Dear Donald: Letter from an Apostate

Dear Donald,

There’s a pain in my chest. Not on my left side, over the heart, but on the right where the heart might’ve been but isn't. It hurts here whenever I overeat. This morning, I was making bacon the way I did back at home on Sundays. The whole slab for the whole family. I live far away and alone now, though, so it’s different, but I cooked it all up anyway, a giant pile of bacon all for me, and it’s not even Sunday, it’s Tuesday morning—okay, afternoon—but the point is that in my heart, or whatever’s on the other side, I’m still cooking for five. And so I eat for five. Is this how you feel? I know it might seem odd that I’m writing to you about this, Mr. President, and not my doctor, but I just thought you of all people might understand.

Dear Donald,

The popularization of ornate toy boats did more for the romance of the sea than millennia of actual sailing. ( Stay with me, I have a point.) Some of these boats floated, and you could poke them with a stick and watch them sail across a pond. Others weren’t meant for water, but of course you had to try, and so they sank, and you fished them out if you could manage. But other times the boat was lost forever, and every time you went to the park you knew somewhere in the depths of that pond your ship was buried, and that was sad but good, too, in its own way, to have loss.

Because these European children grew up playing with boats, they dreamed of being in the navy. They dreamed of discovery, of a New World, of fighting pirates, of destroying Britain or France or Spain. They dreamed of expanding the empire and conquering vast lands in the name of God and queen. But the navy doesn’t pay well. So many of these young boys became merchants. Still on a boat, they said. More or less the same, they said, isn’t it? And some of these sailors-turned-merchants became wealthy, wealthy enough to buy their way figuratively or literally into a place of nobility. The aristocrats snubbed their nose at the merchants, but the nobles’ kids did not because they also had grown up playing with boats and besides there was less and less money in nobility, and more and more in knowing about boats. Noble fathers complained, and there were up-turned noses and gossip, but the nobles will talk, of course, no matter what you do, so you might as well follow the money. And meanwhile, the merchant’s sons were getting ahead. They played not just with toy boats, not just with the best of the best toy boats, but as soon as possible they drove the real things, because a merchant knows that what children play with determines the future. The sons and grandsons of the merchants ran around on real boat decks and swung on the ropes and raised and lowered the sails; they barked out orders, and the shipmates pretended to obey because they were their little bosses.

A boat is a perfect toy. You poke it with a stick and see it sail off and know that, out of all the other boats, that one is yours. Best of all, sometimes the boat sinks. And it’s gone forever. And you loved it. You assembled itself, glued each little part together, painted it the colors of your father's ship. You really, really loved it. And so you learn what it means to lose a thing you loved.

What were your toys, Donald? And where are they now?

As a child, I imagine you built towers, not boats. You built towers out of your food. Out of blocks. Out of pillows and blankets. This is an easy guess maybe, a bit uninspired, but it’s true, I know it is: you built towers, and you were big for your age. I can see it in the way you carry yourself, growing up bigger than the other kids. For a six-year-old your size was off-putting even to adults—just too much size, and too little of everything else—but the disparity between you and the others lessened each year, which disappointed your father, as it would. So one day, as a little big kid, at the insistence of a desperate nanny, you were given macaroni and glue, weren’t you, and told to build something for daddy Trump. But the noodles wouldn’t stack properly, of course, because you had to wait for each level to dry before applying the next row of noodles, and you didn’t want to wait, your fingers stuck together, and it didn't look good because you didn't understand about foundations. So you made a deal with the nanny that if she built the macaroni tower for you, you wouldn’t tell anyone what you saw her doing in the laundry room the other week with your father. Blackmail, in other words, before you knew the word. The instinct came to you effortlessly. And so you made your first deal: the nanny built you a big tall tower, much better than you could have done, and you loved it. You loved telling your dad and syblings and every single member of the housestaff that you had made it all by yourself. From then on, you were ruined. The thing about a macaroni tower is that it just sits there. It does not sail across a pond. You might desire a tower, but you cannot love a thing that you didn’t make that just sits there. And so, out of options, you were forced to love the way you acquired it.

