The President’s Nemesis: Chocolate Cake⁠ (part 2)

Anonymous Patriot
Nov 3 · 6 min read

part 1

“Yes, Donald, I assumed you might be.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, don’t you see yourself as Howard Roark, the protagonist from The Fountainhead?”

“Yes, but I am not an architect. I am a real estate developer.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I had someone like you in mind when I created Roark. Why don’t you come to my apartment some time?”

“I would be honored to, Miss Rand.”

That is how a close friendship began. Rand’s husband was away for the summer, leaving her alone. She would pass the days playing solitaire, going to doctor’s appointments, listening to classical music on the radio, and typing out screeds that not even National Review would publish. The highlight of her day was a visit from her new friend, Donald Trump.

“Why don’t people like me?” Rand complained to Trump one day.

“I don’t know, Ayn, but they should recognize a genius. New Yorkers are supposed to appreciate true genius.”

“Yes, they should, but they do not in my case,” she said.

“Makes no sense to me,” said Donald. “What did you do today?”

“I spoke to a group of professors, mostly from Columbia and New York University. I thought I could finally make some progress with a rabbi in the audience, but he asked me difficult questions about ethical values in communities of meaning. I told him I do not do community.”

“I have an idea,” said Trump.

“Yes?”

“Avoid talking with anyone having a beard. They go too deep,” said Trump.

Ayn stubbed out a cigarette and lit another. “I will do that.” She collected some clothing from the floor. “How was your day?”

“Well, the blacks certainly don’t like me, which I understand. I redline them like crazy and refuse their apartment applications whenever possible.”

Rand shuddered. “Donald,” she said, “you really should not think that way. Black tenants are not inferior; their money is as green as white tenant money. Bigotry is a bad habit you need to break.” She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

“I can think of a worse one,” said Trump. Although he admired Rand’s philosophy of ruthless ambition unencumbered by empathy, his devotion to rising property values required redlining. Fred had taught him that rule on day 1 of How to Get Ahead in Real Estate, his inspiration for Trump University.

“Well,” he said, “let’s not talk about the blacks. Let’s try to help each other.”

“How so?”

“Well, we are both artists, aren’t we?”

“I am an artist, Donald, that is true: a literary artist to be precise. What kind of artist are you, a con artist?”

“I prefer to call myself an artist of the deal.”

“The business deal?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Trump.

“Of course, Donald. Let us help each other. I will help architect your next business deal — ”

“ — and I will help negotiate your next book proposal with the publishers,” he said. “Deal?”

Rand smiled and shook his hand. “Deal.”

The next day, Trump failed to secure any bank loans and no one would talk to him for more than ten minutes. He decided to cut his day short and go to Central Park to unwind as he fantasized that he owned the Plaza Hotel. Perhaps, he thought, the ducks would be kinder to him and the horses pulling tourists in carriages would not mock him. He would be blissfully ignored. After sitting on a park bench — where he muttered to himself and frightened a few children with his scowl — he felt better. He took a taxi to Times Square to stare at the tourists and terrorize some street performers. After an hour, he grew bored and hailed another taxi back to his friend and mentor. He stumbled through the apartment door and threw his hat on the dining room table.

“I hate those people,” he said.

“Who?”

“Those deplorable hayseeds in Times Square: the rust belt rubes, the people who come to New York, and then stay in one of my father’s hotels.”

“They pay for their hotel room, do they not?”

“Yeah, but I still hate them. I hate all the out-of-towners.”

“You like me, Donald, yes? I am not from New York originally. Am I a hayseed?”

“No, no. I admire you greatly.”

Donald smiled while cringing, deeply conflicted. He didn’t mind Rand being a Russian, Jewish atheist, but she was intensely bitter, paranoid, and imbalanced. He hated to admit it to himself, but he loved her cold, sneering approval.

“I have an idea, Donald,” Rand said. “Why do you not sell your real estate in the flyover states? Sell your properties in Virginia and Ohio and try to focus on New York. Sell your rental properties in the outer boroughs too, if possible.”

Donald never garnered any approval from the New York intelligentsia. Architects chortled at his tastes and the New York Times mocked his publicity stunts. Any ideas from a New York intellectual, especially one who was as misunderstood and unappreciated as Rand, he thought, tasted like nectar from the gods. Maybe her advice was good. Perhaps a geographic refocusing could gain him some respect.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Donald. “Won’t be easy though. I still need huge loans for Manhattan hotel development. I’ll see what I can pitch tomorrow. I’m meeting with some bankers in midtown.”

The next day, Trump pitched hard to the bankers in midtown. Instead of dabbling in minor properties in Ohio and Virginia he wanted to build upmarket properties for the well-heeled and tourists in Manhattan: hotels, resorts, upscale shopping. The project would be low risk, because renters and buyers would be carefully screened. The shopping venues would be strictly high end.

Trump arrived at Rand’s apartment in a funk.

“What happened?” asked Rand.

“No deal,” said Trump. “I showed them all the costs, benefits, and risks. I did the complete financial analysis, all the projections, all for nothing. I gave it my best shot, but they weren’t buying.”

“Donald, darling, do not use numbers, cost-benefit analysis, any of that. Only use stories, fictions, and lies. That is what I do in my novels. I do not convince with evidence. I use fictions with exaggerated heroes, stretching the plot until it almost breaks. Flatter your audience, the heroic investors. Pander to them, make them feel like heroes in your story. Gain their trust and tell stories about them. Stories, not numbers.

“Okay, okay. I’ll try that tomorrow,” said Trump.

The next day, Trump met downtown with a different group of investors. They were Wall Street fund managers with cash to burn. Trump grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“Gentlemen,” said Trump, “you are the best and brightest of Wall Street. You probably have cash to invest and not so much time to waste, so let me cut to the chase. I have saved my best real estate proposals for you: The Trump Luxury Estates.” Trump spent the next hour stroking the egos of everyone in the room, weaving heroic stories around them, and he saw many nodding approvals.

Trump sulked to Rand’s place and flopped down on the living room couch.

“Still nothing,” whimpered Trump. “I didn’t use numbers, and I pandered bigly. Nothing.”

“You know something, Donald?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re too nice.”

“Huh?”

“You hate regular people, but that is not enough. You must see them like a novel’s villain. Any bad quality or habit you have, project it onto the villain. The villain must be the intense object of all your hatred.

“I don’t understand.”

“Think of all the bankers who laugh at you, the art critics who mock your buildings, and the journalists who cover you. Channel your hatred of them. Be vicious, and never apologize. Attack them the way my other protege, Roy Cohn, does.”

“You know Roy? Could you introduce me?”

“Certainly.”

“Thanks, but what if they hit me in the newspaper?”

“Hit back ten times as hard, just like Roy.”

“Ten eyes for an eye?”

“Precisely.”

part 3 (conclusion)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Anonymous Patriot © 2019. All Rights Reserved

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade