Men like Donald Trump are permitted to proliferate freely, like another species of algae. — Félix Guattari, The Three Ecologies (1989)
A friend of mine once owned a NYC supper club. This place had a velvet rope and a scene. There, one night in 1990s, I encountered Donald Trump.
He was with the baseball player Sammy Sosa, who was then in the news. A double celebrity sighting. I had forgotten about this story until a few months ago, when my mother mentioned it to me: “Didn’t you meet Trump?”
I had told the story as if I had met Trump. But in truth, he was not the person I met that night.
Trump and Sosa arrived at my friend’s restaurant with a large group of women. These women were white, they all had long, straight hair, wore heavy make-up and fancy, short dresses.
I spent the evening talking to one of them.
She told me she had been hired by an escort service. He called them regularly, she said. He would order “a dozen.”
I remember her telling me this, and laughing. “A dozen—what?”
We talked for a while. She was bored. In places like these clubs — soulless spaces — women do not often engage each other in conversation. We talked about that.
She was a loose end.
She was a student at a community college. She might have also worked as a flight attendant. Or maybe these were the things she said she wanted to do. It was a long time ago. Maybe I was talking to Melania, as this was a place they frequented.
I don’t remember anything about the man himself beyond feeling an overwhelming disgust at breathing the same air as that powdery creep. Spores of soul-rot float off his skin. A psychotic level of disgust radiates from his body like a stink.
In a parallel world, these twelve women become Liberties leading the people — the Furies of the Revolution. The bedazzled females he “ordered” take the memory of every past and future insult to human dignity — they harvest this universal rage — and mutiny.
Les Guérillères tear through American Psycho. A lesbian Benito Cereno whose Babo is the Whore of Babylon. There is blood coming out of wherever, the VIP room is soaked in it. In this other world it is clubs like this that are consumed by the flames of hell. In one great Disaster, men like Trump are pulled under by Real Estate’s rip tide: “the Pit opened her Mouth under them.”
This incident is briefly in the news, and then even the memory of it is gone.