Donald's Robe Doesn't Fit

I wake in the middle of the night to discover that I am Donald Trump . Ive been tossing and turning for hoursI havent slept well since the electionso I finally reach for my robe on the nightstand and give into the insomnia once again. Its the robe that tips me off to my transformation, the familiar lightweight cotton barely meeting in the middle over my fleshy protruding belly instead of overlapping as usual. Admittedly, I had a large plate of nachos the night before, but this is more than bloating, its decades of real girth. I tie the belt into a strained, shrunken bow and stumble to the bathroom, fumbling to find the light switch before I am revealed in the mirror. There is no mistaking, I am Donald J. Trump. (Im a writer; this stuff happens .)

I gulp and blink several times, the reality settling in as I study my ruddy complexion, my furrowed brow locked in furrow, my hair a swirl of jaundiced cotton candy. I look myself in the eye and feel a strange pang of something cold and hollow that echoes all through my bowels. I open my mouth to let out a wail, but something else comes out: My God, Ivanka really takes after me, doesnt she? And strangely, it seems to make me feel better.

I tug at the robe as I leave the bathroom, coaxing it to cover me as I pace the dark bedroom. The White House is colder than I expect it to be. I re-tie the bow and smooth my hands over the sides, noticing a cell phone in the right pocket. I pull it out and feel a compulsion to tweet something about crime in Chicago I saw on OReilly. So, I do. Ive got to call it like I see it; thats my job now.

After my tweets, I scroll through the contacts on the phone, there are so many contacts. I cant believe all the contacts on my phone, and I feel a rush of dopamine at the mass of this list. Its because I have so many people who like me, I remind myself. So many people who love me. I swipe up with my petite thumb and the contacts scroll in a blur, like a roulette table. Roulette. I get a fantastic idea, the best idea.

The scroll slows and randomly rests on the name of a man named Andy I havent spoken to in years, a business associate from Atlantic City. Atlantic City Andy I mouth. I pinch my eyes closed to recall his face and it pops into my mind as if on cue. I have such a terrific memory! I tap the small icon of a phone and call Atlantic City Andy. As the phone rings, I feel a surge of something that I think might be joy. I am imagining Andys delight at hearing from me, and if hes still the loyal Andy I remember, Im going to surprise him with a job offer. Andys a very, very terrific guy and God knows I could use more Andys around here. This is perfect. I cant believe how smart I am!

After a handful of rings, I feel that same pang again, the one from the mirror in the bathroom. It grows stronger with every unanswered trill. Why isnt Andy answering my call? Im the President of the United States! I dont like being treated unfairly and this is starting to feel very, very unfair of Andy to ignore my call.

Suddenly, mid-ring, my call is answered. I knew Andy would come through for me!

Hola? says a groggy voice. A womans voice.

Where is Andy? I ask.

Hola?

Get Andy! I shout.

Como? Quien es este? Quien esta llamando? She shouts.

This is the most important call of Andys life. Get him now! I literally dont understand anything youre saying!

The line clicks. My heart is pounding and my cheeks fill with blood. I growl and toss the phone at the wall. I cant believe Andy has done this to me. If he changed his number, he should have let my people know! LOSER! People would kill to get a call from me!

I walk over and pick up the phone to tweet about my landslide electoral victory when theres a knock at the door.

Everything OK in there, sir? asks the voice on the other side.

I straighten up from my slumped position and instinctively smooth my hair.

Come in, Darryl, I call toward the door.

The door cracks and Darryls large silhouette fills the doorway, the coil of his earpiece a cartoonish squiggle against the light of the hallway.

Another rough night, sir?

I want to say yes, but I say no, that I require very little sleep because of my extraordinary genes.

Of course, sir. Can I get you some fried chicken and turn on Fox News for you?

Im not gay, but I have the sudden urge to climb into Darryls large lap, to rest there until morning. I already hate tomorrow.

That would be terrific, I say.

I get up and walk out into the hall with him. He clears his throat as he nods at my torso. My robe has pulled open again like theater curtains. He turns away and stands with his back to me, speaking a request for KFC into his lapel as I cover and re-tie yet again.

I begin walking toward the TV room and Darryl joins a pace behind. I stop and turn around to face him.

Can you believe everything Ive accomplished so far, Darryl? I ask him. Its amazing, isnt it?

He nods once. Its unbelievable, sir.