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El Donaldo Real

El Donaldo Real

Sean Bienert

Published by Sean Bienert at Shakespir

Copyright 2016 Sean Bienert

Discover other titles by Sean Bienert:

Perfect Weather for a Baby’s Funeral

***~~~***

Shakespir Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The country is divided. But when they write my presidential legacy, it will start with trips like this one, thought Donald John Trump, Sr. as he boarded his private jet, bound for Jenson, Vermont. He was only President-elect, but aides and security had already become ever-present in his life. As he eased into one of the cabin’s few spacious leather seats, his brain went back and forth about what level of attention to pay the droning from someone nearby, either the trip ahead of them or the news behind them. Donald did not look out the window but, rather, sat back and tried to relax. It was always a pleasure to rub it in the faces of the old money, New Englanders, the smug liberals he had won. He had beaten them. No matter what anyone said, that could not be taken away. These were people cut from the same cloth as those Manhattanites who had eventually had to accept him. He had won the damn election. That was what he did. He was a winner.

Going to somewhere like Vermont, a place that was nine-tenths Canada, always reminded Donald that there was something that he felt rejected from: the hoity-toity, liberal elite intelligentsia. They just wouldn’t have him. Sure, they were polite most of the time. They’d make deals with his money, but he felt he could almost hear the professors and artists and Jews talking about him the second he left the room. Donald knew the words they used. He understood them in context. He just didn’t use the same ones. That didn’t matter though – Donald’s words were for the common, hard-working, humble people, the people like him. They were the ones he’d spoken to, and they had given him the election.

As the plane started down the runway, Donald remembered that it would be important to show that he had tried to unite the country. The liberals would get in their own way. He was going to be Reagan II. The world would remember him as a good president, a strong figure. There would be statues, so many statues. ISIS would be his Soviet Union. He would remember that when he felt like those sweater-wearing doctors and artisanal bakery owners were laughing at his back. They could only do it to his back.

Donald couldn’t remember whether he had been to Jenson before, but, to him, it was exactly the same as a dozen or so other towns he couldn’t name. One main, two lane road lazily bobbed up and down past neighborhoods and single homes. Swatches of forest were interrupted by lawns, parks, and, once in a while, a cornfield. The road would eventually lead to the miniature downtown. As his limousine rolled past the handful of brick buildings, he again wondered why he was here. The election was over. Was he going to be trying to win the support of people who didn’t like him forever? He’d beaten that awful hag. She and her pants suits could fade away into obscurity. Sure, the haters were raising a stink, trying to say that he hadn’t won the popular vote and all sorts of other ugliness, but he had won. He had won the election even after everyone had said that he wouldn’t – that he couldn’t.

Some decrepit buildings crowded the well-kept store fronts of Jenson’s downtown. It looked like they used to make something here. The aide, some young suit who had been talking constantly and following Donald around for the past few days, told Donald that the buildings had been a sock factory. Mostly though, Jenson had been an agricultural hub—a farming town. The farms were by and large now gone or hocking their goods to expensive farm-to-table joints in yuppy neighborhoods. The residents were online knitting business owners and retired liberal arts professors and antique shop enthusiasts. These were not Donald’s people. Not one bit. That was the point, explained the aide.

“You’ve made some pretty controversial appointments to your cabinet,” he said. “If you don’t want to fight Congress for the next eight years, you gotta show ‘em that you’re gonna be everybody’s president—that these guys are just help, and that’s it.”

Donald J. Trump shook his head. He was going to speak to these people. Maybe he could win a few of them over. They were the antithesis of what had gotten him elected, but, now that he was the President-elect, maybe these people could work with him in resignation rather than actively oppose him. The view from the limousine window wasn’t promising. Crowds of protesters were being pushed back by a very indifferent police force. There was unintelligible yelling. It was fortunate, Donald thought, that no one had brought eggs. These people probably didn’t do things like that in a town like this. They were too busy sending them to Africa. What a bunch of sore losers.

Behind the crowd, for just a second, Donald locked eyes with a man who was cleaning a window of the pharmacy right at the center of town. The driver asked the security chief if he wanted to wait while the police cleared the street ahead, so that they could make a bit more progress toward the hotel. Donald eagerly drank in the conversation to concentrate on anything except the protesters and the uncomfortable gaze of the Mexican worker.

“That’s it,” said the aide, “the Grand Excelsior Hotel.”

The rest of the crowd outside was not at work today, a Wednesday. They had taken the day off, didn’t have to work, or, perhaps, their liberal elitist bosses had given them the day off—go protest that rich guy! He doesn’t understand. The window cleaner’s face came into close focus. He was not scowling. He was merely looking at the tinted window of the limousine. It was the tanned face of a Latino, another group that Donald had not done so well with. Twenty something percent nationally, better than he was supposed to have done—like everything else. This man was working, though. Maybe he was the sort that had gotten legal citizenship. Or maybe he was taking a job from a blue-collar American who could be putting money back into the town of Jenson rather than sending it to family back in Mexico.

The limousine stopped. Donald Trump got out beyond the lines of protesters. A harried, older woman with a terrible dye-job and about fifteen pounds of poorly applied make up met him as soon as he set foot on the blacktop.