So many children of wealthy, successful men are themselves unremarkable. The wealthy children keep themselves small, sometimes out of decency, but more often they grow up and find themselves stunted in some essential way. You can see it in their faces. In the Prince of England. In your sons. But I don’t see it in yours exactly. I wonder why. On the subject of the unremarkable-ness of a successful man’s children, people will say, They were too babied. They didn’t have the grit of the father, a man that built himself from nothing, grew up poor and kicked who he had to kick and stacked dirty brick on top of dirty brick until he stood on top of the world. But his children, well, I mean, yikes, the children, ha, they were born in a rooftop penthouse with servants wiping up their crumbs. They have no real need, no real hunger, no real anger to fuel them, nothing the world owed them, and so born up so high there was nowhere to climb but down. So why not lounge in Venice? What was there for them to accomplish other than finding a lover in each major city? What anxieties could not be rectified with the proper application of resources? A worried lover, for instance, one that doubted your goodness—the papers, you know, they say such awful things—could be reassured with a charitable donation for X, Y, and Z. One charity to appease this lover, another for that one, another for this lover’s lover, until everyone who needs to, everyone who matters, thinks the things about you that they’re supposed to. And keeping up this life of appearances and pleasures, of having to decide day after day—what do I really desire, what do I really prefer, what would I like to make happen today—the unrelenting weight of having to choose over and over what you want must be exhausting. How much easier it was for your father, Donald, in a sense, to just wake up and do what had to be done because he had to do it. What a joy. What a gift to be born firmly on the earth and not already in the clouds. I wonder why you chose to live in the office, on the phone, having angry phone calls and fighting with lawyers. There are so many boats and so many beaches in the world.

But why I’m writing, Donald, other than just to catch up, the immediate need and the reason for this late-night missive: you gave me your number, remember, and said if I ever really needed anything, that I should just, you know, reach out. So the thing is that I am in urgent need of a small loan. Tonight. Within the next hour honestly. Text me back. I have all the faith in the world in you.

Dear Donald,

Well, I’m not feeling inclined to say honestly, although I’m not sure why it matters. I’m short on cash, and there are some things I need, and they can’t wait.

Dear Donald

For pizza. I need a loan for pizza, okay? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

Dear Donald,

Not expensive for The Donald, but those toppings, you know, when you do them like I do, they add up. Do you have Venmo?

Dear Donald,

Let me know when you send it. Thanks, man, in advance. The pizza’s on the way already, so don’t make me sweat here, boss ;)

Dear Donald,

Send. Dat. Money. And make it hurry. I can’t pay this dude.

Dear Donald,

You up?

Dear Donald,

Helloooo

Dear Donald,

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Dear Donald,

Where. The fuck. Are you. Hit me up.

Dear Donald,

The pizza is here!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s getting cold, bro.

Dear Donald,

Seriously? You said you’d have my back and shit. I backed you up. You just gunna stiff me first time I ask for a thing and then say nothing?

Dear Donald,

I can see that you’re reading my texts. Read receipt, motherfucker. These aren't tweets!!!

Dear Donald,

Fuck you. I ate it all. And you OWE me $33.29. Expensive, right? I got a large, and it was from the good place. You likely would have appreciated my unique combination of toppings, but then you had to go and be a dick and ghost me. You know what is really crazy? I didn't even enjoy it because I can't taste a damn thing. Nothing. Just like that, my taste is gone. You've managed to ruin pizza for me, and there is a lot I have forgiven and allowed you for, Donald. I've lost my job and all my friends. My family hate me, my children think I'm a racist and a terrorist, and now I guess I have covid-19 and a useless stash of hydroxychloroquine. I was there for you. But turns out, you weren't there for me. I'm done.

With regrets,

An Apostate at the Last Possible Minute