The Day of the Donald (3 page)
Read The Day of the Donald Online
Authors: Andrew Shaffer
Tags: #FIC031000 Fiction / Thrillers / General
“T
here are dozens of Trump biographies on the shelves,” Emma said. “Even before he was elected president, the American people were fascinated with him. Half of the books about him are full of shit.”
“And the rest?” Jimmie asked.
“Are only half full of shit. Those are the ones he wrote himself.”
Jimmie laughed and immediately regretted it. Not just because he felt a sharp pain in his abs, but also because this woman clearly wasn’t joking.
“He doesn’t want another cookie-cutter biography,” Emma said. “He wants to write a memoir of his time in office. The working title is
America’s Greatest Decade
.”
“Decade?”
“He’ll have to remove term limits, but he considers that a formality.”
“Still, sounds a little optimistic.”
“He could wait to write the book until after his term, but he doesn’t know when that will be. He’s afraid he’s going to miss the yacht,” she said. “Besides, he wants it on shelves during his
reelection campaign. He wants to tout all he’s done for the country. Discharging our debt to China, the buyout of Cuba, the program to put chandeliers in every classroom in the country.”
Jimmie felt his cheeks flush. “And my name was the first that came to mind.”
“Let’s just say you weren’t too far down the list. He’s a big fan of your work. You’ll be given total access. You can follow him into the bathroom if you want to.” She paused. “He actually specifically asked me to mention that to you. That he has nothing to hide in that department.”
That message delivered, her tone brightened: “He wants to come across as open and honest. You won’t be asked to sugarcoat anything. No restrictions. I know this is a lot to take in,” she said. “But I’m going to need an answer before I leave.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I need to catch my flight in an hour and thirty-seven minutes. Which means you have five minutes to decide, James.” She glanced at her phone. “Four minutes.”
Although Jimmie had never heard from the president before, it made perfect sense that Trump was a fan of his. Jimmie had been the one whose reporting had forced Ted Cruz out of the race. It was right when Cruz was preparing his all-out “This time we’ll
really
stop him” surprise reactivation of his campaign a week before the Republican National Convention. The story had also cost Jimmie his career. There was the lawsuit brought by SeaWorld against the
Daily Blabber
. The jury trial, where Jimmie’s ethics were called into question. The $180 million verdict. The appeal. The upheld verdict.
After that, his name was poison. No disreputable blog would have him, and he had no interest in working for the reputable ones.
The assignment for
Cigar Aficionado
had come about through an old editor who still tossed him a freelance gig from time to time.
So while his past was painful, his present wasn’t exactly all kittens and rainbows. And this opportunity was almost too good to be true. Forget crawling around in the dirt—he’d be working in the White House. Or, as some of the administration’s critics called it, the “Gold House.” (Trump took this as a tremendous compliment.) What interested Jimmie more than the steady work, however, was the opportunity to see his ex-girlfriend again—Cat Diaz. What would she say if she saw him palling around with the president?
“Is Cat Diaz still working there in the press corps?” Jimmie asked.
“She was your boss at the
Daily Blabber
, wasn’t she? Fired you, right? If it’s going to be a problem for you to work together, we can revoke her credentials.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Do you know if she’s still seeing that reporter from the
Times
? Lester Dorset. Always flashing that Pulitzer of his around like he won the Super Bowl.”
“I don’t keep up with the latest gossip,” Emma said. “Isn’t that your specialty?”
Jimmie didn’t say anything.
Emma looked at her phone. “Time’s up. What’ll it be? Ready to return home?”
Jimmie grunted.
“So is that disgusting noise a yes? I really need to be on my way.”
“What’s the alternative, again?”
“I think you know that.”
“Because you’ve told me before?”
“Because you’re not as stupid as you pretend to be. If I leave you here, you’ll be thrown back into San Miguel after you’re healed. Imagine what will happen to you after a month. After a year.” She paused. “After
ten years
.”
