The Day of the Donald (5 page)

T
he president stood tall and proud, as if expecting the vomit to apologize and leave on its own. Donald J. Trump wasn’t one to faze easily. Most presidents’ hair turned gray after eighteen months in office. If Trump’s hair had changed at all, Jimmie would have to say it hadn’t grayed but bronzed.

Dueling scents reached Jimmie’s nose. The smell of his own stomach acid was being forced into submission by the president’s cologne, which was unmistakably Success by Trump.

Jimmie took a rapid assessment of the situation to determine if things were really as bad as they seemed.

The good news was that President Trump could shower, change, and be back at work with only a minimal interruption to his day. That was one of the benefits of working in one’s own home.

The bad news, at least for Jimmie, was that his status as a fly on the wall had been blown. Big time.

During the primary campaign, a female reporter had gotten a little too aggressive with her questioning of Trump and was manhandled by Lewandowski. There was video of the incident online, which showed the reporter wielding a pen—a
“potentially dangerous weapon,” according to Trump. As if a reporter could ever be a threat to somebody’s welfare using just a pen. Years of sitting hunched over computer keyboards meant that it was usually a pain just to bend over and look into a fridge, let alone have the range of motion and athletic dexterity necessary to ram a ballpoint pen into somebody’s throat.

If a reporter simply asking questions of a presidential candidate could be manhandled for being a threat, what was about to happen to a reporter who threw up on the president?

Jimmie Bernwood was about to find out.

Trump, who stood six foot three, towered over Jimmie as if he were twice that. The white circles under Trump’s glaring eyes made Jimmie feel like he was pinned in a prison searchlight. Jimmie’s shame was only seconds old, and already its weight was unbearable. He thought he’d reached the bottom of his shame spiral in Mexico, but clearly he was still circling the drain.

The elevator door began to close between them, but Trump stuck out his hand to stop it. As the door slid back open, Trump turned to the stoic Secret Service agent flanking him on the left. The agent’s cleanly shaven dome glistened under the brilliant chandeliers. His eyebrows had been plucked to nonexistence. Jimmie wondered what he had against hair. Then he remembered who the guy had to guard all day. It made sense he might have developed some weird, obsessive behaviors regarding the maintenance of one’s hair.

Trump barked at the agent, “Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to shoot this loser?”

S
weat beaded on Jimmie’s forehead and behind his ears. He hadn’t even been aware that he had sweat glands back there.

The Secret Service agent made no motion to pull a gun out, however. He simply stood there, hands clasped together. “Where would you like me to shoot him, sir? I could aim for the torso—put a bullet right through his stomach and then wait for him to bleed to death on the floor of the elevator.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Trump said. “People need to use the elevator. Do it in the hallway.”

“On this carpet?” the Secret Service agent said.

Trump looked down at his feet, and so did Jimmie. The bright-red carpet had a golden pattern woven into it. It looked brand new, like it had just been laid down this morning.

Emma stepped out of the elevator. Jimmie had been so caught up in his own drama, he’d forgotten she was still standing behind him.

She loosened the president’s tie. Trump watched her work, a frown still plastered on his face.

“The first lady would not be happy if you ruined this carpet,” Emma said. “Can you afford a fifth divorce?”

“Fourth divorce,” Trump said. “My fourth marriage was annulled, remember?”

Emma used the tie to wipe off Trump’s suit. “Regardless, you don’t want to shoot your new ghostwriter. He wasn’t an easy get. And after what happened with the last one . . .”

Trump now eyed Jimmie through the elevator door, which was closing again. Trump held out his hand, and Jimmie cautiously shook it.

“I wasn’t shaking your hand,” Trump said as the elevator door slid back open. “I don’t need to catch whatever third-world Zima virus you picked up down in Mexico. I have a country to run.”

The hallway beyond them was empty, unlike the rest of the White House, which was buzzing with activity. There was a single set of double doors at the end of the corridor. The Boardroom.

“Would you still like me to kill him, sir?” the Secret Service agent asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Trump said. “Just shoot him in the kneecaps.”

