Partying Hard With Trump – Never what’s expected.


Partying with Trump is never dull.  It’s 2:07 AM and I’m sitting back in my chair, legs up on the empty stool next to me, waiting for a refill on my coffee.  The last time I saw the waitress was 1:32 AM and then she disappeared in the back of this 24hr diner. I expect to see her picture on the back of the creamer carafe.  Sure, that’s a bad joke, but my humor gets worse after midnight.   I’ve got my trusty iPad next to my empty coffee cup; someone told me it’s the same one Trump’s Campaign Manager uses and I was left perplexed as how to respond to such an observation.

Trump sleeps very little.  I can relate to that.  I know he’s going to be tweeting in an hour or two, as his mind never stops working. This guy is 70 years old and does more in a day than most people 1/3 his age do in a month.  The waitress has emerged from the back. This is my chance.

“Some more coffee, please, thanks.”

The waitress turns and grabs a pot from its warmer.  I wonder if I should have done that myself 15 minutes ago. She pours it into my cup and doesn’t crack a smile.

“You follow the election?”  I ask.

“Sure. A bit.” she replies.

“Who do you like?” I only ask her this because the place is deserted and politics becomes easier to discuss.

“I will be voting for Trump.” she says while holding the pot steady in the air like a pro.

I nod in agreement, as if that’s the obvious choice.

“Me, too.”

Then I ask her “what do you think of the tape scandal?”

“Pure and simple bullshit.  I hear a lot worse every day here at the counter.” she responds with a sudden tone of anger.

I think to myself that she probably does.  This place is a truck stop for people who live on the road. It gets all types.

“Do you want a piece of apple pie, sweetie? I made it myself this morning.  If you support Trump it’s on the house.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

She turns back towards the counter and returns the coffee pot to its warmer.  I wonder what it is that brings out this bond in Trump supporters.  It feels like being a member of some big club.

She comes back shortly with a slice of pie a la mode.

“What are you doing?” she asks as she sets down the plate.  “You’ve been here a long time, typing into your little screen there.”

“I’m waiting for Donald Trump.”

“You know Donald Trump?  Trump is coming here? Oh my God.” This woman literally starts jumping up and down with excitement and adjusting her hair, unconsciously.  I realize how utterly disappointed she would be if I tell her I just meant he would be tweeting soon and I was waiting for them.  So I just smile big, feeling a bit like an ass for using those words.

“Is he as nice in real life as he seems on the TV?”

“Nicer. The man is a closeted saint. He’s almost too nice to be President. He masks it well enough with his tone of voice, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes, he seems like a tough guy, but I knew it though!  I knew it!  I have a sixth sense about men.”   She races towards the back and I just know she’s going to be freshening up.

I keep keying in the latest article for Directorate and eat the pie with every other sentence. I’m starting to get a bit tired.

I hear a scream.  I look up and there is Donald J. Trump walking in the diner with three secret service agents in tow and the waitress runs over to greet him and hand him a menu, while speaking incomprehensibly fast.

“OhMisterTrumpImSuchaBigFanIveWatchedAllYourRallysAndIWantToMakeAmericaGreatAgain! CouldYouSignThisAfterLookingAtIt?AndOhYourFriendIsOverThere.”  She points in my direction without even turning away from Trump for a second.

Trump smiles, pulls out a marker from his suit jacket pocket and signs the menu and hands it back to her. Then he starts walking over to me and sits at the counter next to me. His hair really does glow with a sunshine yellow aura. His suit is impeccable and that red tie is brighter than the neon bulbs outside this diner.

“You’re my friend?” Trump laughs a bit as he says it.

“Er…Yes.  Why are you here?”

“I came to see you, of course. I wanted some advice regarding handling the media. These fake scandals will occur now every hourly news cycle until election day.  You’re supposed to know how to handle it.  You come highly recommended by my daughter Ivanka.”

“Ivanka reads the Directorate?” I ask nonplussed.

“Doesn’t everyone with a brain?” Trump says with enough sincerity to make me start to freak out. “Obviously I couldn’t correspond with you via email or by Twitter or even phone.  Obama has all our phones jacked by the NSA and they listen in on and record every call or text.  So here I am.”

“How did you find me? How did you know I was here at this diner?”

“We don’t have time for twenty questions.  I’m here. You’re here. Let’s talk scandals.”

“Well, okay.  I think you’re doing the right thing by ignoring them. They just want to distract your messaging.  They want to bait you. Some consultant told them your vanity and ego are the imperfection in the diamond they need to pound. I’d create a page on your website or even a different site that just updates the debunking of the various claims as the media makes them.  Don’t even waste your surrogates time with that crap and don’t waste time with it at your rallies. There are only 26 days left! Focus on the Wikileaks and the message!”

Trump breathes heavily. “I think that is a good plan.  You know, I used to get good press all the time.  The media is so dishonest…”

Trump pauses as if remembering something and then continues “…what’s this about all the MSM being hacked?”

“Oh well, the rumor I’ve heard is that “The Russians” have hacked every email server of every major news outlet in the US and abroad. They then sent all the data to Wikileaks…well a LOT of it. It’s up to Wikileaks to decide what to publish. I bet a lot will come out before election day. Every day till election day will likely be a torrent of new leaks and crimes from the media.”

The waitress has been kept at bay by the Secret Service as we talk.  She’s taking pictures with her smartphone.

Trump lifts his hand up and makes one of those deft Trumpian motions with his right hand that curves in the air and goes down. With each direction and movement change he makes a sound:

“Bing….Bing…Bing.   Their credibility is already so low, it’s hard to imagine it can get any lower. But that’s amazing. Really incredible news.”


I feel a pain in my neck.

“Honey. Honey, wake up,”  says the waitress, “you fell asleep and your plate fell to the floor.”

Trump disappears along with the secret service agents.  I look at the ground and see a half eaten slice of pie on a broken plate

I lift my head from my shoulder where it had been resting.  I look at my iPad it’s past 3AM.  I missed him.  Then I wonder a bit about telepathy, coincidences and mathematical odds.

Maybe,  just maybe, I didn’t miss him.


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