He’d begun to refer to his three favorite children as The Omertà; as in, “No one’s to bother me for the next hour, I’m meeting with The Omertà.” He didn’t know what the word meant exactly, but lately, when he was supposed to be reading national security reports, he’d locked the Oval office door and watched the Godfather trilogy over and over, and at the beginning of the third installment - his favorite - there was an ad for four leather bound Mario Puzo novels, one of which was called ‘Omertà,’ and damn did that have a nice ring to it. And so here was The Omertà, altogether in the Oval Office.
“I get that everyone thinks Brando is the greatest actor who ever lived,” he said from behind his President desk, “but what they don’t know is that Andy Garcia is very underrated, believe me. He just might be better.”
“Really, dad?” Eric asked. “Better than Brando?” “I don’t know,” Don Jr. said. “Remember the Freshman?”
“That movie was great,” said Eric. Then in a nasal voice: “Bueller. Bueller.”
“That’s not it,” Don Jr. said.
“Yes, it is!"
“He might be, dad,” Ivanka said in that authoritative way of hers where she held her fathers gaze and her brothers shut up in awe.
“See? I told you,” he said to the boys. In truth, he didn’t actually believe Andy Garcia was a better actor than Marlon Brando, but he hated that everyone thought Brando was so talented, like he was some national treasure. It was just acting - really, really good, heartbreaking, emotionally moving acting that struck him at his core as representative of what it meant to struggle at, and experience life as, a human being - but still just acting. Unlike glass and concrete buildings with laser etched signs out front bearing his name, Brando's performances died after the movie ended and the TV descended back into its 24 karat box at the foot of his bed. He’d never say out loud, but he was secretly happy when Brando died, over a decade ago, because it meant that the actor was no longer a threat to his own prestige. A lot of people thought Brando was the greatest, but now he was dead, and what better opportunity to show everyone that he, The Donald, was actually the greatest. He realized then that he should say this aloud and as The Omertà waited silently, he tweeted that he was so glad overrated Marlon Brando is dead bc now every1 can know who is actually the greatest!! DJT!!! Some other people he was looking forward to dying were Michael Jordan, Steven Spielberg, That Guy Who Everyone Mentions When They’re Talking About Soccer, Muslim Malalia Whatever-Her-Face, Madonna and The Queen of England.
He put his phone away and leaned over the alligator skin desktop, “So here’s what’s happening: We’re privatizing the hotel and gaming industry. We’re going to take it back from the people and make it all great again. No more crappy casinos and motels littering the country.” “But it’s already privatized,” Don Jr. said. “You mean you want to make it publicly owned?” “Whatever you want to call it. I’m saying it will all be Trump brand. Everything from Sally and Dave’s Stupid Bed and Breakfast in Crappytown, Maine to the MGM Grand on the Strip. All Trump, all ours.”
“How are we supposed to manage hundreds of thousands of businesses all of a sudden?” Eric asked. “It sounds like a lot of work.”
“What?”
“Will people even think this is a good idea?” Don Jr. wondered.
“What will happen to the owners of all those businesses?” Eric said. “They might have to start from scratch.”
“People might hate us for it.” Don Jr. said.
“They won’t hate us,” Ivanka said in that way of hers again. “We can do it and it’s going to be great. They'll love us for it. This is probably the best idea I’ve ever heard.”
The Donald grinned. “Exactly.”
“But is this even legal?” Eric asked.
“It’s one hundred percent legal. These are failing businesses. They need us.”
“It feels a little like stealing,” said Don Jr.
“It’s not, Don. Stop it. I got Jeff dealing with Congresss. You just be ready to sign the paperwork and hire the contractors, we’re gonna refurb everything in gold, platinum and diamond. There won’t be an Airbnb in this country without a hundred thousand square foot ballroom out the back.”
“Okay, dad.” Don said. “Sounds awesome.”
“Yeah,” Eric agreed. “One thing though, you promise?”
The Donald paused for a second to almost reflect upon himself, but he didn’t. “Of course I promise."
Just then the intercom came to life and his secretary - the not important kind - said the Attorney General Jeff Sessions was here.
“Okay. Send in our Jeff session,” DJT winked at Eric, who blushed. Sessions entered through the door that looked like it was trying to camouflage itself a section of wall and The Donald said, “I was just explaining the plan to The Omertà. Privatization! My new favorite word.”