The Secret Service agent reached a hand inside his jacket. Before he could pull his handgun out, Trump held up a hand to call him off.

“I’m kidding,” Trump said. “Jesus Christ, you guys take everything so seriously.”

The agent produced a pack of Mentos from his jacket. “I wasn’t reaching for my gun. We’re not authorized to shoot anybody unless they’re a direct threat to your well-being. And this guy . . . well, look at him.”

“You’d take a bullet for me,” Trump said.

“Without a second thought.”

“You’d jump on a live grenade.”

“Of course, sir.”

“But you won’t shoot somebody when I tell you to?” Trump turned to Emma. “Can I fire this guy? Can I fire the entire Secret Service and replace them with my own security detail? Is that a thing I can do?”

“We’ve been over this before,” she said. “Not only are they authorized to protect you, but they are also compelled to by law. According to Title 18, Section 3056, neither you nor the vice president may decline their protection.”

Trump snorted. He turned to Jimmie, who still hadn’t spoken a word in the presence of his new boss. “Not only is she beautiful, but she’s brilliant as shit,” Trump said. “You ever watch the Miss Universe pageant?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Jimmie said.

It was, perhaps, not the right thing to say after what he’d just done. But Trump just laughed and shook his head. “Nobody watches TV anymore, do they? For the longest time, I kept that dying medium alive with
The Apprentice
. But nowadays, it’s all about steaming this, steaming that.”

“Streaming,” Emma said, gently correcting him.

“You know what I mean,” Trump said.

Emma turned to the Secret Service agent. “Page Chris Christie and have him send someone to clean this mess up.” She handed him Trump’s tie. “And do something with this.”

“So is that how it’s going to be?” the agent said, angrily snatching the tie from her. “This job keeps getting better and better. You know, we’re not even supposed to hold the president’s coat. We’re not supposed to—”

Trump cut him off. “Be careful, or I will find a way to fire you—all of you men in black. By God, I will find a way.” Trump paused. “And grow some fucking eyebrows.”

“Well,” Emma said, “if you will excuse us, Mr. President, we need to get to the Boardroom.”

Trump snorted. “I was just on the way there myself but had to head back up to the Oval Office to pick up my comb. Let the Security Council know I’ll be a few minutes late, would you?”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. President,” Jimmie said as Emma whisked him away.

“Wish I could say the same about you,” Trump called out after them.

When they were well out of earshot, Emma tore into Jimmie.

“What the bloody hell was that all about? You made me look like a bloody fool. Why didn’t you apologize?” she hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I heard he didn’t like it when people apologize,” Jimmie said. “That he sees it as a sign of weakness. He’s never apologized in his life.”

Emma paused in front of the double doors. “If, in the future, you throw up on somebody—especially if it’s the president of the United States of America—you apologize.”

She swiped her badge and waited for the light to go green. While he had never paid much attention to politics, he’d done some reading online to prepare for his first day on the job. The former Situation Room was the brainchild of John F. Kennedy. Although Trump had rechristened it the “Boardroom,” this was the same room where Bush had given the orders to invade Iraq. Where Obama had orchestrated SEAL Team Six’s assassination of bin Laden. Where Bill Clinton had probably gotten a handy or two.

Emma held the door open, and Jimmie stepped into the darkened room. Somehow, they’d beat Lewandowski down here. Jimmie ran his hand along the wall to the right. “Is there a light switch in—”

“SURPRISE!!!”

A
t the sound of the party horns, Jimmie jumped a half foot into the air. If his shoes hadn’t been Velcroed on tight enough, he might have leapt right out of them.

Emma caught him as he fell backward and helped him stay upright. He stared with confusion at the assembled group of revelers who had thrown him for a loop. The looks of shock on their faces were in stark contrast to the pointed party hats on their heads.

“Who in Trump’s name is this bozo?” an old white guy asked. Jimmie was in the middle of a sea of old white guys. He blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Eventually, the old white guys resolved into individual faces. There was Lewandowski, who’d already arrived after all. Secretary of Transportation Eastwood. Secretary of Defense Nugent. The newest members of the Supreme Court, Justices Giuliani and Philbin. The only person who didn’t fit the profile was Donald Trump Jr., a slightly younger white guy.

