Hoodie
Inside the Fetterman home on the morning of the inauguration of President Donald J. Trump. This beautiful home is neat and organized, obviously due to the household management of Sen. Fetterman’s wife, Giselle. Their story is one of perseverance, with the senator suffering a stroke, depression and suicidal thoughts. Coming through it on the other side, the senator has gone back to his small-town roots where he is comfortable. Sometimes, a little too comfortable.
“John. I picked up your suit from the cleaners and I picked out a tie for you,” announces Giselle as she enters the bedroom dressed in an elegant winter gown.
John is lying back on the bed, dressed in his signature black hoodie, black shorts and sneakers.
“I’m good,” he replies in a nonchalant voice. “You look really nice, though.”
“What is wrong with you? We’re going to be late.” Giselle plops the suit onto the bed next to her husband.
John raises his eyebrows playfully.
“Oh, no,” Giselle says with a touch of horror in her voice. “No, no, no, no, NO…NO…NO! You are not going to the inauguration like that!”
“What’s the big deal,” John says sitting up on his elbows.
“What’s the big deal? WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL? This is the inauguration of the president of the United States. It’s going to be on TV ALL OVER THE WORLD! You will look like an idiot!”
“So?”
“So, what more do you need? I get that you don’t particularly like the guy. None of us do, but this is disrespectful, not to the president, but to the process. If you want to protest, do it on the senate floor.”
“This is not a protest. I just want to be comfortable. It’s a guy thing. Besides, this is my uniform. Everybody in the senate is used to it. People expect me to dress like this.” John lies back on the bed, clasps his hands behind his head and stares dreamily up at the ceiling.
“Listen, John,” Giselle says calmly, “I know that since the stroke and all that mess with you being in the hospital and all that they have sort have looked the other way with regard to the dress code on the senate floor, but this is different, honey. What about me? How foolish do you think I’m going to look out there standing next to you in Vera Wang and you in Under Armour? I’ll look ridiculous.”
John shrugs his shoulders and smiles a bit.
“You will look fantastic as always. Besides, nobody will be looking at us. Everybody will be focused on Trump and Biden and Obama and everybody else.”
“The minute you show up in that outfit, all the cameras will be on you and by association, me. What will people say? I’ll tell you what they’ll say. They’ll want to know how I could let you leave the house to come to the inauguration dressed like a KIDS SOCCER COACH.”
Giselle stopped and composed herself and then softened her tone.
“Do you want to just stay home? Is that it? We don’t have to go. It’s bitter cold outside anyway. We could just sit here curled up on the couch sipping cocoa and watch it on the TV.”
“Oh, no. I want to go. It’ll be cool. I just want to be comfortable,” John replies without looking away from the ceiling.
“Are you trying to make a statement?”
“The only statement I’m making is comfort. Look. It’s going to be a long ceremony with a bunch of speeches and blah, blah, blah and I don’t want to be tugging at my tie and pulling at my crotch and smiling politely and having endless nothing conversations with people I don’t know and don’t want to know. This way, people will steer clear of me because they won’t want to be caught in a photo with me.”
“You know it’s going to be like 20 degrees out there today. You’ll freeze your ass off.”
“I’m used to it. Besides, it’ll be indoors. What’s the big deal? I’ve been wearing hoodies and shorts since I was mayor of Braddock. You didn’t complain then.”
“You were only making $150.00 a month then. All you could afford were hoodies and shorts. We had to borrow money from your dad just to make ends meet.”
“Hey. Hoodies and shorts are what got me the title of America’s Coolest Mayor.”
Giselle walks away in a huff. John hoists himself into a seated position on the end of the bed.
“Why can’t I just be a guy?” he whines after her.
“Why can’t I just have a normal husband?” she throws back over her shoulder. “You can go to the stupid inauguration on your own.” As she walks away, her tirade continues. “You know, the whole hoodie thing is getting tiresome. Nobody cares anymore, John. This fashion trend has run its course in case you didn’t notice. I swear, I should have left you in that psyche ward. I don’t think you were done. At least if you worked at Wal-Mart you’d have to wear pants.”
“Pants are overrated,” John shouts back. “Suit yourself.” John hops to his feet. He does a bit of shadow boxing before heading downstairs and out the door. “Shit! It’s freaking cold!” he says as the door slams behind him.
Copyright 2025 by Jose Antonio Ponce