I saw Donald Trump Jr. the other night, in the cloakroom at the Harvard Club. I was standing off to one side as my husband was retrieving our coats at the coat check. And there he was, Donald Trump Jr., standing there looking very handsome, but twitching a bit, seeming a bit unsure and on edge as though wondering how he had found himself waiting idly in a crowded New York City cloakroom. There was a burly man at his side wearing a badge with some sort of cryptic ID on it, a Secret Serviceman or bodyguard, I assumed.
At the instant I saw Don Jr., I knew I had to take the opportunity to speak to him. I approached (he was only steps away).
“Mr. Trump?” I whispered, not wanting to attract attention. My face was two inches from his. My heart was pounding.
“Yes?” he said, sotto voce.
“I’m Jacqueline Masumian. It’s so good to meet you.” I whispered this slight fib as I stretched out my hand to him.
As the bodyguard made a protective move, Don Jr. took my hand. His fingers were slender and damp.
“I was wondering,” I said, “if you could give your father a message for me. If you happen to see him over the holidays?”
He gestured to a pair of leather chairs in the corner of the cloakroom, and we sat. I perched on the edge of my chair and leaned forward.
“I was wondering,” I continued, “if you could ask him to…well…to stop destroying the environment. I mean…look at all he’s done! It’s not good. He’s wrecking the environment almost as much as he’s ruining our democracy…and it just doesn’t seem right, you know?”
Don stared at me, a deer in headlights. “Well…”
“And another thing…about the lying. Could you ask him, please, to stop telling all those lies? He knows they’re lies, and we know they’re lies. Why does he do it? He’s starting to look like a fool.”
Don Jr. tucked his finger into his shirt collar and tugged, as though to give himself a bit more air.
“And just one more thing,” I said. I was on a roll. “Why don’t you tell your dad to stop wrecking your life? I mean, regifting? Honestly? And, come to think of it, hasn’t he fouled up your entire life? It’s a shame, a real shame.”
A tear glistened in his eye. I realized I’d gone too far.
Just then my husband approached, carrying my coat. I stood and pulled the scarf from the sleeve.
“So, you’ll tell him?” I asked with urgency.
“Yes, ma’am, I certainly will,” he said. Don was so polite.
“Thank you so much. Have a Merry Christmas. And…good luck.”
By now, dear reader, you have probably guessed that all the above is a fantasy. A basket of untruths. A bald-faced lie. Why I told it, I do not know. Just wanted to, I guess.
But the first part is real. I did see Don Jr., standing in the cloakroom at the Harvard Club the other night. That part is absolutely true.