“The mayor was busy today,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I’m Jenson’s treasurer, and I want to welcome you to our little town.”

“Thank you,” replied Donald, “And what a beautiful town it is.”

“Whatever, pardon my French, but you can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Mr. President-elect. These people don’t know what a businessman is, what sacrifices he has to make, the risks he takes. Maybe, you can talk some sense to them,” she said.

Donald Trump smiled. This was his kind of woman. It was a shame that she was so old and fat, now.

“I’ll give it a go,” he said, “They can’t say that I didn’t try.”

She nodded.

“That’s the point,” Donald said, winking at her.

He walked to the town’s one hotel, the Grand Excelsior, where he would be addressing a crowd of better-behaved citizens for a speech followed by a photo-op. They had rolled out a red carpet for him. It was old and dirty, Donald naturally noticed, but, he imagined, it was probably the best that they had. Even the people who hated him were going to roll out their best now that he was the President-elect. But no one famous came to towns like this. No stars. No tens. Bernie Sanders, maybe, but not Kanye West. Not Hillary Clinton. No Miss Universe or Heidi Klum in sight, he thought, walking toward the door of the hotel. The Secret Service had fanned out around him, but even they didn’t have the training to anticipate what would happen next.

Because that was when what passed as an assassination attempt in Vermont transpired.

The hotel clerk, who had voted for Sanders in the primary, voted for Clinton with his tail between his legs in the election, and hated Donald Trump and everything that he stood for, held the door for the town’s treasurer, but let it go immediately afterwards. He even gave it a little bit of a push, to close it on this xenophobic plutocrat, who was waving at the few members of the town’s Chamber of Commerce that were waving back. He wasn’t looking. He was expecting the door to be open. It wasn’t.

With the very specific audible phenomenon created by something hitting glass hard—but not hard enough to break it—Donald Trump’s hefty six-foot-three frame collided with the glass. It had been just unexpected enough to throw him off balance, and he crashed to the ground, striking his head on the granite slab under the marquee bearing the aging gilded cursive spelling out the words “The Grand Excelsior.”

“Mr. Trump?” came a voice that was fading quickly.

“Mr. Trump!” It came again.

But everything was liquid. Everything was fading. Everything was distant and dark. Everything went black. There was no sensation at all.

Then, there was buzzing. Irritating, awful noise. It was warm and soft and comfortable, but the noise was some sort of alarm. It was something that was supposed to tell him something. His eyes opened, but it was still dark.

Where was he?

The last thing that Donald Trump could remember was the fall at the hotel. Was he in a hospital room? No. There were no machines. No nurses. He was in a bed, but he felt strange. Groggy but warm. There was another body in the bed. What was going on?

“¡Apaga eso!” the form whimpered next to him.

Donald heard the words, and they actually meant something to him. Had he suddenly learned Spanish somehow? How did he know that “apaga eso” meant “turn it off”?

Again the Spanish-speaking voice said “Turn it off!”

A bit shocked, Donald didn’t know what else to do but seek out the sound. A small plastic clock was making the noise on his side of the bed. It was white and had a face that had been discolored by age. It said that the time 4:30 a.m. Fumbling with the thing, Donald noticed something strange about his fingers. They looked skinnier, darker. The hairs on the back of his hand were black. He was wearing a cheap watch that said Casio but looked like a Casia or some other knock-off. Was it the fact that the room was completely dark?

“¡Apaga eso, Raúl!”

Raúl? Why were they saying that? Who in the hell was that? What was going on? Where was he?

“¡Jesucristo!” came a shout.

A young Hispanic woman threw off the blanket that had been concealing her and grabbed the alarm clock from him. In the darkness, he could see that she was young, wearing a white tank top, and very beautiful. A bit of styling, and she’d easily be a ten. Tits. Ass. She was a hot tamale, alright. The woman turned off the alarm clock and began whispering tersely in Spanish.

“Jesus Christ, Raúl, what’s wrong with you? I need to sleep. I have to be at the restaurant at six in the morning, and you have to be at the shop at five. Are you going to get moving or have you somehow gotten a lot of money? We’re ricj? No more work?”

She thought he was Raúl. His hand. It had been different. Donald looked at his hand all over. Skinny. Calloused. Short, dirty fingernails. His forearm had a few sparse black hairs on it. Both of them did. What was going on?

That’s when Donald caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What he recognized the person, but it was not Donald J. Trump! The window cleaner! The man in the mirror was the Mexican window cleaner from the hotel!

“Raúl! Are you listening to me? What’s wrong?” the girl asked again.

How could he communicate with her? He didn’t speak Spanish. Donald opened his mouth. When she heard him speak, he wasn’t this Raúl or whatever.

“Creo que algo está mal,” said Donald.

“What is it?” the girl asked, “Are you sick? It’s not like you can just not go in. Maybe take an extra sweatshirt today. We need the money. Your brother came up short on rent again.”

He caught his breath. Not only did he now understand Spanish. He was speaking it.

“What’s going on? You’re starting to scare me,” she said.

“No, no, no, estoy bien,” said Donald.