“You mean nationalization, sir.”
“Whatever. The kids have it all worked out. They couldn’t be more excited."
“Right. Listen, I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t do it. Congress wasn’t into it. They thanked you for taking the time to bring them the proposal, but they can’t sign off.”
“What?”
“Maybe we can try again next year. Maybe we can ram it down the Senate's throat or use some kind of eminent domain angle, but we got to shelve it.”
The Donald stared at his palms. His meaty palms. His ‘meats’ as he liked to refer to them.'Meet my meat,' he’d said to countless world leaders and dignitaries before shaking their hands on tarmacs and state ballrooms around the globe. He wanted to wrap his meats around Jeff Sessions stupid throat. He had vouched for this man when no one else would and now he couldn’t do the one thing he asked of him. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled.
“Sir?” Sessions asked.
The Omertà looked confused.
“Let me tell you something,” DJT said, “This deal is good for everyone. It creates jobs. Name one person who wouldn’t stand to gain from this? You cant! Nothing says wealth and success better than Trump. I want this! And you said you could make it happen.”
“Yeah,” Don Jr echoed. “You said.”
“Yeah!” said Eric.
“Kids!” The Donald said, “Calm down. We don’t want a scene.”
“But he said so,” said Don Jr. “You promised and said that he would say so and now you’re going back on the promise you just made.”
“Easy, Don Jr.” The Donald felt the room getting away from him.
“No, Don Jr’s right,” Eric said. “Dads aren't supposed make promises and then take back their promises.”
The Donald looked at Ivanka for some levity, but she was staring at the floor. He turned his attention back to Sessions. “The Omertà is getting angry and I assure you it aint fun when they’re angry. They had their hearts set on this and you ruined it. I highly suggest you fix this.”
“But, I can’t.”
Don Jr then stood up calmly. He went to the fireplace and removed the painting of George Washington above it.
“Son?” Sessions asked.
But Don Jr. smashed it on the edge of a solid gold end table and it fell to the floor in tatters.
“Lord!” Sessions cried out. “Washington sat for that painting! It’s the only thing that survived the fire of 1814.” Something wet was dripping on his legs, and he realized that the other Trump son was standing very close to him. The boy’s pants were unzipped and he was urinating on him. “What in the name!"
“You said, dad!” Eric cried. “You said!”
Don Jr. hurled a crystal bust of Winston Churchill across the room and it exploded against the safe where the nuclear codes were stored.
The Donald stood up and moved behind his giant Presidents chair. No one knew what The Omertà could do when they were denied something he promised them, but Ivanka was still sitting which gave him a measure of relief.
“You better get this deal done, Jeff Sessions,” spit was flying off Eric’s lips and landing in the man’s eye. His penis was still out of his pants.
“I can’t,” Sessions pleaded. “There’s nothing we can do. Our hands are tied.”
The Donald looked down at his meats, they weren’t tied at all. He watched as Eric bit Jeff Sessions in the ear. “Now Eric,” he said. “Take it easy.”
“You promised!” the boy cried.
Don Jr. was setting the curtains on fire and smoke began to fill the room. The Donald knew he should have gotten the fire-proof curtains - the same thing had happened on Park Ave countless times - but, to be honest, he kind of liked the high pitch wail of the smoke alarm. Was there anything more relaxing than a noise so loud it drowned out life's constant self doubts and pervading sense of mediocrity? Was there any better way of escaping his wants and frustrations for a few fleeting, yet glorious moments than the ear drum popping, migraine inducing, arthritis stoking, high decibel cry of a cheap, Chinese-made, plastic and wire board gizmo that left the taste of matches in the back of his mouth? The Donald didn’t think so, and as that piercing wail began, he closed his eyes for a second to let it run its oh-so-delightful course through his body. But then he remembered Ivanka, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. And when he opened his eyes, her chair was empty. He looked at the platinum relief of himself hanging on the wall to his right, he looked at the ‘Dear Leader’-style mock-up statue that was set to be installed in front of all government buildings by the flag. “Where’s Ivanka!” He shouted.
“Sir,” blood was pouring from Session's ear. Eric had him in a choke hold. “Help me?”
