One evening twenty-five years ago I was sitting in a bar near Columbia University. Near closing I was approached by a young woman who asked me if I was Donald Trump. Since his celebrity had yet to assume its present day cosmic quality that question seemed not only premature but strangely preternatural.
“I take it you saw my limo outside,” I said in mock outrage, “guess my driver doesn’t understand what park around the side means.”
“Please, I don’t want to get the poor man in trouble… let alone fired!”
“I don’t fire people,” I replied imperiously, “I terminate them!”
She held me in her gaze for a minute before bursting out laughing.
“You had me,” she said, a big smile enveloped her face.”
When I returned home vanity pushed me into studying my facial contours in the mirror. I found that depending on the angle of reflection and the amount of alcohol imbibed I did have more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Trump.
That same year I was interviewed for a news assistant job at the New York Times by Pulitzer Prize winner Sydney Schanberg. So desirous I was of that job that the moment I entered his office on the 10th floor at 223 West 43rd I was seized by an animated nervousness usually exhibited by a character in a slasher flick who is soon to die. It didn’t help matters that El Syd - a nickname I gave him shortly thereafter - conducted the interview perched from a very high chair that he admitted was a Times trick at intimidation.
Syd’s strait forward questions I answered with a series of vocal waverings that while not convincing him of my suitability at least tangentially proved out Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. At the end of the interview Schanberg threw in at no expense to me his own tricked-up master class in up close and personal journalism a regimen he called ‘21 Minutes to Perfect Reportage’. I listened to his obsessive prattle in the ever dimming hope I’d be hired.
The rejection call came the next morning. Instead of getting back off the canvas re-setting my goal and striving ahead I did my usual modus operand of falling into a funk of semi-paralysis and going with the flow. The flow was working another year at an interim position in the paper’s Treasury department under psychotic a boss named Joan and her newly hired Quaalude addled cash manager Ng. The board of directors in their wisdom had upped the requirements of my position - an MBA now required - and being bereft of that I was saddled with the task of training Mr. Ng as my replacement. He was a man who possessed one quality I have seen rarely since. Interminable meetings were vestigial of corporate America in the 1980s. No matter the gravity or scope of the meeting he had an uncanny ability to maintain a poker face throughout regardless of the massive amounts of Quaaludes ingested.
“I can’t believe this,” he mumbled one morning, his lips barely moving and his stoic Asian face for once breaking ever so slightly with indignation.
“What?” I asked. He grabbed a sheaf of papers and waved them in my face.
“This… they all are addressed to Nug!... who is Nug?”
“It’s your last name, no?”
“It’s NG!”
“Call corporate… they’ll fix it,” I offered.
“I did weeks ago. Nothing! Somebody’s got it out for me… I’m sure of it! Who do you think,” Ng mumbled again, “Joan or Denise or perhaps that weasel Richard?”
“None. I’m sure it’s just some glitch. Hey, look at it this way…” I replied, “reversed it spells G-U-N. That’s ballsy, no?”
Given his impaired state he considered this for a moment, and then another, and then another finally remarking, “Yeah, that’s cool!”
For the remainder of the year I tried to breach the inner sanctum of the 3rd floor newsroom but each time I was rebuffed by their demonic gatekeeper, one Ms. Davit. My final attempt was met by a dagger through the heart. She wrote that my skills and experience weren’t commensurate with the requirements of the news clerk position as stated in the Newspaper Guild posting: “that the candidate possess a strong interest in news reporting and the various operations of a news gathering organization.” So, at year end I found myself out on the street and left to my own devices for survival in New York City.
2004
And then some months ago that journalism bug reared its swiveled head and bit me again. Overtaken by this sudden fever of reportorial yearning I ventured forth once more into the city’s bowels to give it a try even though I knew at middle age it would be a tough slog. But after many months of banging my head against the wall trying to get free lance work I was still stuck. Without a portfolio the publishing-powers-that-be wanted nothing to do with me.
My luck changed one day my when one of New York’s smaller publications gave me a shot. The assignment was to get an interview with Donald Trump and discuss his views on his outlook on life, business philosophy, aesthetics, politics, and a grab bag of other topics.