There was nothing else to say. Maybe, he could talk to some of his people, share some information with them that only he would know. There had to be a way for him to get out of this situation.

“Well, if you’re fine, you need to get going. Amada is going to pick you up in five minutes. He’s going to be pissed if you’re not ready,” said the girl.

Donald struggled out of bed, realizing just how groggy he was, and walked over to the closet. Inside, he found a pair of jeans, which he started to put on. The girl laughed at him.

“You idiot,” she said, “Those are mine! Are you drunk?”

She had a beautiful laugh and beautiful voice.

Donald found a different pair of jeans in the closet and struggled to put them on in the darkness, so that he could put them on, one leg at a time. Then, he found a t-shirt that said something in English on it. It took him a second to recognize the old Pentium logo. It had paint on it, and the screenprint had started peeling off a dozen washes ago. Also giving him pause was the fact that he couldn’t understand the words “dual-core processor.”. What was wrong with him?

He also found a cheap knock-off jacket that was too big, but it seemed comfortable, and he had a feeling that he was going to need that. There were some gloves with holes in a few of the fingers, showing the white filler that he put in his pockets.

With some laughing assistance from the girl in his bed, Donald found his socks and shoes and put them on.

“You’re such a goof,” she giggled. “Now I’m not going to be able to go back to sleep.”

“Lo siento,” said Donald.

“Just go,” she said, “Just get out there before Amada leaves without you. Remember, I put lunch money in your pocket.”

He turned to leave, and she said, “You idiot! Kiss me before you go!”

Donald hesitated. She was very beautiful. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see her better. Voluptuous. Thick lipped. She was a knockout. He didn’t hesitate any longer. He kissed her. Her mouth stank of morning breath, but he didn’t care. There was a warm feeling welling up inside of him, and he wanted to take her on the bed right then and there. This was obviously his girlfriend or his wife or something, why not?

His hand went to her breast, and she laughed, “Oh, now we’re awake, huh? Get out of here! You have to go to work!”

He lingered a little longer, but then she became angry.

“Go!” she shouted, “go!”

The hallway out of the room that they had been sharing was narrow and dark. The whole building was cold, and there was no carpet on the floor. Old carpeting nails stuck jaggedly out from the trim around the baseboards. The doors looked like they were the absolute cheapest type of painted composite. Through them, Donald could hear a couple having sex. Behind another one, children were crying. When he reached the exit of the building, there was a very poorly kept Ford Aspire waiting for him. He could tell because the sole occupant of the car looked like he was about ready to get out and kick Donald’s ass. Blue smoke was billowing out of the car’s tailpipe.

“What the fuck Raúl?” said the man, who he guessed was Amada.

“Lo siento,” Donald said.

“I left the car running because I figured you’d be out here any second,” said Amada, shifting the car into gear, “Gas is cheaper, yeah, but it’s not like it’s free.”

He pulled the car out onto the road. The apartment complex that they left behind was a dingy brick affair that looked like it had been put together in the seventies and then abandoned entirely. Amada drove slowly, exactly five miles an hour above the speed limit. The road crawled by beside them, and Donald wondered where exactly they were going. The girl had said ‘shop’. Were they selling something? Was it an autobody shop? Those Mexicans sure did like doing things with cars.

Donald had to find a way to get a phone. He could call Melania. He could call his Chief of Staff. What if he called his own number? Who would answer? If he was here, and he was Raúl, who was Donald J. Trump? That was when the horrifying realization came over him that he didn’t remember Melania’s number. He didn’t remember his aide’s number. The only number he could remember was his own.

The terrifying thought crossed his mind that, maybe, just maybe, this Raúl was occupying his space, speaking in his language… Banging his wife!

Donald’s breath came fast. He was literally panting. He was gasping. Amada drove in silence, at five miles an hour over the speed limit.

“What’s wrong man?” asked Amada.

“I need, I need a phone,” gasped Donald, “Do you have a phone?”

“Are you sick? You need a hospital?” Amada said, “You okay man?”

“I just need a phone,” said Donald.

“What the hell, man? We gotta get to the shop. We can’t be late. I’m already pushing it with five over.”

“Do you have a phone?” asked Donald.

“Frank has one at the shop that he lets us use sometime,” said Amada, “You know that!”

“Drive faster!” Donald yelled.

“Right, because I’m not going to get a ticket. You know what happens if I get a ticket. They’re going to ask us for ID. You wanna give them that fake that you bought for ten bucks from the college kid? We’ll be on our way back to Honduras before you can blink. Don’t be stupid. Remember what happened to your dad there? He got shot. He’s dead. Dominic. Carlos. Daniel. The gangs got all of them. Why am I telling you this? You know this. You were there when they killed Dominic. We have to keep doing this. This is temporary. Maybe, we just lay low for another four years. Things are going alright right now. Who knows? Maybe, someone will shoot that son of a bitch that’s coming to town today.”

It must be him. It must be Donald Trump that was coming to town. He would be there. Who was he? The questions played themselves back, again and again.

The shop, as it turned out, was a paving crew office. There were pickup trucks and paving equipment. Men filed into them, some nodded at Donald, wearily, and kept on moving. He followed Amada and lifted himself into the back of the truck. It surprised Donald to be able to move like that, to be able to toss his own body around easily. It felt good, being that powerful. He hadn’t been young in a long time.

