Gonna Teach ‘Em How to Say Goodbye

In a dream last night, I imagined the closing scene of Election 2016. Trump has lost in a rout. He wins only Kentucky, Kansas and Alaska. In many states, he finishes fifth. He walks up to the mic to deliver his concession speech. An orchestra swells in the background and he breaks into a song. It turns out he has a Sinatra-esque singing voice, the tune is melodious and the lyrics are wry and clever, a mixture of Cole Porter, Leonard Cohen and Morrissey.

As we listen to the song, we realize that he is revealing that it has all been an act, an Andy Kaufman-esque performance. We learn the story of how it started with a late-night bet with Mark Cuban about how well an obnoxious lout could do in the GOP primaries if he just struck the right tone of abrasive strength and dog-whistled things that the base wanted to hear. But then the ruse went too far. Despite his best efforts he found that he was winning. And eventually he noticed that he was the only thing standing in the way of Ted Cruz getting the nomination. For the sake of everyone, he kept up the act. As the convention approached, he realized that he could have a more positive impact on the country by staying in the race and unequivocally throwing it. So he did.

And now that the race is done, he reveals that he’s been living for the last yea with an inoperable cancer, that he had only been given until August to live, that his short-term memory had been deserting him, that at times when he was tired he had struggled to formulate coherent thoughts, but that he had held on to see his noble sham through as far as God would let him. He segues into a peroration worthy of the history books, on the importance of tolerance and the strength to be found in America’s diversity. He celebrates the election of our first female President and holds up the risk-taking spirit and work ethic of immigrant families as a model for us all.

Khizr and Ghazala Khan come out with grins on their faces and give him hugs. Trump winks at the camera, “You didn’t think they were in on it, did you? Believe me, they were in on it!” And then, with a big smile, he faces the camera and says,

“And now, I pivot.”

He makes a model-quality catwalk pirouette and a tracking camera follows him out of the hall, down a set of stairs, out onto a New York City street and down the block. It lingers from afar as he descends the stairs to a Queens bound F train.

We never see him or hear from him again in public, but weeks after the election, his tax returns are finally published for all to see and we learn that he has been giving nearly all of his money to Syrian refugees, the families of victims of police shootings and policemen who have been shot in the line of duty, medical research into arthrogryposis, and other worthy causes. There’s a piece of gilt-edged stationery at the top of the returns. On it, it says in thick gold writing, “Love trumps hate. I love you all! Donald J Trump”