|Trump in his Trump Tower office.|
By Candace Bushnell
Last winter, my best friend Kate Bohner and I decided to do things backward and rent a house in the Hamptons. We got a house in November, the car (black Volkswagen Jetta) in December, and the job in January. Actually, Kate got the job: ghostwriter for Donald Trump’s upcoming book. It was her job, but we both had to deal with the bumper sticker.
At first, I didn’t know if the bumper sticker was good or bad. But Kate had secured the bumper sticker through some kind of covert action, she was my best friend, and the bumper sticker was so ["don't mess with us"] that I agreed, yes, it was amazingly cool, and we must put it on the back of the car, immediately.
The bumper sticker read, “I Love Donald Trump.”
We slapped it on the back of the car and forgot about it. Strange and exciting road incidents began to happen. We noticed that everyone we passed was staring at us. We were followed by a police car for 14 exits. Two guys passed us and held up $3,000 in $100 bills. A car full of women
waved frantically. Some guy started screaming at us and pounding on his dashboard. (Kate had to pour hot coffee out the window to get rid of him.) Then we were chased off the Indian reservation in Southampton, and then, after all that, we were asked to leave Alison’s by the Beach for allegedly “talking too loudly.”
O.K., we were talking loudly, but it wasn’t really us. It was the bumper sticker.
Like it or not, things happen around Donald Trump, even when he isn’t actually there. If you’re a New Yorker, he’s in your head, like a large golden “T.” Rudy Giuliani may be mayor, but Mr. Trump is a New York phenomenon, a sort of super-id of Manhattan, a barometer, if we are honest with ourselves, of our instincts and desires. And, when Random House publishes his third book, The Art of the Comeback, on Oct. 31, he will be even more ubiquitous. There he is on the book’s cover, in a snappy dark suit against a gold background, holding a crystal ball that turns out to be a snow shaker with a New York skyline. And while the bumper sticker had started as somewhat of a lark, now, nine months later, after having seen my best friend inhabit the mind of Donald Trump, I have to say that I love Donald Trump. I really do.
The other day I went up to Mr. Trump’s office. Mr. Trump’s office is close to the top of Trump Tower. (It’s not at the very top—his apartment is up there, three floors and thousands of square feet, supposedly the best in the city.) In his book, he calls Trump Tower “a good friend” because it was there “when I needed it.” Mr. Trump’s book is all about buildings and women, and I found myself falling into that spell. There’s something about Mr. Trump—when you know you’re going to see him, you always want to dress nicely, as befitting the occasion. I was wearing a gray Dolce & Gabbana suit with a cranberry fur collar. I entered the elevator and in a sort of loud voice said, “Donald Trump’s office.”
Read the rest here.