“Which one is Frank?” asked Donald, nearing the end of his patience.

“What?” said Amada.

“Whaddya want?” said a bald white guy that was sitting in the back with them.

“I need to,” Donald checked himself, “Can I use your phone?”

Frank frowned and dug into his pocket. The driver and what appeared to probably be the foreman, complete with clipboard and white oxford shirt, were climbing into the cab of the truck. The engine started as Frank handed him what looked to be a fifteen -ear-old phone. He opened it and feverishly dialed his own number.

It went straight to voicemail.

It was no good. His phone wouldn’t accept outside calls. He needed something that would get his attention. Besides, at this time in the morning, he was asleep. Donald J. Trump—or whoever was pretending to be him—wouldn’t pick up a phone call this early unless there was something he absolutely needed to tweet.

He tried again. It happened again. He tried a third time, and a fourth time; still it went straight to voicemail. By now, the truck was in gear and was backing out of the small parking lot outside of the paving company.

This time, Donald panicked and whispered into the phone, “I have information that I am going to leak to the New York Times about you, Mr. Trump. Call me back, immediately.”

Before he hung up the phone, Donald had a ghastly realization: he had been speaking in Spanish. But he had never learned anything in Spanish aside from ¡hola¡ and that they had the same word for ‘no’.

Frank gestured for the phone, and Donald handed it back. What the hell was that? Frank asked as much.

“My phone,” he said, “Not for jokes. You got me, amigo?”

The truck sped off to a stretch of road that had already been scraped down to rough patches. There, the men dismounted and began setting up signs. Donald followed along. Whenever someone told him to do something, he could usually figure it out pretty quickly. The foremen cursed at him and said things in English that he barely understood. He knew he was being insulted. Even though his grasp of English had become somehow tenuous at best, ‘stupid’ and ‘estupido’ do not require much translation.

The paving crew had set Donald up on flag duty, which seemed easy. He felt that this was a personal victory because, at that moment, the job was a joke. Over the course of a half an hour, no cars came. The liberals were calling for people who did this ridiculous job to get fifteen dollars an hour? It took no brain to swivel the sign around. What a joke. When this all got straightened out, he would double down on that position.

The sun rose, and Donald was hungry. He asked when lunch was, and the other men on the crew laughed and told Raúl how funny he was. Then, he noticed that he was sort of hanging on the pole. Donald had draped himself over it, and, in spite of his young muscles, he was tired. He had only been flagging for a few hours, and it was already getting hard for him to continue. His feet hurt. The time dragged by. The sun was boiling down on him inescapably even though it was cold outside.

The drivers were rude. One heavyset woman shouted out to him something in English that he couldn’t quite make out, except that it involved the word Mexico, while she was waiting at his flag. She thought he was from Mexico. It was fair enough, thought Donald, at first, he had thought that he was from Mexico. She swore at him in English when she finally pulled away from the stop. What good did that do? he wondered. She had probably voted for him. Yes, he was doing a tough job, and he was hungry, but, Donald thought, some young American should have this job. Someone who was just starting out, working his way through college, or saving money to start a business.

The hours dragged on. His fingers were freezing through the spots in his gloves where the stuffing was exposed. The pit of his stomach felt like it was going to take over his brain and make him eat the sign. Donald had never been this hungry in his life. He waited and waited. Amada was driving the steamroller and pressing down the hot, tarred, gravel as it came out of the back of a truck in front of them. He looked at his cheap watch, which did, in fact, say ‘Casia’ on it, and it felt like time was going backwards. His feet hurt. His feet hurt. His feet hurt. He looked at the lunch money that the girl had left him in his pocket. Two dollars. What could he possibly buy for lunch with two dollars? The cars were rude and impatient. One ran his sign and almost collided with their truck. When the man stopped the car and got out to yell, he screamed something about a spic and the sign and wrong.

Donald couldn’t understand directly, but it was easy to piece together what the man was saying.

“No!” yelled Donald, “He ran my sign! He just took off!”

Eventually, the foreman got the man to get back into his car and drive off.

Hours and hours and hours later, they had finished the section of road. It was nearly two o’clock. Donald had not eaten all day. He was so hungry that he had started looking at the bits of stuffing in his gloves. They wouldn’t do anything for him nutritionally, but they might stop him from being so hungry. He had never been this uncomfortable. He had never felt this tired, this hungry, this sore. It was like a gym session with a personal trainer that lasted all day with no hope of a let up – and for what?

They climbed into the car at the end of the shift, and Amada said, “Alright, food time.”

“I’m starving,” said Donald.

“Me, too,” replied Amada.

They drove off, and Donald watched the outskirts of Jenson roll by. What was two dollars really going to buy him for lunch? He had seen convenience store sweets, chocolate rolls and things like that for a $1.25, but that couldn’t be lunch. No one could live on that. The traffic approaching the downtown was terrible, and Amada cursed vehemently.

“Son-of-a-bitch Trump,” he said, “Why does he have to come here? It’s already bad enough that he wants to send us back to Honduras to die, now he has to take our lunch time?”