On the appointed day I showed up outside his brass plated gate holding my introduction letter aloft as one might a trophy in my hand. But since my publisher was not on his A-list of New York power brokers and movers and shakers - our house was many letters removed down the food chain - I was treated like any other barbarian trying a similar storm tactic. The gate was slammed shut in my face with the disrespectful clinkety-clank sound of cheap brass.
I knew if I wanted to get into this game I had to find a way to land that interview. And day after day I tried one failing gambit after another. A condition not lost on my diminishing circle of friends. I was about to quit, a familiar state I had come to embrace since my high school days, when Fate stepped in and connected me with a horse tout at my local Off Track Betting parlor on West 72nd. This strange, impish man who sported a small hump on his left shoulder began our acquaintance by teaching me the art of boxing horses. Laced between this tutorial was the usual small talk where he learned of my predicament.
“I know a fella that might be able to help you out. If you can look by his methods which are quite unorthodox,” he said, his tone darkening slightly, “he does deliver as promised.” He penciled a number on the back of a horseracing ticket, “Call ASAP.”
That evening I called this strange fellow who due to our prior arrangement shall remain nameless throughout the narrative.
When we first met on that appointed evening in an underground parking garage he looked me over with the keen proprietary eye of an antiquarian shop owner.
“Yes… you’ll do…” he said, hesitating slightly, “a bit small in the gait but you’ll do quite fine.”
“You can get me an interview with Donald Trump?” I asked, with a hint of naked ambition.
“No, no… that I can’t do.” Noticing the disappointment that registered on my face he added with a devilish twinkle, “But I can pass on a tip that might be of some help.”
My eyes grew into saucers of anticipation.
“Are you a fan of his television show?”
“I’m not an avid fan but I’ve seen it a few times.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about his hair.”
“No,” I replied, “I can’t say I did.”
He leaned in to me and whispered. “Enhanced.”
“Like breast augmentation?”
He laughed his peculiarly sinister laugh. “No, old school my boy… a toupee,” he replied, dropping his voice an octave, “hand made by a guy name Rocco De Spirito. Here, I’ll write down the address and phone number.”
“No, please don’t bother… I’m sure I can find it on my own.”
“You’ll find it, you say?” the man replied, giving me a sharp sideways glance. “How does one go about finding that which has yet to be named?”
I shot him a dumbfounded look.
“Mr. De Spirito works out of his shop called…,” he said, wincing ever so slightly. “Hmm, it was just on the tip of my tongue… well, at least one of the tips. Ah yes, I’ve got it… Hair Apparent.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”
“But that won’t help you, either. For the great mass of New Yorkers Mr. De Spirito is an unknown entity. You see he prefers dealing with a select clientele, the chosen few, if you will. So please, take these directions… otherwise, your search will be as time consuming and fruitless as say Parsifal.”
I studied the note. “So, through this Rocco I can get access to Mr. Trump?”
“Not quite… you’ll have to discover that on your own.”
A perplexed expression crossed my face. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t be so puzzled by the nature of this…” he fired back allowing the last word to roll off his tongue with a snap, “game! Your key to success lies at Hair Apparent.”
The next day I called Mister De Spirito and in my naiveté asked if he could use the good graces of his office to arrange an interview with The Donald.
A long silence ensued. “How’d ya get this number?”
Embarrassed, I hung up immediately. Some days later I was about to give up on the piece and the idea of free lancing altogether until a wicked thought occurred to me. One that would require subterfuge. The scheme that coalesced in my mind was simple yet devious, one I’m sure that would have made LBJ blush approvingly. I was going to borrow one of his hairpieces and hold it hostage until he acceded to my demands for an interview.
I called Rocco at Hair Apparent and told him we needed one of his toupees for Chroma-key testing.
“Chroma-key?” he asked, skeptically.
“The set lighting needs some adjustment.”
“I thought the season was over?”
Thinking quickly I explained I wasn’t calling from the set of The Apprentice but rather from the set of the Visa cash card commercial.
“We need to chroma-key his toupee for the exterior lighting.”
“He never uses that word!”
“What word?”
“That word… in Trump-speak it’s an asset, like everything else he owns.”
Even with address in hand it still took some searching around the back water streets of New York to find his shop ensconced as it was on this dusty street ending in a cul-de-sac. When he met me at the door Rocco displayed the old world manners of a courtier - a man who was quite comfortable gamboling with those of great fame, wealth and vanity. He sized me up, immediately.
