Note: This is a work of fiction.
A glare caught my eyes as I sat reading my required reading. Steinbeck. Sigh. Who wants to read Of Mice and Men on a day like this? Now I understand why so many of my classmates stopped doing the reading. If only I had a friend to spend my day off with.
Ouch. There it is again. The sun shouldn't be shining like that. No. It's reflecting off something. Someone's hat. No. Someone's hair.
"Hey kid," says a man as he walks up to the bench. "You want to make America great again?"
No. It can't be. Donald Trump. Right there, in the flesh. What's he doing here? Why isn't he campaigning? Why is he talking to me?
"You there," he says again, looking right at me. "You speak English?"
"Yes," I reply. I'm not sure what else to say. He looks larger than life in person. His skin the color of a clementine that's been in my lunch box for far too long.
"I asked you if you wanted to make America great again." His extends his hand. Tiny, it looks out of place on a man over six feet, like someone switched Mr. Potato Head's hands with the misses'. I stand up to shake it. It's moist. Lotion most likely, I hope.
"Mr. Trump" he says. I know his first name already. The. Middle name, Donald. Not sure where the J. fits in.
"Mr. Rodriguez," I reply. He smirks at the formality. "Rodriguez. Interesting," he replies. He retracts his hand and stares at me.
"Thanks," I say, unsure what else to say to this oversized oompa loompa standing next to me in a suit that costs more than what my parents make in a month.
"Listen," he says. "There's a sandbox over there. You want to help me build a wall?" I looked down at my paperback, knowing the answer before I even uttered my reply. "Sure."
There's two men in suits and sunglasses watching us as we walk over to the sandbox. "Friends of yours," I ask as I kneel down in the sandbox. Surprisingly, he does as well. I guess he can always buy a new suit.
"Yea, they're there to make sure no mean people can say mean things to me and get away with it. If they're mean, they have to leave. No one can be mean to me anymore."
I don't know what to say. He spots a bucket in the corner of the sandbox. He picks it up and hands it to me. "Here," he says. "Take this over to the fountain. We need to wet the sand if the wall is going to hold."
I do as he says. Before I fill the bucket, I take a sip of water for myself. "That water isn't for drinking," says Trump from the sandbox. Even though I'm fairly far away, I can see his bottom lip protruding from his mouth. He doesn't look pleased.
"Sorry Mr. Trump," I say as I hold the button close to the spout. The sun beats down, but I'm no longer thirsty. I fill the bucket up most of the way and return to my newfound acquaintance.
Mr. Trump is drawing lines in the sand with a stick as I return. He takes the bucket from me and looks inside. He asks, "Is this the best water you could find?"
"Pardon?" He looks down and then again at me, confused.
"This water. Is this the best you could find?"
"Yes. It is the best." This feels like a trick question.
"Good. We only use the best. Now, the wall is going to go right down the middle of the sandbox. It's going to separate our side from theirs."
"Theirs sir?" I ask. I know the answer before I even ask.
"Mexico." There it is. He probably thinks I'm Mexican. I'm not. I'm Colombian. Well, my parents are. I was born here.
"Right," I reply.
"You were born here," he asks. He begins mixing the sand with the water. Wet sand falls onto his suit, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"No," I reply. "I wasn't born in this sandbox. I was born in Santa Fe."
He nods without acknowledging my joke. Sweat beads down my face, but Trump's forehead is dry. The part I can see at least. His hair covers so much.
"This wall is going to be so big, so powerful, so strong, no one will ever try to get past it." He speaks without looking at me.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Who wants to get between a man and his wall? Part of me wants to go back to my book, but opportunities like this don't come around very often.
"You going to help or are you just going to stand there?" He looks angry, but his face displays the same disenfranchised look I saw when he first came over.
"What do you want me to do sir," I ask.
"He throws his arms up in the air and stands up. His suit trousers have damp clumps of sand around the knee.
"Look. We either have a country or we don't. People say all the time 'you can't build a wall.' What do you think they'd say if they came here and saw what we were doing? We're making America great again. The polls, you know. The polls. Truly unbelievable." He pauses and licks his lips.
"Are you okay Mr. Trump," I ask.
"Me? Of course. Never better. My doctor says I'm the healthiest person on the planet. Nobody and I mean nobody, fights off disease like Donald J. Trump. I'd charge germs so much rent to stay in my body, they'd be out on the streets in days."
He looks toward a tree and waves his hand. One of the men wearing suits walls over. I'm afraid something bad is going to happen. He reaches into his jacket pocket as he approaches. What if this is the end?
"Thank you," says The Donald as he accepts a juice box from the Secret Service. "Get one for my friend here. Don't be rude. I made a friend you know. This kid's my best friend, the best. What's your name again."?
"I didn't say my first name. Diego." He nods his head and looks to the agent again.
"I knew that. I went to the Wharton School of Business you know. Get Diego here some of the good stuff." The agent walks over and hands me my own juice box. Apple.
"This wall is going to be yuuuuggggeeee," he says. I nod in apparent agreement. More like indifference.
"Yuge, I say," he says again. "Yuge."