“Where’s Ivanka!” He yelled again. The alarm was doing nothing for him, it was just a sound that could have been louder. Where was Ivanka? And then he felt something thin and rigid pierce his left eye. It went in about an inch and then stopped.
“You promised,” Ivanka seethed, clinging to his body like the foam gargoyles who clung to the fake turrets on top of the mixed use office space/Medieval Times arena he’d built outside Camden.
The Donald raised his meats to his shoulders and shook them, he shrieked loud and high and awful, and Eric let go of Jeff, Don Jr. hid behind a case of rub-on tanning lotion he’d agreed to place on the edge of the lectern at his upcoming state of the union, and Ivanka stepped back and dropped the other screwdriver she had planned to take his other eye out with. Even the smoke alarm turned off because, after all, nothing could truly silence his own sense of insufficiency. When he went quiet, he slumped into his President Chair and stared at his desk, and he remembered a time in the late eighties when things weren’t so good….
He was on the verge of bankruptcy, his marriage was in shambles and he was still recovering from his first tummy tuck. He, Ivana and the kids had gone to Dutch County Pennsylvania for the day in a stretch limo to visit Hershey Park. He could have taken them to Great Adventure, which was an hour closer, but secretly he wanted to go to Pennsylvania to stare at some Amish people. There was nothing more satisfying and inspiring to him than watching some idiot Amish pretend that they were still living in the seventeenth century while he was out chasing the gold and diamond encrusted American dream. After an agonizing afternoon at the amusement park, The Donald told the driver to pull over at a roadside country store where he hoped they’d find some. But their were no Amish inside and as the kids picked out flavored honey sticks a personalized keychains, The Donald stepped outside to get some fresh air. He wondered if he was going about his life the wrong way. Maybe he needed to dump the side chick and make it work with Ivana, maybe he needed to start over and take an honest job in Queens. He looked over at his driver, donning a boat admirals cap he told him he had to wear if he wanted to work for him. The man smoked a cigarette while staring at the sun, low over a hay colored meadow across the road. He seemed content and the Donald wondered for a moment if they could switch places. Would the man even want his life? Would anyone? In the meadow, three horses moseyed up to the edge of the road to chew some grass and when Ivanka strode out of the store, her arms loaded with crap, Don knew what was coming.
“Are those my horses, daddy?”
“No sweetie, let’s get in the car and go home.”
“Where are my horses, Daddy, the one’s you promised you’d get for me?”
“Sweetie, I will one day, but not right now.”
“Are those Ivanka’s horses?” Eric asked running out with his brother, both armed with newly purchased air rifles.
The afternoon unravelled from there. Ivanka clawed eight fingernail-sized frowny face scars under his chin and eyes, and the boys shot out his knee caps at point blank range while calling him horsefucker with more glee than he’d witnessed all day at the chocolate park. Ivana stood there arms crossed, smirking and the driver pretended he’d seen it all before. The horses didn’t look up from their meal.
When Ivana ushered the kids back inside to buy more stuff, Don sat up against the limo’s bumper, blotting blood from his face with his tie, his useless legs swelling inside his cotton suit pants like sausages filling out casings, and almost learned a lesson. He remembered a song, part of a song, by those guys who looked a little like women he’d probably fuck— You can’t always something something . But before he got the rest, a kid in burlap pants and a shirt that must have been stitched together with twine led, not a horse, but a mule - a fucking mule - down the road in front of him.
“Sir,” the kid said, nodding.
And The Donald did something he didnt often do: he laughed. He laughed loud and hard and smacked his thigh and shook his head like he’d never been told a funnier joke. He pushed himself off the street and said to his driver, “you see that guy?” Then he shouted for his family. “Let’s go get you a whole pack of horses, Ivanka!”
And he did.
And now, back in the Oval Office, staring at his desk with his one working eye. He remembered the rest of those lyrics and he knew that this scar wouldn’t heal the way his face and legs did so many years ago. And he knew that he couldn’t nationalize the hotel and gaming industry because that was unfair. And he knew that Brando was the best and his death was everyones loss. And he understood that you couldn't always get what you wanted, even if you wanted it really, really badly. And that was just fine. And the first thing he did after the doctors patched up his eye socket was delete that tweet.
