I knew the writing was on the wall as soon as CNN posted a copy of President Obama’s birth certificate. Within moments, the phone rang.
“Hello, CommuniCreations, Robb speaking!” I answered in my somewhat professional manner.
“This is Mr. Trump, Robb. I want to speak with you.”
Wow, I could work for Donald Trump. Maybe he wanted me to do some creative work for him at his casinos. I had almost worked at a casino once, in Las Vegas. But the guy I signed the deal with disappeared suddenly. Something about going swimming in some heavy shoes.
By the way, I’m not making that up. I was to take over the PR and Marketing for the new Aladdin in Vegas. It was a done deal. Until Larry Sweboda took a hit, or was the subject of a hit. I knew he was dealing with some questionable funding sources with some guy named Lucky Luciano. And for some reason he was doing a bunch of laundry across the border of Canada. But I digress.
“What can I do for you Mr. Trump?”
He was a bit terse on the phone. “I have some things I need to discuss with you. I’m thinking of hiring your agency so I have had some of my people checking into your background. We see you’ve been on ancestry.com a lot lately and that some of your relatives were, well, foreigners. Russians, French, English types, but definitely not born and raised Americans.”
I replied that it was prety hard, in fact, nearly impossible, to have ancestors who were all American because once you hit 1776, everyone in the U.S. was still British.
He would have none of it.
“Lookee here,” he said. “My people have been digging into your background and they’ve discovered some pretty amazing things. Things that I find a bit disturbing.”
I cut him off, knowing where this is going. “I can guarantee you Mr. Trump, that I was born in the United States. I even have a long form birth certificate to prove it. I call it my Trump Card!”
“That may be good enough for the people of Washington State and perhaps even those in Floriduh, but I’m Donald Trump and I am above all these so called officials in government whose only job it is is to make sure their documents are official. I think something else is going on here.”
“What could possibly be going on, Mr. Trump? If you’d like you can call my mother. Her family goes back all the way to the ancient kings of England.”
“That doesn’t help your case Mr. Zerr, if that is indeed your last name. The English you know, aren’t Americans.”
“I do know that Mr. Trump. But I was definitely born in the U.S. In the K-Mart parking lot,” I said, interjecting a little attempt at humor. “I was a blue light special.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied impatiently. “Your humor seems to only confirm my suspicions about your background. I have spent a lot of time uncovering some very disturbing things as I’ve said, and I don’t like what I’m hearing.”
“Like what, Mr. Trump?”
“Well, for starters, this alleged hospital. It’s not there. There’s a McLendon Hardware store there. I think you may be covering up something!”
“Well, it was at one time a K-Mart, and before that the community hospital was there. My doctor, Dr. Pettibone, was right across the street, as a matter of fact.”
“I see, well that’s a good story. I have also been looking into your childhood. Your brothers say they don’t have a brother named Robb.”
“Well, I’m not surprised at that Mr. Trump. We’ haven’t spoken in more than 30 years.
“And your kindergarten teacher doesn’t seem to remember you.”
“I’m not surprised at that one either Mr. Trump. She’s been dead for some 20 years.”
“That’s your story,” he replied. “I think she would say differently…”
“If she were alive, Don, but she’s not.”
“That’s Mr. Trump to you. You’re the one on trial here, not me.”
“So now this is some kind of trial, Mr. Trump? Who’s the judge and jury? You?”
“Yes, me. I’m worth billions. So I can afford to look into the backgrounds of people I don’t trust. People like you.”
The Don then went through a long diatribe about how I have been critical of big business as of late, how my ex-whatever once auditioned for The Apprentice, and how I have questioned authority at every turn over my checkered career.
“And you now live in Floriduh. And you know what that means. The state is a shambles. A joke. I think I should just buy it tomorrow. I have billions you know. Did I tell you about the big ballroom I plan to add onto the White House? It will be like Versailles when I’m done with the place. It’s a travesty you know, the White House. Too small. It’s a joke.”
“Mr. Trump, you’re running up my minutes. Can you just get to the point? By now you should have the fax of my long form birth certificate that you seem to think everyone in America should have on them 24/7.”
“Just a second.”
I could hear him pull the fax off the machine. “Aha! There it is! I knew it.”
“What is ‘it’ Mr. Trump?”
“There it is. Right there! You were born in Renton, Washington. There’s the smoking gun. I knew you were hiding something!”
“And what’s wrong with Renton?” I asked.
“What’s wrong with Renton? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with Renton! They wouldn’t let me buy it. I’m worth billions, you know, billions. I was going to rename the town Trumpton. I like that. Don’t you like it? I think it says it all — Trumpton. And then I could own an airplane factory. I like airplanes, big airplanes, don’t you, Robb?”
I finally cut in on The Don and said something I’ve said to several other pain in the ass clients I’ve had over the years.
“Mr. Trump. You’re FIRED!!! And I hope everyone else in this country says the same thing to ya!”
Now that’s a real Trump Card.
Out on the Treasure Coast, wondering if my long form birth certificate is real,
– Robb
— Robb