This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

A man walks into the presidency. It's enormous. Echoing. Everywhere! Halls leading from halls. And halls from those. It's an astounding network. A labyrinth.

For the tiniest fold of a nanosecond, the man feels proportional. Feels he's been measured twice and cut once and has tongues ready for the grooves.

But then it's over. And he feels small. Inadequate. So he calls his family. And the family of his family. All his exes. Ys and Zs. "Pack!" he barks — his voice like a small chainsaw in a Sequoia grove. "Haul over your sad asses! This place is enormous. Yoooge."

They all come, And he distributes jobs. Of overseeing. "I'm confused. What's overseeing?" the child of an ex asks.

"No problem! Easy!" the man says. "Follow me. Rule #1: Wear this cap. Rule #2: Pretend to know what you don't. Rule #3: Criticize. Find fault. Rule #4: Stay out of the halls."

And it works — for a bit. Until the man begins hearing sounds — at once gastric and tidal — as if he's being digested and swept out to sea. So he tweets his friends. And some enemies who say they'd been kidding and are friends.

So they come.

"Here's a map," the man says. "Your office is … down the hall off the hall of this hall … somewhere. Be here at least an hour a day. And remember: The best way to appear constructive is to tear something down. He singles an ex-ex-ex-friend out. "What do you hate?!" he asks.

"The color green."

"Good. You're in charge of the Department of Green. Here's a map. Your office is … out there … somewhere."

"You have a call from China," a younger man entering carrying a phone says.

"Which China?" the man bellows.

"I'm not..."

"And who are you?"

"I'm an aide," the younger man says. And then — when the man seems confused — indicates the resounding vastness and says, "Most who you see — here, busy at work — are aides."

"Hey! I've got aides!" the man shouts into the sheer size of where he stands. And his shout echoes.

"You have a call from China," the aide repeats.

"Yeah? Well, tell China I'm busy!" the man says. "Tell China: Take two won-ton and call me in the morning." He laughs. Outwardly. Inside, he has the sense of shrinking.

He wanders into the presidential dining room. On the table is a glass of liquid and a cracker. A Post-it on the glass instructs "Drink Me" and another on the cracker says "Eat Me." The man eats the glass and drinks the cracker. "I don't take orders from anyone!" he says.

A large rabbit carrying a timepiece scuttles by.

"You know the problem with this place?" the man says. "No elevators! No atrium!"

The man wearies of his family. And the families of his family. And those of those — all the exes, Ys and Zs. "Out-out!" he booms. "Back to where you … whatever! The Emerald City! The Tea Party! Go home and change the word 'corporation' in everything I own to 'foundation.' And change 'profit' to 'prophet.' Out!"

But divesting himself only makes his sense of shrinking worse.

"I've got cabin fever!" he shouts. "Or mansion fever! Call me a limousine!"

"You're a limousine," a housekeeper in a crooked hat smiles.

"Call me a Lear Jet,"

"You're a Lear Jet."

"Call me Cessna ——"

"Okay: Boeing Boeing!"

Another aide appears. "The Agency wants a meeting," he says. "They indicated it's critical."

"Hey: I'm the only one who's critical!" the man barks. "Tell The Agency I met with … I don't meet."

Still, day by day, the tumbling echoes and tangled presidency halls expand ... out and out. More and more the man struggles against diminishment. He calls the Presidential Baker. "Bake a cake," he orders. "Bake an exact replica of the presidency."

"Pardon me?"

"I don't pardon anybody!" the man growls. "Only blame. Only blame people. Only say how pathetic and inadequate they are. Except my friends. Who are my enemies. Still, one has to have friends. Tell my friends in … wherever, some place … that I'm arriving with … a golf course. Next week, they'll have 36 new holes ... in their infrastructure!"

"You said … bake me a cake … ?"

"Yes! As fast as you can!"

"One the … exact replica of the presidency?"

"Yes! And mark it with T!" the man growls.

So the Presidential Baker does. As best he can. And the man eats the cake. Every crumb!

"So — now — the presidency's inside me … rather than my being inside it!" the man crows. "Now bring me Little Miss Muffet! I have a lead on her tuffet!"

Still: as many replica cakes as he might eat or mock pageants he might oversee — deep, deep, under his skin: that-which-he-has-stepped-into — months and then years before — only seems larger and larger and, himself, smaller and more relentlessly insignificant.

David Kranes is a playwright, fiction writer and writing mentor living with his wife, Carol, in Salt Lake City.