The pilot, of course, was speaking to Donald John Trump. The crafty billionaire businessman, turned reality TV star, turned presidential candidate, turned biggest loser, was barking orders to his pilot. But now, faced with more than just a philosophical bump in the road, The Donald marched back to his custom-designed cabin and fastened his gold-plated seat belt.
As the pilot yelled “wheels down!” Trump clutched the white leather armrests and closed his eyes.
“I’ve always liked it rough,” he muttered to himself. And rough it was.
• • •
No one was exactly sure why the Trump jet was now sitting on a dusty pit of land in Pacula. Not even Trump.
All he knew was he had to get away. He needed to be someplace alone, someplace where no one could find him. Especially the rigged media. He needed to think. To figure out this mess.
The embarrassing loss he just experienced — to a very unpopular Democrat, no less — was almost incomprehensible to a man who never loses.
A few hours earlier, Trump walked alone to his jet and ordered his pilot to take off. And now he was there. Wherever there was.
• • •
Shaken and stirred, Trump survived the landing. He had forgotten for just a moment that the election was over, so when he stepped out of his jet he waved. To no one.
“It isn’t easy being me,” he thought to himself.
Trump picked Mexico because he felt it would be character-building. He had belittled Mexico and its citizens routinely during the election — criminals, rapists, job stealers — and felt it to be a transformational opportunity.
He emerged slowly. There was no one in sight. When his Bruno Magli shoes hit the dusty road, he was, by chance, within spitting distance of a ramshackle cantina. Except that Trump never spat. And he never drank, either.
Nonetheless, alone and seeking deliverance, he pushed through the swinging doors.
Only the barkeep was inside. Monotonously rubbing the counter with a soiled rag, he never looked up as Trump sat down.
He was out of his element, of course, and wasn’t sure how to act or what to say.
Finally Trump spoke. “You a tough hombre?”
Trump had used this line before and never could understand why so many would object to it.
The barkeep never looked up.
“Hey gringo, desea comer los zapatos de cuero?”
Donald didn’t understand much Spanish but picked up something about eating and shoes.
An awkward pause was hanging in the joint until the swinging doors opened again. It was a 7-year-old girl.
“You’re Donald Trump, aren’t you?”
Her name was Maria, and she spoke perfect English. She was the barkeep’s daughter.
Trump nodded and she continued.
“You had some good ideas, Mr. Trump, but why did you keep doing so much stupid stuff?”
Trump, for the first time since he could remember, was stumped. He didn’t know what to say, but finally looked her in the eyes and said something quite rare for him.
The little girl grinned. The barkeep finally raised his head and grinned, as well.
Trump grinned, too.
He rose from his seat, threw a sawbuck on the bar and began walking to his jet.
“Let’s get the wheels up,” he yelled to the pilot. “I’ve got some ’splainin’ to do.”