He answered after the second ring.
“Hello?”
Not, ‘this is Donald Trump’; ‘Donald Trump speaking’, ‘Your former and future president here!’
None of that jazz. Just like you and me. Hello. A universal greeting. Like, “hi” only longer.
The “hello” sounded like his voice, so I said, “Donald Trump?” (I had to be sure.)
“Speaking.”
That was it. He was waiting. A trickle of sweat made its way down my spine.
I gripped the phone tighter. “Um, yes, Mr. President. I um, have a suggestion for your campaign.”
It was out. I’d said it. Got to the point. All my planning, flow charts, preparation, counseling sessions, emails, phone calls, board meetings, think tanks, all coming together. This was the culmination of a month and four days’ worth of packaging and calculation. My heartbeat reverberated in my ears.
“I’m listening.”
God, he is so to the point. So efficient. I could hear him breathing, so I know he was there. Undistracted. I had to the full attention of the most powerful, most loved, most hated, most talk about man in the world!
My throat was as dry as a summer afternoon in the Sahara.
“Be nice.”
Wow, two can play this concise game!
I wanted to say more, but my tongue was stuck somewhere on the roof of my mouth.
“Excuse me?”
“Be nicer to Kamala.”
I felt like a squishy college student with dark eye makeup and black fingernail polish, reflecting my rage at “The Man” in a “mostly peaceful” protest.
That’s not how I intended to come across. I’m a normal, red-blooded, meat eating, jeans wearing, lawn mowing, conservative Christian Republican, church going, straight male.
I puffed out my chest. My hand was trembling. I wiped sweat from my collar with my free hand.
“Be nicer to her. Just talk about your record; what you accomplished, nothing about her. No negativity. People in the middle are tired of the bickering.”
I half expected a barrage of defensive words, but “The Donald” was still breathing into the phone.
I summoned any leftover spit on my tongue and proceeded. “People are turned off. Because of that, some may vote for her or not vote at all, which will hurt you. So, be nice. Forget the mean stuff. Be a gentleman and a leader. Be gracious and humble. Then you can go back to being a jerk after you win in November.”
My head pounded like a bongo. I couldn’t believe I’d said that last sentence!
The pause on the other line was so long, I thought he’d hung up on me. He had every right. Then his voice came back.
“You know, between you and me, my defensive, hostile behavior is likely from all the abuse and unwarranted attacks from the media and even from the government. The real me isn’t like that. I’m not an evil tyrant. I love people; all people. I love this country. I want us to succeed. I believe I’m the most qualified candidate to get us back on track where we were when I was in office.”
He paused. I could hear him thinking.
“But, you’re right. I need to be nicer. I need to reach the middle. It’s not about the polarized left and right. Good call. Good observation. You say your name is Johnny Rooster?”
“Yes sir!”
“And you’re publisher of the Christian County Trumpet — what is that, a Christian newspaper or something?”
“No, Mr. President, it’s the name of our county.”
“Funny, I thought our country was named the United States of America.” He laughed at his own joke.
“No sir, the name of our county in Missouri…”
“Missouri is a fine state. Good governor. Good people. Tell Mike Kehoe good luck, although I liked that Eigel guy way better.”
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you for listening to me today, sir.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome. Very welcome. Come by and see me at the White House; I’ll pick up some Big Macs.”
“Thank you, sir. That sounds great.”
“Gotta run, Rooster. You’re a good man! Keep it up!”
The line went dead.
“Thank you, sir,” I said to myself aloud.
Tell us the truth, Rooster! Was this just a dream or maybe wishful thinking? By the way, that’s great advice!