It crawled in there, didn’t it? The worm gnaws, but it’s inactive. The doctor said so. I don’t listen to doctors; they’re quacks. Dad listened to doctors, didn’t he? He’s dead, dead, dead. Like Elizabeth Taylor. She wasn’t assassinated…or was she? I feel the brain worm because of my Elizabeth hallucinations. I wish she were Butterfield 8 Elizabeth. I get early eighties at best.  Maybe John Warner years. She makes policy decisions. Oh, yeah, I’m running for President.

I ran my commercial; I used Uncle Jack’s song. But the family whined, bitched, moaned, didn’t they? Elizabeth is furious. The beautiful Hawaiian sunset? You’d think it would calm the worm down. But no. I’m trying to look out the window. Elizabeth lies in a heap in the dining room. So dramatic. She’s wearing a filmy half slip and bra, but it’s eighties Elizabeth. She’s got a few extra pounds. 

“You’ve got every right to your uncle’s song! You don’t stop being a Kennedy just because you’ve seen the truth about vaccines and the border! For Christ’s sake. I’m a brain worm, but I’m Elizabeth Taylor, Queen of the Nile, two time Mrs. Richard Burton! Why don’t you have a drink? I’m starving! There isn’t much brain left anymore.” She’s up; pacing in front of my beautiful Hawaiian sunset view. She admitted she snacks on my brain; and she’s blocking the view? That’s sadistic. Speaking of pain, sometimes, the worm conjures up Roddy MacDowell for company. Oh god, that’s unpleasant. Tonight is one of those nights. I smell Roddy’s sandalwood soap. 

He walks into my pristine dining room. “You can’t be serious about border policy. You know it’s inhuman.” He shares some bourbon with Elizabeth and my head starts to throb. 

“Crime! Unfiltered crime.” I try to formulate thought, but my head makes a ping sound. I follow Elizabeth’s lead and lie down on the red tribal rug under an antique table. “I speak Spanish, I’m connecting! I’ll complete the Kennedy circle, eradicate vaccines!” 

Roddy and Elizabeth don’t listen; lost in flirting. Roddy never came out because bisexuality’s complicated. Did I meet the real Roddy at Bing Crosby’s house when I was eleven? My head pulses. I can’t remember..

“Let’s dance! Roddy? Robert?” Elizabeth throws her arms in the air like she’s in a movie. She’s acting. 

Roddy grins like Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. I never saw the movie, for the record. I forget my head for a minute because they expect me to put on a Bossa Nova album. I hear music start, but how? I remember staff plays Astrud Gilberto at eight. That’s convenient anyway. I stand up. To hell with my head, I’ll dance with Elizabeth. She’s my brain worm, after all. 

Elizabeth feels corporeal when I dance with her. I ignore Roddy, dancing near us. Sure, he’s a better dancer. He won a childhood Oscar. But who’s watching How Green Was My Valley? now anyway? Not me. I’m watching Elizabeth’s violet eyes staring into mine. 

“You know, Uncle Jack lusted for Marilyn. Why not you? You look great in white.” I try flattering her.

“I’m not Marilyn! I’m no cheap slut! I was never in a musical in my life….don’t compare us. I never had plastic surgery, except for a few face lifts.” She grips me hard in the dance frame.

“Don’t sell Marilyn short. She really was something….” I’m lost in thought for a minute; who can forget her famous “Happy Birthday” serenade in the naked dress? She could sing, dance, act in dramas; Elizabeth should respect that.

“Marilyn…. isn’t eating your brain. I AM. Robert, wake up. WAKE UP1” Elizabeth screams at me. She’s standing a few feet away. Weren’t we just dancing? What is happening? I look for Elizabeth, but she’s disappeared, Why is Roddy still here?

Roddy appears on my left as if he’s floated into place. “Cheer up, old boy. You’ll never be President. Just like Uncle Ted.” He throws champagne in my face, and he disappears before I can say something. If he thinks he’s Jose Ferrer at the end of The Caine Mutiny, he just doesn’t measure up. He spent half his career in a monkey suit, for Christ’s sake. 

“Maria! Maria!” I scream for the maid. Somebody needs to get me to my bed. I’ll take a Klonopin  and then a few more and, with any luck, I’ll  sleep it off. Maybe, the worm will leave me alone tomorrow. Doesn’t she know I’m campaigning?

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