by Dave Barry
Horkman said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Trump.” He stuck out his hand, and Donald Trump shook it.
“I just want to say,” said Donald Trump, “that I deeply, deeply admire what you two men have accomplished.”
“Thank you,” said Horkman, flashing me a sideways look that said What the fuck?
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Donald Trump,” I said. I stuck out my hand again, to try to get a shake, but the timing was wrong. The handshaking window was closed. I have never hated Horkman more than I did at that moment.
“I take it,” Donald Trump was saying, “that you’re here to attend the convention?”
“What conv—OUCH,” I said, because of Horkman elbowing me.
“Yes,” said Horkman.
“Well,” said Donald Trump, “I would be honored if you would sit in my box.”
Which is how Horkman and I, wearing Air China blankets, ended up walking with Donald Trump into the Republican Party national convention on the night when the Republicans were going to nominate their candidate for president of the United States.
CHAPTER 53
Philip
I hate politics.
Don’t get me wrong, I have strong opinions about what’s going on and am very concerned about the direction our country is heading. But my frustration these days lies with the fact that it’s almost impossible to implement curative policy because of self-serving partisanship.
As a concerned citizen who grew up in a Republican household that revered President Eisenhower, a five-star general who rode the wave of his WWII popularity into the White House for eight flourishing years, I learned at an early age that a person can be an effective public servant without having to be compromised by the politics it takes to get into office.
Even that night in Tampa, as Trump held the door for us to enter the St. Pete Times Forum, he expressed his own frustration that within the party itself, the lack of unity had divided the delegates’ votes among six candidates, so there was still no nominee.
“Assholes,” said Trump. “They should change our party’s symbol from an elephant to an elephant with six assholes.”
For a second, I thought Peckerman was talking.
But Trump’s choice of words aside, I was curious about his take on the situation.
“If it were up to you, Mr. Trump,” I asked, as he led the way to his box, “who would you like the party to choose?”
“Me,” he said.
Then smiled like that was a joke. Then got serious like it really wasn’t a joke.
I must say it was exciting to be inside that arena—a convention center that held concerts and where the Tampa Bay Lightning hockey team plays their home games. I mean, watching it at home is one thing, but to be where the actual delegates were, right there on the floor announcing who they were casting their votes for, was a big thrill.
And to be guests in Donald Trump’s private box was an extra thrill—a glass-enclosed booth with about twelve cushioned chairs like the ones in a movie theater, as well as a TV monitor bracketed to the ceiling showing all the action down on the floor.
“You fellas hungry? Want food? Something to drink?” Trump asked, pointing to a buffet and fully stocked bar.
I was famished. I really hadn’t eaten anything since that Air China flight to Beijing. But it was Peckerman, who’d had about six meals on the plane, who answered.
“You bet, Donny Boy!” he exclaimed, before picking up a plate and making a beeline from one end of the table to the other, grabbing enough food to feed the seven other people who were already seated in the booth—nicely dressed men and women whom I got the impression worked for Trump. And all of who emitted a collective gasp upon hearing the idiot Peckerman call their boss “Donny Boy.”
All eyes, including ours, were now on Trump, awaiting his reaction. His face was taut and his eyebrows contracted.
“Donny Boy?” he said. “I’ve never been called that. By anyone.”
But then, as if he had reminded himself about something, the scowl slowly started to relax, giving way to a smile.
“But I always wanted to be called Donny Boy,” he said, before looking at his employees. “Didn’t I?” in a tone signifying that the answer was “yes.”
“Yes, Mr. Trump,” they said in a single voice.
He then told me and Peckerman to come sit next to him at the front of the booth after we’d gotten our food. When he sat down with his back to everyone, the postures of the employees behind him visibly relaxed.
After filling our plates, Peckerman and I stopped at the bar to order drinks. Peckerman ordered three large gin and tonics. That’s right: three. I asked for a cranberry juice with a splash of soda.
“Got a yeast infection, shithead?”
“What are you saying, Peckerman? That a person can’t order cranberry juice simply because he enjoys it?”
“Nobody simply enjoys cranberry juice.”
“Fine. So I’m the only one who likes cranberry juice.”
While the bartender was making our drinks, we looked out onto the floor where the delegation from Tennessee was casting its votes. Since the roll call was always in alphabetical order, it meant that they were getting down toward the end of this ballot.
Peckerman shook his head and got reflective for a moment.
“You know, seeing this makes me long for my days in politics,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Horkman. Fact is, I was president of my class in fourth grade.”
“That’s very impressive, Peckerman. Though I find it very hard to believe that anyone who knew you actually voted for you.”
“They didn’t vote for me. I stole the kid who ran for president’s bike and told him I wouldn’t give it back unless he made me his running mate. So when he won, I became the vice president.”
“But you just said you were president.”
