Destiny's finest hopes. A glimpse of their lives away from the debate stage.

Greetings and welcome to Destiny, one of America’s premier nursing facilities, which has won several awards for its outstanding approach and notable residents. Peace out and take the tour. (Perry Como’s Papa Loves Mambo plays on repeat from a corner speaker.)

To the left, we have our plastic houseplant collection, which is dusted at least once a week. Dozens of palms, rhododendrons, philodendrons, corn stalks and rubber ivy strands. A designer from Orlando flew up five years ago to arrange them artfully and they’ve been vegetating there ever since.

To the right, take a glance at the art deco neon sign collection imported from hotel lobbies in Wildwood, New Jersey. Everything glows, which is particularly helpful to the night nurses and residents wandering the hallways later in the day. There are red and blue Cadillacs. A green-glowing model of Elvis’s guitar. Sunsets. Sunrises. Even a half-drunk bright yellow neon margarita.

Along the tour, you might gravitate to our pieces de resistance: the Memory Unit and Long-Term Care where two popular residents occasionally reside.

Currently, the 81-year-old (B) and 78-year-old (T), whose names can’t be disclosed for security reasons, are avoiding respite care. Instead, they tend to be locked in vicious, petty contests over who gets command and control of the remote control for the cable box and the gas fireplace in the residents’ communal quarters. 

In addition to a battery of medical appointments, outside gigs designed to extend their respective brands frequently draw their fleeting attention. But Destiny’s doctors remain concerned about the vitriol they display toward each other.

“He’s about as old as I am and he can’t remember his wife’s name,” guffaws B about T while leaving the center early recently to take part in a late-night talk show. “Mercedes, that’s what he said the other day. What a moron.”

At his primary place in Palm Beach, where he has decamped temporarily to stop it from being repossessed,  T countered: “That man flushes tax payers’ dollars down the toilet by funneling aid to Ukraine. What a loser.” At the time, T was handing out gold metallic high-tops with his image emblazoned on the soles to his acolytes brandishing hockey sticks and baseball hats.

The possibility of prison looms large for T in the wake of a freshly-minted felony conviction. Staging another country-wide popularity contest against B to bully the free world into submission again seems like the most viable career option. Helpfully, his Destiny internist has signed off on the fact that it’s not an act of delusional grandeur in any way.

“The nursing home is my back-up plan if the Make America bad and mad crowd doesn’t pull through. I’ll tell all the judges I’m unfit and move back here permanently. I’ll reconcile with that gold-digging former advice columnist from Elle to get some of my money back, then dump Mercedes, I mean Melania.” 

In their stays at Destiny, B and T reside at opposite ends of the hallway to keep the peace and secure the safety of the space. While in session, they are both treated by a renowned team of fountain-of-youth gerontologists, imported from Zurich and all over ninety, who specialize in staving off the aging process. 

When they bump into each other, they are less than kind. “You, bumpkin. Teetotaler. Criminal. This is the worst kind of Deja vu,” was the most recent retort uttered by B. “You’re docked on thirty-four felony counts. How dare you throw your ankle bracelet into the ring again.”

“I’m a Wharton man. I’m not going to be put in my place by a middle-class low life, who happens to spend most of his time in the Oval office. And anyway, who remembers anything these days? The American public belongs here, with us, in the short-term memory unit. What’s happening is all a grand folly organized by you and your son as revenge.” 

T’s diatribe goes on. “When I get in, we’re going to be Russian about things. Everyone against me will be eliminated. You’ll meet your end on a beach in Rehoboth when you least expect it. My daughter is going to be secretary of state, damn it. My son-in-law will oversee the spooks and Israel and my daughter-in-law, who is such a loyal apparatchik, will be running the party fundraising.” 

The lone place where the two seem to share ground is in Destiny’s Cryonics department in the basement, the tour’s last stop. 

With age, their political positions are shifting radically, and they’ve become acolytes of human permanence. Why not stay forever?  Why abandon the beauty contest that is public life or the hallways of Destiny? 

Being cryogenically frozen seems like the appropriate step after investing years in Botox, litigation, political contests, spinach and memory vitamins. Together, they’ve reserved slots in Destiny’s sub-zero freezing room, next to Paris Hilton and Peter Thiel.  Quitting early isn’t the Destiny way is the caption on the door.