In another decade, Jimmie would be in his forties. A decade after that, his fifties. Was there anything after that? He thought back to the old man coughing in the tunnel, the old man who was going to die in San Miguel. How many of the migrants would kill for the opportunity Jimmie was being handed?
He would accept the job. For that old man and for every migrant who had ever dreamed of a better life and fallen short.
He’d accept it primarily to avoid returning to jail, of course.
Secondly, for a chance to show up his ex.
Thirdly, for the steady paycheck.
But fourthly, for those poor souls who hadn’t been blessed with the talent to turn prose into paychecks. He’d pour out a little liquor for them when he returned to the States—not much, because Trump Whiskey was expensive. But enough to say he’d done it, and that was all that mattered.
May 23, 2018, 6:58
PM
President Trump:
You’re very lucky to be talking to me. I’m very busy now, you know. I have hundreds of very important meetings every week. You can’t imagine how important these meetings are.
High-pressure negotiations, which I am very good at. I’m amazing at negotiating. I’m going to bring you to some meetings so you can see. You’re going to love these meetings. I have the best meetings. Are you going to ask me any questions?
Lester Dorset:
Ah, yes . . . During your administration, the lawmaking process seems to have come to a standstill. You’ve vetoed nearly ninety percent of the bills that have crossed your desk.
Trump:
You always reject the first offer.
Dorset:
Both the House and Senate are controlled by Republicans. You would think they would be on common ground with you.
Trump:
Listen, I may have campaigned as a Republican, but I’m no more a Republican than that crazy-haired garden gnome Bernie was a Democrat. That stuff’s just letters after your name on the ballot; it doesn’t mean anything. The GOP totally disrespected me.
Dorset:
And now you’re disrespecting them?
Trump:
I don’t forget. I don’t forget, okay? So, yeah, there’s a little bit of that. Bottom line, though, is that they’re grandstanding. They’re playing politics. I’m issuing executive orders.
Dorset:
One of your signature projects, the Even Greater Wall, is only halfway complete because Congress refuses to fund your executive orders. Your critics have characterized it as the “Wall to Nowhere.”
Trump:
It has nothing to do with Congress. As you know, Mexico agreed to pay for the damned thing—just like I said they would. Unfortunately, their check bounced. Not a great way to convince the world your country’s not full of rapists. Just saying. So construction has been halted for the time being. There’s that saying, “Trump Tower wasn’t built in a day.” Nobody’s ever undertaken a project of this magnitude before. Except for maybe the Chinese, who had a much smaller border to defend.
Dorset:
The Great Wall of China is four thousand miles long; the US-Mexico border is just about half that.
Trump:
US-Mexico is just the first phase. Phase two is the Canadian border. Five thousand more miles, baby. And let’s not forget our borders with the oceans. Once Congress opens the purse for me, China can suck it.
Dorset:
I wasn’t aware there were any troubles with Canadians entering our country illegally. Or . . . fish.
Trump:
Securing our borders is about more than immigration. What if some Kardashian sneaks across with a dirty bomb? Somebody had to do something about the Kardashian problem. Nobody wanted to talk about it but me. So that’s why you’ve seen me take other steps, like revoking Kim and Kanye’s passports.
Dorset:
This supposed connection between Kardashians and terrorism has been refuted many times over. The facts—
Trump:
The fact is, there are terrorists everywhere over there—Iran, Kazakhstan,
and
Kardashia. You can’t refute that.
Monday, August 27, 2018
J
immie searched for glimpses of the new golden exterior of the White House through the buildings as his car drove up Connecticut Avenue. “Traffic on Sixteenth is restricted due to the glare issue,” his driver said.
They inched through traffic, and—there it was. The gleaming columns, the burnished eaves. The word “TRUMP” spanning the facade.
It was all too beautiful to be real. People actually lived here?
Not people
, he thought.
The Trumps
.