“This,” said Emma, “is Trump’s new ghostwriter, Jimmie Bernwood.”

“Did we ever find out what happened to the last guy?” some suit-and-tie said. “He went off backpacking the Pacific Crest Trail after reading
Wild
, and then . . .”

A sea of disapproving faces turned on the schmuck who’d asked the question. Jimmie was too panicked to really care about “the last guy” right now.

Emma guided Jimmie to a leather chair at the head of the long table, which filled the center of the room. He started breathing again. Oxygen was good. Oxygen was very, very good. He loved oxygen like A-list actors loved nannies.

“And here he is! President Donald Trump!” shouted Justice Philbin as Trump entered the room. Everyone again yelled, “SURPRISE!!!”

Jimmie was ready for it this time. He barely broke a sweat. How Trump had changed so fast, he had no idea. Perhaps he had a pit crew of stylists standing by at all times, ready to change him like a race car with a blown tire.

The room burst into song.

“FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW, FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW . . .”

Jimmie mouthed along. He was slightly distracted by the world map plastered on the giant video screen covering the far wall. There were a number of red dots inching their way across the Atlantic Ocean. To an untrained observer like Jimmie, it appeared that American battleships were converging just off British shores. It was a little disturbing, to say the least. He tuned back in to the song just in time for the second verse.

“HE FINALLY OVERTURNED NAFTA, HE FINALLY OVERTURNED NAFTA, HE FINALLY OVERTURNED NAFTA, WHICH NOBODY CAN DENY!”

“Thank you, everyone, thank you! We did it!” shouted Trump over the hubbub. “Global warming—now
that’s
something we can all deny!”

The crowd roared with laughter. The Nuge set a large cake on the table. It had an image of Calvin from
Calvin and Hobbes
urinating on a crude drawing of the US Capitol Building. It was like one of those decals Jimmie had seen along the border, which had the cartoon character pissing onto the word “Mexico.”

As the crowd moved in on the cake and Giuliani’s shrill cries of “I want a corner! I want a corner!” grew louder, Jimmie’s attention drifted back to the video screen. Something was happening off the coast of the United Kingdom, all right. But as the graphic repeated itself over and over, Jimmie dismissed it as nothing he needed to be concerned with. Although relations between the United States and the United Kingdom had cooled off considerably since Trump took office, this was the former Situation Room. Trump and his Security Council ran through different situations at this table. Just because a graphic had been put together didn’t mean it was happening—or was even going to happen. It was just a situation. One of hundreds, perhaps.

Trump smacked John McCain on the back. “Hey there, Johnny boy! They let you out! Wait—can I say that?”

“Actually, Mr. President, I was hoping to ask you a quick question. It’s about a spending issue with—”

“What is it with you guys? Always politics,” Trump interrupted. “Come in for a meeting next week. I never talk business when there’s cake—rule fourteen in
The Art of the Deal: The Expanded Coloring Book Edition
. You gotta lighten up a little, Johnny.”

“Well, at least I tried,” said McCain with a good-natured laugh before sulking toward the exit. Trump didn’t notice; he’d
already moved on to the owner of the Washington Wizards, Ted Leonsis.

“Ted. Teddy. Hope the NBA doesn’t mind—it’s going to take a little longer to expand into Mexico. Necessary evil. This is such a great, great move otherwise for our country. More jobs means more butts in the seats at your games, though, am I right?”

Jimmie kicked himself for leaving his notebook in Emma’s office. Some biographer he was. He was trying to jot down notes in frosting on the back of his hand but was concerned it would melt away before he could transcribe it. He would have to be better prepared tomorrow.

If he still had a job tomorrow. What was it that guy had said?
Did we ever find out what happened to the last guy?
Even if he wasn’t fired for throwing up on the president, Jimmie worried that he wouldn’t be holding onto this job for very long.