Donald thought about this for a moment. He wanted to defend himself. He wanted Amada to consider the other side of this. Donald Trump was dealing in numbers bigger than just their lives. There were so many things at stake.

“Well, I mean, you have to consider that there have been people waiting to get their citizenship for years. And they do it legally,” he said.

“Yeah, and look where it has gotten them: waiting around for years. Can you imagine, waiting around for years in Honduras and hoping and praying that you don’t get lined up against a wall and shot like Dominic? And now, we’ve been away, the gangs are going to think we’re loaded when we come back. They’ll be waiting for us. What about Mercedez? You know what they’ll do to her if they get a hold of her.”

So her name was Mercedez, thought Donald. If he hadn’t somehow resolved this or woken up or figured out what was going on, that was going to be important if he planned on getting her in bed later.

“But we weren’t born here,” said Donald, “What about the people who were, shouldn’t they be working our jobs?”

“Okay,” said Amada, “It’s a funny joke. Ha ha. It just pisses me off that that guy somehow thinks that he’s going to do anyone any good except himself—no, you know what? I know that he doesn’t believe that. He is an evil son of a bitch, and all he cares about is himself. What pisses me off is that he got the stupid assholes in this country to believe that he’s going to help them. And for what? And for what? So that we can get sent back to the Honduras to die?”

“Maybe if we impress him in town today, he won’t have us sent back,” said Donald.

He had to get close to himself. To whatever force was manipulating the Donald Trump that he was. Maybe he could get Amada to help him. Maybe, worst case scenario, he could just trade in his body for this one. People would have to know that it was him. The Donald Trump that was this body couldn’t know all of the things that he knew. He was an impostor. He knew things that only Donald Trump could know. Get Melania on the phone. He would demand it!

The shift flagging at the paving company had been grueling, but it was over, and as soon as he got to whoever was supposed to be Donald Trump, things would start getting resolved. Amada was still in the middle of his tirade about the person sitting in the car next to him.

“…impress him? If I didn’t think I would get gunned down by the Secret Service, I’d wave my dick in his face! I’d punch him in the balls. No! I’d grab him by the balls—you remember what he said about women? I’d grab that son of a bitch by the balls and twist them off! Ha ha! See how he likes that!”

Amada was so angry that he furiously slammed at the window crank til he had enough clearance to spit into the street. This was right as the car arrived in a parking lot on the outside of town. The rest of the main thoroughfare was packed with protesters awaiting Donald J. Trump. This was the same street where Donald had locked eyes with the – apparently – Honduran whose body he was now walled into. It had to be happening soon.

“You got the cash you owe me for lunch?” asked Amada.

“Yes, I think,” said Donald.

“You think? The food isn’t free. I know Paola doesn’t have a job right now, but I’m worried about her leg. It got really messed up when she hurt it washing windows. She cooks for us every day. We would do the same for you. Don’t tell me you don’t have it. Come on! You’ve got it, right?”

“Yeah, it’s right here,” said Donald, nervously. He handed Amada his two dollars.

Amada sighed, looked at the money and put it in his fraying polyester wallet. He didn’t say anything, but the air was uncomfortably close. There was tension, and Donald didn’t know why. He waited. Had he not given him enough money?

“Was that some kind of a joke?” asked Amada.

Donald didn’t say anything. He needed Amada. He didn’t know what to do without him. If he was going to somehow get to himself, he needed Amada’s help. Amada was a pro at this world. He had just started.

“Raúl, was that a joke?” repeated Amada.

“I don’t know,” said Donald.

He didn’t know what Raúl would joke about or not joke about.

“Don’t joke like that ever again,” said Amada, “It’s not funny.”

“Alright,” conceded Donald.

“No,” said Amada, “Not alright. Don’t ever joke like that again. It’s not funny”

“Alright,” said Donald, “I’m sorry. What do you want from me?”

Amada didn’t say anything. He sat in silence. Eventually, he turned to the back of the car, but his movement was so abrupt that Donald was frightened that he was going to hit him. Donald threw his hands up in defense, but Amada ignored him. From the back seat of the car, Amada fished out two pill-shaped aluminum foil rolls. He handed one to Donald, who greedily accepted it, nodded a prefunctory thanks Amada, and tore it open.

Amada stopped him.

“C’mon man, what’s with you?” Amada asked.

Donald was speechlessly salivating into the space created by his most recent error.

“Father Romero would smack that right out of your hand,” Amada continued, his gaze searing into Donald’s aluminum package.

Prayer. Did they do it out loud? Did they do it quietly? How in the hell were you supposed to pray when you were this hungry?

Donald rolled his eyes. Mercifully, Amada was praying silently when he opened looked back. Donald quietly thought about how hungry he was for the eternity of a few seconds, waiting for Amada to finish. The second Amada opened his eyes, Donald renewed his attack on the package.

Inside was a tortilla. Donald voraciously bit into it and tasted the now-cool rice and beans. He didn’t care that the food was cold and heavily spiced. He swallowed it having barely chewed a bite as his coworker watched him in surprise. Apparently still upset with him about the money uncertainty, Amada said nothing. Donald finished his entire lunch in less than a minute. Was there more? There had to be more.