The first family, like others before them, had moved into the White House’s Executive Residence, which was sandwiched between the East and West Wings. From what Jimmie had read, there had been some chatter about building an entirely new residence on the grounds. A Trump Wing, financed entirely by Trump himself. However, Trump had ultimately decided against a new structure. The return on his investment would be nil—he couldn’t take it with him when he left office. Donating it to the federal government was a ridiculous proposition even for the most altruistic philanthropist. Instead, the real estate mogul had overhauled the existing residence. Trump had even gone so far as to move the bedrooms to the third floor so that he could turn the second floor into one giant State Dining Room.
“We’ll do a lap before we pull in,” his driver said. The car circled the grounds, giving Jimmie a firsthand look at the new features he’d only seen on TV.
Turning down Constitution Avenue gave Jimmie a great view of the fountain. The Haupt Fountains may have been nice, but they were nothing compared to the Bellagio Fountains that Trump had shipped in from Vegas.
Through the cascades of water, Jimmie could see the new White House golf course on the South Lawn. Eisenhower had a putting green; Trump had an entire eighteen-hole course designed by Jack Nicklaus. From what he could see, the ninth green had almost recovered from its trampling during the 2018 Easter Egg Roll. President Trump had asked all the children to wear golf spikes, but it turned out most kids didn’t have them. A week later, Trump launched his public-private initiative to provide golf shoes to underprivileged youth. It would have gone over better had he not slashed funding for science education a month earlier.
The car finally let Jimmie out near the surprisingly unassuming staff entrance. As he waited in the line to pass through the metal detectors, Jimmie looked over the large sign showing items he was forbidden to bring inside with him. The list now included hair dryers, after an event last month in which Trump had to be evacuated from a rally after a blow-dryer-armed protestor had gotten close enough to give Trump’s hair a nearly fatal tousling.
“Any liquids, perishables, electronics, flammable material?” asked the guard as he unzipped Jimmie’s backpack.
“No, sir,” Jimmie replied. “Except—well, notebooks, which could be flammable. They’re paper.”
“What’s this?” asked the guard, pulling Jimmie’s microcassette recorder out of the bag.
“That’s just my tape recorder,” Jimmy said. “I’m going to be interviewing the president.”
The guard nodded in understanding, placed the tape recorder on the table, and then smashed it to pieces with a hammer.
“Whoa! Hey! Come on, man! No!” Jimmy wailed. “Why did you do that? That recorder survived the Playboy Mansion!”
“No outside recording devices,” the security guard said, trying on Jimmie’s backpack. “This is nice. Is it new?”
Jimmie nodded. “Could I have it back now?”
“No backpacks allowed, sorry,” the guard said. “You can buy it back later on eBay, unless you’re outbid.”
As much as Jimmie wanted to grumble about it, he knew that the heightened security measures were warranted. Even though most dissenters were fleeing the country, the occasional protestor still slipped through the iron gates with a can of white spray paint to “take back the White House.”
Dissidents didn’t have a leg to stand on, though. Trump had won the election in a landslide. Some commentators believed the “landslide” was more than just a metaphoric natural disaster. Jimmie had heard the 2016 election called the biggest single natural disaster in world history. Donald J. Trump, they said, was a meteor that was going to wipe the human race off the face of the earth. Trump had been in office for more than eighteen months now, and the human race was still going strong.
Trump was either the savviest or the luckiest president in history. His day-one repeal of Obamacare left millions of unemployed Americans uninsured. Without health care, they
were dying in record numbers. The resulting drop in the unemployment rate sent the Dow skyrocketing.
To give him credit, he’d created jobs as well. Construction of the Keystone XXL Pipeline employed thousands. The Keystone XXL Oil Spill cleanup employed thousands more.
Trump had found creative ways to fund federal programs while lowering taxes. Who else would have thought to pay for FEMA’s budget by suing the Catholic Church over property damage caused by acts of God?
And for every environmentalist who was furious about Secretary of the Energies Sarah Palin’s “frack ’em all” policies, there were three consumers thrilled with the money they were saving at the pumps and on their heating bills.
Whether Trump had actually made America great again was a moot point—he made America
feel
great again. And if that meant that Jimmie would need to bid on his own backpack to get it returned to him? That was simply the price of greatness.