“Well, after the kid who was president got shot, I moved up.”
“Got shot? A fourth grade kid? Who shot a fourth-grade kid?”
Peckerman looked at the bartender to make sure he wasn’t eavesdropping.
“I did,” he whispered.
“You what!”
“It was a BB gun, you dipshit. After I gave him back his bike, I hid in some bushes, and when he rode by, I shot him about twelve times in the stomach . . .”
“Jesus, Peckerman!”
“So when he fell off his bike and a car ran him over and he spent the rest of the year in a full body cast and was homeschooled, I assumed the presidency.”
Before I had a chance to respond, Trump was standing and calling to us.
“Hey, come here, you two,” he said, waving his hand and indicating the seats next to him. “I want to hear all about the escapades of the Fantasmas de la Noche.”
“The escapades of who?” Peckerman whispered to me.
“I have no idea,” I answered, as we grabbed our drinks and approached Trump.
“Now, Mr. Horkman, I’d like you to sit here,” he said, pointing to a seat on his right. “And Fantasma Peckerman, why don’t you take the seat on the other side of me, so I can hear your magnificent crusade in stereo.”
When Trump chuckled and then looked at his employees indicating that the stereo reference was a joke, they laughed.
“Be right there, Donny Boy,” said Peckerman.
“Donny Boy,” Trump repeated. “God, I love that name,” he said before looking at his employees.
“Me, too!” they said in unison.
By the time we took our seats, Wyoming had just cast its votes for the very short governor of a very large state. And, once again, when the tally was announced, there was no candidate with a majority and the collective disappointment in the arena was pa
lpable.
“Motherfucker!” exclaimed Trump, who then shook his head with the same scowl he usually has just before he fires someone on The Apprentice.
“Hey, we’re on television,” said Peckerman, pointing to the monitor that showed us on either side of Trump—the cameras had cut to him for his reaction to the continued impasse in the nominating process.
Then the oddest thing happened. Almost immediately after the camera cut away to the podium where the chairman of the Republican Party was calling for still another ballot, it cut back to the shot of us and held it. And the longer that picture of me, Peckerman, and Trump was not only on our monitor—but on every video screen in St. Pete Times Forum, including the four huge ones on the scoreboard that hung down from the arena’s ceiling—the more the attention of the over nineteen thousand people in the place was drawn to it.
And as it did, the cheering grew and grew until reaching a point of sustained pandemonium.
“Boy, they really love me, don’t they?” said Trump.
“Indeed they do!” said his employees.
Trump saluted in response to this commotion, and then spoke to me and Peckerman in a hushed tone.
“How would you boys like to have a million dollars? Each.”
“Gee, thanks, Donny Boy!” said Peckerman.
“How come?” I asked.
“Who gives a shit how come? Could that be in cash so we don’t have to pay taxes on it, Donny Boy?”
“The reason I want to give it to you is because you’re heroes,” Trump said, mostly for my benefit as Peckerman had already borrowed a pen and notepad from one of the employees and was making a list of the things he was going to spend the money on.
“You’re heroes and you’re champions of democracy,” Trump continued. “In so many ways, you remind me of me.”
“They remind us, too,” said the employees.
“So as a fellow champion, I not only wish to personally reward you for your Trumpean efforts, but to reward our country by having you go out there and nominate me as the Republican candidate for president.”
“Us? Why us? Look how we’re dressed,” I said, tugging on my Air China blanket.
“How much is a Bentley?” Peckerman asked the employees. “You? You? Any of you know?”
“I wouldn’t worry about how you’re dressed,” said Trump. “I have a feeling those folks out there need to be reminded about the Blanket Revolution.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“What’s that, he asks,” said Trump, laughing.
“What’s that, he asks,” said the employees, laughing.
“Well, I’m honored that you feel this way, Mr. Trump, but . . .”
“Please. Call me Donny Boy.”
“But if this is for my country, that’s reward enough. We don’t need any money to do it.”
The gash I got on my forehead after Peckerman stabbed me with the pen he borrowed from one of Trump’s employees looked worse than it actually was.
“Douchebag,” said Peckerman.
“I’m entitled to my feelings about things, Peckerman.”
“Not when it affects my reward, you don’t. Just know that if you don’t want to keep your million dollars, I’d be more than happy to take it off your hands.”
We were back inside the corridors of the St. Pete Times Forum, being led to the speakers’ platform by Trump and the same bodyguards we’d seen earlier.
“Anything in particular you want us to say, Donny Boy?” I asked.
“Just speak from the heart, Mr. Horkman. Just say how you feel about our country and what’s best for it. Except every time you get the urge to say your name, say mine instead.”
We approached a blue curtain that the bodyguards parted to allow me, Peckerman and Trump to pass through first. We did and found ourselves at the back of the podium. We were still pretty much hidden from the crowd at this point, as we were behind a number of people swarming about.
