Exclusive: Inside the White House During the Shutdown’s Early Days
All of the 88-inch, made-in-China flat screens were on — every West Wing screen, including the one in the Oval Office (which Trump hadn’t been in for days), the one in the Roosevelt Room, and the one in the Cabinet Room. All of the flat screens in the Residence were on, too: the Family Dining Room, the President’s Dining Room, the Center Hall, East and West Sitting Halls, Lincoln Bedroom, Treaty Room, the Master Bedroom, even the TVs in the Master Dressing Room and the Master Bathroom.
The peripatetic President, his Universal Voice Command Remote (UVCR) in one hand and his trusty iPhone in the other, wandered from room to room on the second floor of the Residence, occasionally glancing out at the North Lawn and Pennsylvania Avenue through the tall glass door of the Yellow Oval Room that led to the Truman Balcony.
All was quiet.
“No one. Not even fucking protesters,” he mumbled to himself.
As he passed through the West Sitting Hall, Wolf Blitzer was screeching, “The Trump shutdown!” Don yelled into his remote: “Fox News!” And as he ambled through the Master Bedroom and into the Master Bathroom, all of the TVs switched in unison to Harris Faulkner of “Outnumbered” who was playing the video of him saying “I am proud to shut down the government.”
“Goddamn it.”
He dropped his “Make America Great Again” sweatpants, a gift from Congressman Steve King, and plopped down onto the toilet (now with the gold flush handle he added after “evicting the coloreds,” as he so often told friends while giving them a tour of the Residence). He set his UVCR down on top of the toilet tank and angrily tapped out a tweet on his iPhone:
He was all alone. Sitting on the shitter, wondering why he had eaten that third Big Mac last night, thinking about Melania enjoying Mar-a-Lago, having all of his friends — his friends — telling her how beautiful she looked…
“Absolutely radiant,” they would say, adding, as an afterthought, “How is Donald doing?”
“Goddamn it,” he said to himself again, feeling the gurgles in his stomach bubbling down to their ultimate outlet. “Goddamn it.”
New Year’s Eve. He had spent every New Year’s Eve since 1985 basking in the adulation of his friends at Mar-a-Lago. Yet here he was, alone in the Oval Office on the last day of the year. Melania had left long before Christmas. Staff was gone. His friends were preparing for parties, either ignoring his repeated calls or perhaps honestly not hearing the ringtone or feeling the vibration in their pockets above the din of the piano and clinking glasses and shouted conversations of breakfast at Mar-a-Lago Club.
The flat screens were tuned to MSNBC. He wanted to see what Cryin’ Chuck and Nancy were saying about him. They were celebrating their victories in the mid-terms and talking about how they were going to investigate everything Trump — as soon as they were finished enjoying the New Year holiday.
His short fingers angrily punched at his iPhone:
That night was quiet in the Residence. Deathly quiet, save for the televisions. His calls to all of his Mar-a-Lago buddies went unanswered. Don Junior had answered but quickly said, “Dad, I gotta go. If I make Kim wait she throws a complete shit-fit.”
Every network was counting down until midnight. The reviled Anderson Cooper was in Times Square with some other gay guy, waiting for the ball to drop.
“I owned fucking New York,” Don shouted, startled by the loudness of his own voice. He yelled into his UVCR, “OFF!”
It was a fitful night’s sleep. He woke up early and called down to the kitchen.
“Get me a 12-piece bucket of dark meat Extra Crispy. Now!”
The kitchen staff never balked at his orders even though the nearby KFC didn’t open until 10:30 and it was only 7:00. They had the KFC GM’s cell number on speed dial.
Don punched hard at his iPhone.
Don called Sean Hannity and woke him up. Sean sounded groggy.
“Hey, Mr. President. Happy New Year.”
“I’m here by myself.”
“Uh-huh…”
“By my fucking self, Sean! Did you see Melania last night?”
“Yes! She looked absolutely radiant!”
“I knew it! Fuck! Did anyone ask about me?”
“Everyone asked about you! They want you to stick to your guns on this!”
“What do I get out of it?”
“Sir, this is your calling card. Your people love this shit!”
“I need another caravan. Something. I need more ‘invasion.’”
“I will make a call and make sure we’re on that. All the shows. Ingraham loves that shit.”
“Carlson, too.”
“Are you kidding me? They don’t come any whiter than that sniveling little shit!”
Don laughed. “Thanks, Sean. I feel better. Talk to you later.”
“A new year,” he said quietly to himself. “A new year and I’m still fucking President of the United fucking States.”
He gripped his phone tightly and tapped out nine more tweets in rapid succession.
“I’ll show them.”