Afraid to ask, because of what had transpired earlier, Donald said nothing. His hunger had been muted a little bit, but he could still feel it. He wanted water. Amada was chewing in silence, savoring his food. He knew hunger. He could stand to go without food for longer than Donald. It didn’t matter. This was temporary.

“I am going inside to get water,” Donald said.

Amada didn’t respond.

Donald got out of the car and walked down the block to the front of a pharmacy. It took him even longer than it might have, as he was having to fight through the crowds. From the steps of the pharmacy, he could see the front door of the hotel where Donald Trump would be knocked unconscious soon. Security was already everywhere. He walked through the automatic doors and past the checkouts to the water fountain in the back hallway where there were some restrooms. There, he greedily gulped down water as quickly as it came out. The rice and beans were expanding in his stomach and making him more full. It felt fantastic. It was amazing, thought Donald, how the outside world lost focus when you were really, really hungry. He had never felt like that before and had no interest in feeling that way again.

“What … you … doing?” came a voice from behind him. It was English, so he was having trouble, but he managed to make sense of it.

“I just wanted water,” said Donald.

“Agua, huh?” said a man in a suit. The manager, maybe? Again, Donald wasn’t sure what he had done wrong. The water fountain was public. If he worked here, there was no reason that he couldn’t have some water before his shift began.

“Water,” said Donald.

The man let loose a torrent of nasty sounding words that were too fast for Donald to understand, but they included, “out of sight,” and ended with, “… Trump … here.”

So, this pharmacy had undocumented immigrants on its payroll. Donald wasn’t surprised. A lot of places did. And they wanted him out of sight. That would be problematic, if he was going to convince people…

Donald’s train of thought derailed. It wasn’t often that he had this much clarity about his own situation, but here he was, a Honduran—looked, talked, and smelled Honduran—and he wanted to try to approach the person who everyone thought wanted to deport Hondurans. He wanted to get close enough to explain that the Donald Trump who looked like Donald Trump was not real. He sighed. The only way for them to take him seriously was if he were to share information that only Donald Trump would have. It would have to be fast. It would have to be powerful. It would have to be something that they couldn’t ignore. When Donald Trump arrived, he would have to hit them with something nuclear. Then, maybe, he could match wits with the fake mogul and show everyone who the real Donald Trump was.

“Well?” said the man in the suit.

“Lo siento,” said Donald, checking his rage, and turning back toward the entrance.

He would not stoop and cower once he was back in his position. He’d buy this place and fire this guy. He would sponsor Mercedez’s visa and bang the shit out of her. He would win. That’s what Donald Trump did. He won.

“Hey, estupido,” said the man, “Vaya al the back-o.”

Donald nodded and walked toward the back. Maybe, he could use some sort of Seal Team Six and just have this guy fucking scrubbed. Waxed. Or better yet, water-boarded. Jumper cables. Some sophisticated CIA torture shit. This guy was a real asshole.

Once he was back at the car, Amada seemed to have recovered from his reverie and was mixing a tiny amount of Windex into some very large spray bottles of water. Moments later, he began cutting rags into strips with a box-cutter, which he handed to Raúl. Donald tried his best to mimic the size of the strips and felt that he had done a very approximate job. Amada didn’t say anything negative to him about it. He must have done it right. He placed the box-cutter in his pocket. Window cleaning was apparently his second shift job. If he wanted to fit in, if he wanted Amada’s help, he was going to have to do a regular job. But why? He was tired. He didn’t want to do this crap anymore. He didn’t want to be a goddamn Honduran laborer. He had worked his way to the tremendous heights he had reached. This was garbage.

Just a little bit longer. He knew roughly where Raúl had been when he, Donald J. Trump, had arrived in town. He just needed to be able to break away from the crowd. What had happened before? When was the most opportune time? He considered this carefully.

And so, Donald began spraying and wiping the windows. Amada saw what he was doing and came over to him, furiously.

“Are you kidding me?” he said.

Donald didn’t respond. What was he doing? What was wrong?

“What the hell is this?” demanded Amada, gesturing to the window he was wiping.

The Windex mix was rolling off the windows. Once it dried, it would be fine… right? He had wiped them.

“I already wiped them,” said Donald.

“Did you hit your head or something?” asked Amada.

Donald just stared at the incredulous worker.

“You used enough spray for the entire building! You’re going to have to soak it up and wring the rag out! What the hell, man? Like you showed me when we first started. Mist it. Just a little. The real cleaning comes from the arm.”

Donald watched Amada wiping the window down.

“You really aren’t joking,” said Amada, “There’s something wrong.”

He was serious now. Amada and Raúl had apparently been friends for a long time, and now Donald was seeing what people did for each other in times of crisis.

“What is it? Is something up with Mercedez? Did she hear from Alejandra? What’s happening?”

“I’m nervous,” Donald admitted solemnly. “I need you to help me with something.”

“What? What is it? Why didn’t you just ask me earlier? You’ve been acting weird all day. Are you in debt? You know I don’t have any more money,” said Amada.

“I need to get close to Donald Trump today,” said Donald, “I need your help to do it.”

