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Following a failed injunction against its publication, Kevin McCallister’s tell-all book on Trump has finally hit shelves.
It’s funny how some things stay with you throughout your life. There are certain moments that will swirl unbidden into focus; a first kiss; a first day in high school; the numerous times you were forced to evade two criminals in a plethora of diverse national locations following systemic parental neglect. Oftentimes, it seems that we have very little choice over what we remember – particularly true for certain memories that would ideally just go ahead and become repressed already. Memories form and we are but their humble host.
Most childhood memories remain largely private, destined only to be shared with siblings, parents, a series of therapists, social workers, law enforcement personnel from several jurisdictions and the respective legal counsels of my parents. Sometimes though particular moments can end up taking on an unforeseen importance. Perhaps, for example, when as a 10-year old you end up stranded alone in The Plaza Hotel in New York in 1991 – don’t ask – and bump into the future president of the United States.
I have wrestled with my conscience about telling my story. I feel a certain patriotic duty to inform the nation of what I witnessed, as well as a specific contractual obligation to the publisher of this memoir. Yet, I also feel a deep sense of sympathy for Donald Trump. For you see, I too am a child of effortlessly wealthy and profoundly unfit parents. I too know what it is like to grow up in a materially rich, but emotionally indolent home. To be brought up in such conditions, by parents who are so emotionally – and, in my case, often physically – distant is a curse. As a sufferer of such parental neglect, I have therefore long considered Donald Trump to be something of a kindred spirit, so too his children, and his children’s children.
Despite this kinship and similar beginning, our lives have admittedly traveled down markedly different paths. He has become the despotic leader of the ostensible free-world. I became the proprietor of two Hooters outlets, which have since closed, and now work as a security guard in a Chicago aquarium. So, I feel it is my duty to share with the world the story of my encounter with Donald Trump on that day in 1991, a story which I feel illustrates more than anything the fact that he is evidently unfit for office.
On that fateful day, while attempting to check into the Plaza Hotel using my father’s credit card – again, don’t ask – I became lost while trying to find the lobby. Looking around, I ended up stopping someone to ask for directions. That is where it all began. Regret, I, Kevin McCallister, am thy bedfellow. I looked up, and stared into the eyes of a future tyrant.
A large, pouting gentleman loomed over me. His complexion was reminiscent of bad ham and he wore a thick coat, draped over his broad shoulders, in a manner that screamed, “Given the opportunity, I will weaponize a long history of racial division for personal political gain.” He stood there, mulling over my request for directions to the lobby. Even as a child it seemed obvious from the way he carried himself while mulling that he would be woefully ill-equipped to steer a nation through a global pandemic, were he to ever have to deal with one.
Terrified, I berated myself for stopping this man in particular. “Why didn’t you stop anyone else, McCallister?”, “Why didn’t you just follow the signs pointing toward the lobby which were, in retrospect, both numerous and positioned in easily visible locations?”, “And why, oh why, did social services not intervene more forcefully and take me into custody the last time my parents abandoned me!?
The brief silence between us while he thought seemed to last an eternity. Eventually he opened his mouth to speak, lips parting as if to say, “We are the lips that will call to dismantle the nascent healthcare reforms enacted by my predecessor,” eyebrows furrowing as if to say, “We are the brows that will bring American democracy to the precipice of destruction.”
“Down the hall and to the left,” was what he said to me. Down the hall and to the left. With that he was gone. My heart still racing, my head spinning, I staggered toward the lobby. I knew that something momentous had just occurred. That I had just borne witness to something truly epochal. That I had just spent time in the presence, of nothing less than, a monster – a theory which was borne out when I realised he’d given me the wrong directions and the lobby was actually down the hall and to the right. It was obvious to me, from this brief encounter, that that man’s hands must never know true power.
Also the next morning I saw him ransacking the breakfast buffet and filling a satchel with breakfast meats when no-one was looking.
McCallister‘s book is available now at all good book shops. If you can’t find it, the book shop may not be that good.