Trump approached a man I recognized as the one we’d seen on the TV monitor chairing the proceedings. Trump whispered something to him and then gestured in our direction. The man looked our way, then back at Trump and nodded.
Then Trump left his side and came back to me and Peckerman.
“Okay, fellas. You’re on.”
CHAPTER 54
Jeffrey
Here’s a tip: If you’re going to do any kind of public speaking: Go to the bathroom first.
I should have thought of this on the way up to the podium of the Republican convention, but things were happening really fast. Think about it. One minute I’m in a refrigerator crate, stoned on whatever those pills were, and the next minute I’m meeting Donald Fucking Trump, in person, and three minutes later I’m calling him Donny Boy, and we’re really hitting it off. I could picture us becoming friends, hanging out socially as two guys who like each other a lot but don’t want to have gay sex with each other.
Then Donny Boy’s bartender made me three gin and tonics the size of Slurpees. The truth is, I never had a gin and tonic in my life, but it just sounds classy, “gin and tonic,” so it seemed like the thing to drink with Donald Trump. They were pretty strong, and between that and the pills, I was feeling a little out of it.
Then all of a sudden Donny Boy is asking me do I want a million dollars, and I’m, like, fuck yes I want a million dollars. Before I know it, Horkman and I are heading out to the podium to nominate Donald Fucking Trump for president of the United Fucking States. In a situation like that, you don’t think, “Maybe I should duck into the bathroom and drain the lizard first.” But my point is, you should.
My plan, when we were walking out there, was for me to do all of the talking, and Horkman to not do any of the talking. Partly, of course, this was because he’s an asshole. But also I happen to have, as a forensic plumber, a fair amount of experience with public speaking. In addition to testifying in court and hosting my cable show, Forensic Plumbing!, I am also—I believe I mentioned this earlier—on the board of directors of our national association, the National Association of Forensic Plumbers National Association. (What happened was, there used to be two rival associations, the National Association of Forensic Plumbers, and the Forensic Plumbers National Association, and they decided they should join together, but neither side wanted to give up their name.)
As a member of the NAFPNA board, I’ve been called upon to speak out on some important plumbing issues, including one time going to Washington, D.C., where I was scheduled to testify before a congressional subcommittee in favor of H.R. 623, a bill that would have repealed the dumbass tree-hugger federal law that made everybody switch to these dumbass low-flow toilets that don’t work. I had a great statement prepared that would have torn the fucking lid off this issue, but I never got to give it because the congressmen stopped the hearing to go vote on Iraq. Bottom line, they never did pass H.R. 623, and we still have those dumbass toilets, and what the hell was the point of Iraq? Assholes.
The point is, I was going to do the talking to the Republican convention. So I made sure I was a little ahead of Horkman when we walked through the curtain.
And then, whoa.
When you think about Republican convention delegates, you don’t think of hard-core partiers. Democrat delegates, yes. You wouldn’t be surprised to see them smoking crack on the convention floor. But Republican delegates, you figure their idea of a really crazy wild time is putting on a Hawaiian shirt and going to see Jimmy Buffett.
But when Horkman and I walked out, those people went infuckingsane. Shouting, clapping, stomping, screaming, dancing, poking each other in the eye with their little American flags. It went on, I swear, for fifteen minutes, Horkman and me in our blankets waving at them, and them jumping around like maniacs. When it finally seemed to be dying down a little, I stepped to the microphone, and they w
ent completely batshit again. And then the whole thing happened again. So at that point we’d been up there for nearly an hour, and we still hadn’t said dick, and my head was feeling weird from the pills and the gin and tonics, and I had Lake Michigan sloshing around my bladder.
So I decided, fuck these assholes, I’m starting.
CHAPTER 55
NBC News Republican Convention Coverage
BRIAN WILLIAMS: It looks as though Jeffrey Peckerman is going to try to start speaking here, although the crowd is still cheering as wildly as ever. Tom, you’ve covered a lot more conventions than I have. Have you ever seen a response like this?
TOM BROKAW: Nothing even close, Brian. This is adulation. This is worship. And yet none of these delegates—for that matter, none of us in the media, either—has any idea where Horkman and Peckerman stand politically. We really don’t know what message they plan to deliver here tonight.
WILLIAMS: True. We don’t even know how they got here. Last we knew, they were sparking a revolution in China, and suddenly, out of all the places in the world, they appear in Donald Trump’s box at the Republican convention. We have no idea why they’ve chosen to be here. What we do know is that this is an unprecedented moment in American political history, a drama unfolding live before the nation.
BROKAW: You know, the television audience for political conventions has been declining for years now. But I’m willing to bet that, as word has spread of the appearance here tonight of the Fantasmas de la Noche, the vast majority of the TV sets in the nation, as well as millions more throughout the world, are tuned to this.