Amada’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped. He stepped back from the windows.

“You’re insane! If you do something to him. They’ll round us up. They won’t wait to send us back to the Honduras. They’ll just kill us here. Raúl, if you’re joking with me. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s worse. You can’t be—”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Donald said.

“Then, what the hell are you going to do?” asked Amada.

“I need to talk to him,” said Donald. “I can actually talk to any of them. I just need to talk to someone high up in his campaign.”

“What?” said Amada, “Are you going to try to put a face on our struggle? Show him what we all go through? You’re just going to get deported. You’ll be the first one. This is crazy. Think about this for Mercedez. Look, I know we don’t have a great situation, but it’s better than back home for now. If you get sent back, Mercedez isn’t going to be able to support herself. She’s going to… I don’t know. It’ll be bad. Maybe she’ll have to sell herself or something. Don’t do this, Raúl!”

“That’s not what I’m planning to do. I have information for them. I can’t tell you what it is or how I got it. But I bet I can get them to make exceptions for us. I bet I can make them let us stay. Maybe, just us. If you trust me, if you know me, you’ll do this with me. I need you to run a distraction.”

“I can’t risk losing my job,” said Amada. “You know we’re not supposed to be out there when he comes into town.”

“You can risk it for this. No, it won’t even be a risk. It’ll be an investment. Think like he thinks. That’s the only way this gets better,” said Donald.

“You’re talking weird,” said Amada.

“You have to trust me,” said Donald, “Please.”

Amada sighed and looked through the window.

“How do I know you’re not crazy?” he asked.

“Because I have known you since we were both going to be soccer stars,” said Donald.

Amada was smiling, but something horrible had crept into the back of Donald’s brain. How did he know that? He thought back. He had memories of the Honduras. He had memories of the long trip north. Hiding in containers. Trusting bad men. The gangs in the Honduras. The people who had died. Where did these memories come from? Was he now becoming Raúl Garza? Suddenly he even knew the man’s last name.

In a panic, Donald tried to think back to the things that only Donald Trump would know. His wife’s name was Melania. He had two daughters, Ivanka and Tiffany. Everything was obvious. Everything was what anyone could know. What were some things that he had been briefed on as president-elect? What were some things that only his aides would know? Shit, thought Donald. He couldn’t even remember their names. He couldn’t remember anything. He was becoming Raúl. He was becoming someone who was destined for a gang hit in the Honduras. Panic was beginning to set in.

“Are you going to help me, or not?” asked Raúl.

“Yes,” said Amada, “I believe you. But you better not be messing with me. Why can’t you tell me what the information is that you have? What do I believe that you know? How do I know that you aren’t just crazy?”

“Because a crazy person wouldn’t have flagged all day,” said Raúl. “A crazy person would have just gone to it—you know, just done what they were going to do.”

“If you’re messing with me…” said Amada.

“I’m not.”

“You really are sure about this?”

“It’s been eating me up inside all day,” said Raúl. “That’s why I’ve been so weird.”

Amada nodded.

“I promise you that after this, we’ll be fine,” said Donald. “We are going to be tremendously fine. But I need one more favor from you, OK?”

Amada sighed. Raúl looked at his Casia watch. Donald Trump would be here in less than an hour. Number 4 from The Art of the Deal, know your market: the Trump team wanted photo ops. They wanted to see Trump mixing and mingling with the common man. He could sell himself as a unicorn: a small town, working Hispanic who was well dressed who wanted to be photographed with the President-elect. That was it! That was the market! Once he got close, they would believe him. After all, he was Donald J. Trump. He had beaten dozens of seasoned, career politicians to win the presidency; he could do this.

“Thank you!” said Raúl. “You won’t regret this.”

He ran down the street searching for a tailor, a decent clothing store, a department store… He settled on a small tailor. An off-the-rack suit would have to do. He’d open a credit account, and when this whole fiasco was safely behind him, reward the tailor with whatever his heart desired – tickets to any sporting event, a voucher for a free week at any Trump hotel, a ride on his private jet, ten thousand dollars. He would do that. He wouldn’t just stiff the person. The door chimed as Donald entered.

“No public restrooms,” said the tailor after looking up from a crossword puzzle and seeing Raúl.

“No, I,” he paused and spoke very deliberately in English, “needs suit.”

“Uh huh,” said the man.

“Rack suit,” said Donald.

“Right,” said the man, “Our stock tends to run into the pricey side of things.”

Donald struggled to keep up, but the man was speaking slowly, as if Raúl were a child. He couldn’t stand to have this man talk down to him like this, like he was that goddamned retarded reporter. He would stiff this guy on the suit. He would be happy to do it, too. Just play nice until you get what you want, he thought, just bide your time. Just be patient.

“Credit,” said Donald.

“Uh huh, and what credit card can you purchase this on?” asked the man.

“Store,” paused Donald, “Credit. Pay later. Many.”

He paused again.

“Many interest you want. Good.”

He knew it hadn’t come out right, but he felt that he had conveyed the message and looked at the tailor expectantly. The man stared at him for a moment.

“Do you have a social security number? I can run a credit check with that,” said the man.