“Ah yes,” he whispered, “he spoke of your resemblance. You do look like him albeit in more a toy schnauzer version.”
I was tempted to ask who ‘he’ was but I thought it best to complete the mission at hand. “I’m here to pick up the ‘asset’ we spoke about over the phone.”
He took me to the back room of his shop which contained a large vitrine containing rows of neatly arrayed boxes. Each box bore a strange, hieroglyphic marking that I guessed belonged to some intricate identity scheme dreamed up by De Spirito to protect his customers. I watched him unlock the cabinet’s gleaming silver padlock and open its glass doors. A gust of cool scented air blew across my face.
“Ah ha! Here it is,” he said in a stage whisper.
“The Donald’s asset?”
He nodded reverently. “I have many other clients as you can see from all the vessels in the case but this is a very special piece,” he replied, coughing, “ere… I mean asset.”
“Is it his real hair?” I asked innocently.
Rocco stepped back, a hint of indignation swept across his face. “To reveal that would get me tar and feathered by my Guild brethren!” He paused then asked proudly, “Do you know what makes it so special?”
My head swiveled freely from side to side. Rocco shot me a dark, hooded look before continuing. “It’s sui generis. There’s not a piece on this planet that possesses such a combination of hair weaving and structural underpinnings. The fullness and bounce of it is matchless,” he intoned, his artisanal pride welling up. “I’m sure you couldn’t help but notice its signature look on his TV show?”
“I can’t say I did.”
“It’s gravity defying. Like getting hit by a tsunami of hair.”
“How did you do it?”
“It took Edison ten thousand failures before he discovered how to make a light bulb. I did it under five hundred. That’s not to say that those failed experiments ever walked the streets. Perfection was attained by using a keratin based hair lacquer for lift and shine applied to the hair supported by a girding of load bearing micro-tubes. It’s an approach I might add that was first used by Brunelleschi in the design of his Duomo in Florence.” He pirouetted on his heel and pointed toward the vitrine. “Alas, therein that vessel sadly is the last masterpiece!”
“But The Donald must have others?” I replied.
“Mere second stringers. And as with any great work of art one must be careful with it in public – the paparazzi, the glare of the klieg lights, the hangers-on, etc – and like the Leonardo Codex exhibit it only on special occasions.” Rocco then grabbed me by the arm and led me toward a credenza at the other end of the room. He opened its cabinet doors to reveal a TV/VCR combo and with a quick flick of his wrist popped in a tape marked in hieroglyphs similar to the boxes in the vitrine. The TV screen filled up with the meaty, squinting, self contented face of Donald Trump. He was hawking the next installment of the ESPN World Poker Championship slated for his Taj Mahal casino.
“Look closely. Do you see anything different?” he asked.
I studied the frame for a minute. “Yes, his hair is not quite how I remember it from The Apprentice,” I replied. De Spirito patted me on the back and nodded approvingly. “Good eye, kid! You see that hair has far too much auburn in it,” he spat, barely concealing his contempt, “that mop’s not from this shop!”
“They’re using other toupees… err… I mean assets?”
“Alas, The Donald has no choice,” he replied, turning on his heel and pointing back toward the credenza, “It’s like a violin from Cremona
I looked at him with disbelief.
“A long time ago there were three people in the world who knew it. Now one is dead, the other has gone mad and I have nearly forgotten. If I were desperate I would rip it apart in hope of discovering its secrets but that’s akin to smashing up a Stradivarius,” he said, “might just end up with one big hair ball!”
He glanced nervously from side to side and then leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody… especially you know who! In answer to your earlier impolitic question yes, the asset contains a number of his own strands placed strategically to create a sense of verisimilitude.”
“Ahh!” I said, as we both nodded in unison.
But before he was willing to hand over the asset I had to sign various forms in triplicate he thrust under my nose. And then, once the ink was dry, De Spirito handed me the vessel which I placed under my arm with all the care one might gave to say a rare Faberge egg.
to be continued
to be continued
This story featuring our current President is one I wrote in 2004. It needs work. I'm also working on a sequel titled Err Apparent. Since I know a lot more about Trump I need to change the style of his tonality. The dialogue used here is too much like Sinatra during his Rat Pack days.
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