put paid to that. Still, it was clear to everyone that the young nut had not fallen far from the elder tree, so the betting was that Flynn pere would soon follow Flynn fils out the door. It couldn’t be done immediately, of course, or it would be too obvious that the new President had given his most important staff job to a raving lunatic. So we would have to bide our time.” (I italicize the “we” in the previous sentence to convey the obvious satisfaction with which Pumphrett savored the word).
“Still,” Pumphrett continued, “Bannon saw no reason why loyalists like us shouldn’t grease Flynn’s skids a trifle, in connection with which he’d like to know what Flynn’s doing, whom he’s seeing, and, above all, what he’s tweeting with that Twitter handle he thinks is anonymous. Bannon says if I spill the daily beans, he might persuade the FBI not to follow up on reports of that unfortunate misunderstanding at the Megansett YMCA.”
“This Bannon fellow sounds like the sort of man you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley,” I commented.
“I suppose not,” Pumphrett replied, a trifle wistfully. His thoughts seemed to drift for a moment, then snapped back. “It was all a little frightening, to tell you the truth, but I puffed out my chest, smiled grimly and promised my complete loyalty.”
“It appears you did yourself some good,” I reassured him.
“There is a small issue,” Pumphrett went on. “The previous day I had had lunch with Priebus.”
“Oh, yes?” This was getting interesting.
“He told me that Bannon was called “Chief White House Strategist” because that wasn’t even a thing. With luck, Bannon would sit there strategizing and stay out of everyone’s way. Then, in year or two, he could pack his worn leathers and go back to rousing the rabble on the internet where he belongs. In the meantime, Priebus said, he would keep Bannon under his thumb. But he needed my help.”
“So you pledged your complete loyalty to him as well?”
“What choice did I have? My little office will be just down the hall from Bannon’s West Wing digs. Priebus said I should keep a log of Bannon’s visitors—especially the ones sporting buzz cuts, neck tattoos and/or cassocks. I’m not to share this list with anyone but him. But Kelly Anne found out somehow , fixed me with that rictus grin and cooed menacingly that I better share the list with her, too, but not to tell Priebus what I was doing if I knew what was good for me. I’ve never known what was good for me, Cushy, but she certainly seems to. And that’s not the worst of it”
“There’s worse?” I asked incredulously.
“Tomorrow I meet with Flynn.”
I was reminded of our Choate yearbook and the legend beneath Pumphrett’s senior picture describing him as possessing all the qualities of a dog except loyalty. Now this character trait would be put to the test. I asked him what he planned to do.
“I’m going to tell Bannon and Priebus what Flynn says, and Flynn and Priebus what Bannon says, and Kelly Anne to mind her own business. Then I’m going to tell Jered and Eric what Flynn, Bannon, and Priebus have said, after which I’m going to spill my guts about everybody to Ivanka. That’s the safest course, I think. I just hope I can remember what I’ve told to whom.”
“Well for Heaven’s sake don’t write it down anywhere,” I urged.
“Of course, not, Cushy. What do you take me for?”
I decided out of kindness to treat the question as rhetorical. Still, I found myself growing indignant, and thought to recall Pumphrett to the principles cherished in days of our youths—albeit, of course, not by us. “Pumphrett,” I could not resist asking, “how about the alt-right, the racism, the Muslim-baiting, the Putin pimping, the general, all-consuming, skinheaded crackpottery?”
“I admit, it’s all a bit outré, Cushy, a bit—how should I put it?—mid-thirties modern. But it’s quite the fashion these days, you know. ‘Drum of nature’, ‘Blut und Eisen’—that sort of thing. Oh, I suppose I am besmirching the Pumphrett family name a bit by truckling to Bannon and his ilk, but still…”
“But still what, Pumphrett?”
“The man has such style.”