Donald stared disconsolately at the floor. This was supposed to be a town of liberals. Why wouldn’t anyone just trust him? The man behind the counter broke into a violent fit of laughter. Donald looked him up and down. When he got back into power, he would do something really awful to this man. It didn’t matter what, but he would do something horrible to him. He was going to regret this. Tremendously.

Just as Donald was thinking this, he heard the crowds down the street start to boo. The President-elect had arrived in town. He fled the shop and sprinted down the street. The crowd was getting thicker and thicker as he got closer to the Grand Excelsior Hotel. He found Amada, wiping windows on the pharmacy near the car.

“I’m sorry, that didn’t work out, but I still need you,” said Donald.

“What is it, what do you want me to do?” asked Amada.

“When Trump gets out of the limo, I need you to make a very big noise. What’s the biggest noise you can make? The crowd is going to be yelling really loudly, so it has to be even louder,” said Donald.

Amada looked at Raúl with interest.

“Any suggestions?” he asked.

Donald couldn’t believe how hard he was now having to think. Goodness, he was practically earning his way back into being Donald Trump. This was insane. Did he have to do everything himself?

“I have an idea,” said Amada, turning toward the car. He turned back around and said, “I can’t guarantee exactly when the loud noise will happen. You’ll just have to be ready. OK?”

“Just give me,” Donald said, looking back at the limousine rolling toward the hotel, “Give me five minutes!”

“Five minutes,” said Amada, “Done!”

Donald hurried through the crowd toward the man he was certain was his doppelgänger. When he got to an area adjacent to the direction of the presidential convoy, he started trying to make his way toward the limousine itself. The members of the crowd saw the Latino pushing toward Donald Trump’s motorcade, and they cleared a path for him.

“Go!” someone yelled. “Show him that you’re a human being, too!”

Just then, Donald Trump was getting out of the car and talking to the fat woman, the town’s treasurer. She was telling him not to bullshit a bullshitter. Just then, the Ford Aspire backfired loudly in the parking lot. Secret Service looked in the direction of the noise. At exactly that moment, Donald seized his opportunity, scrambling through his brain to try think of what nuclear secret he could drop on the members of the president’s entourage. How could he convince them that Raúl was the real Donald J. Trump in mere seconds?

Just as Raúl broke through the line of protestors, he yelled out, “You… not rich… you say! You sex women… bad!”

He bore down on the old man, whose face had once been his own. Donald J. Trump, or whoever he was, turned in shock and saw the young Latino charging down on him. He backed up and set his face. What else could Raúl yell? What else could he do? He dug the box-cutter out of his pants and brandished it. If he couldn’t be Donald Trump, no one else was going to be, and he sure as shit wasn’t going through the rest of his life as Raúl. The second the sun glinted off the blade of the box-cutter, the Secret Service erupted into a blaze of gunfire. It knocked Raúl over before he even knew what happened, and there he lay, dead at the feet of the president-elect.

“Whoa, looks like you had some of your apples shaken there, Mr. President-elect!” shouted the town’s treasurer.

Donald J. Trump’s eyes opened. He was on his back, looking up at the bottom of the Grand Excelsior Hotel’s marquee. The Secret Service was escorting the doorman away. Donald was dazed, but he was alright. He was alright. He felt himself all over. He looked at his hands and assured himself that they were his, bigly. The same white hairs protruded from his knuckles as they had since they were blond. Donald J. Trump picked himself up from the granite floor.

“Well, that’ll be on all of the news outlets tonight,” said the treasurer.

Donald was still dazed. There was no dead body on the stones of the hotel. Everything was back in order. The illusion was over. He was back. He was alright. He was no longer Raúl. He looked back to where he had seen the man cleaning the windows. Raúl looked back at him. Glared.

He took a deep breath. He sighed. He looked around. In a few moments, he would have to give a speech to the people of Jenson. They were expecting him to say the things that Donald Trump had always said. The people had no idea what he had just gone through. The American public would never know what kind of a day he had just experienced in a few seconds. How could that have been real? Donald looked back at Raúl. The man’s gaze had never shifted from the President-elect.

“I know you,” thought Donald, “I know what you’re thinking. I know why you hate me.”

He turned and went into the hotel to give his speech. In the largest room, filled with press and anyone who could find his or her way in, Donald stood at the podium. He stared out at the audience. His speech was on the tip of his tongue. He knew what he had to say. He knew where it began and where it ended, but he was Donald J. Trump, and he was used to winging it. Besides, now he had new information.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a very big sigh “I have said a lot of things about the illegals within our borders. I’ve said a lot of things.”

The room was quiet.

“And there are two of them, right across the street, cleaning windows at the pharmacy. Trust me, I know this. I can’t believe that a security threat like that would be allowed into this town on a day when I am supposed to visit. Really people, it’s disgraceful. I just can’t believe it. Disgraceful. Get their asses out of here.”

The head of his security team, looked at the president-elect with an odd head tilt.


El Donaldo Real

  • ISBN: 9781370218158
  • Author: Guy Geaux
  • Published: 2016-12-24 04:20:08
  • Words: 8841
El Donaldo Real El Donaldo Real