Donald Trump”
HE HAD THAT CELEBRITY handle, “The Donald,” but for most people he was just Trump, and I confess that I never cared much for Trump. Blowhard, raunchy playboy, controversial businessman, endless self-promoter, jerk—all these things defined the public Donald Trump as seen by his critics. Politics never seemed to be a top-shelf concern for this man, but when he did speak out, the narrative was doctrinaire liberal Democrat, championing Obama, Bill Clinton, and Hillary Clinton while celebrating Planned Parenthood, single-payer health insurance, environmental excesses, and the like.
In recent years he’d been singing from a different sheet. He was becoming increasingly critical of President Obama, but it came with an inexplicable fixation on that damn birth certificate, which all along was the least provable and therefore most irrelevant accusation against the President. It was little more than a clarion call for conspiracy theorists and certainly unbecoming of a dignified contender.
Trump had made noises about running in 2008, but virtually nobody took him seriously, and when nothing materialized, those who bothered to care chalked it up to another Trump publicity stunt. Again in 2012 he flirted with a presidential run. “I maintain the strong conviction that if I were to run, I would be able to win the primary and ultimately, the general election,” he boasted. But again nothing. Bluster? Fear? The realization that he couldn’t win? No telling. Trump was Trump.
But in 2014 and early 2015, things seemed to be changing. He was becoming more comprehensively outspoken in his condemnation of Obama and the Democrats, and though he didn’t seem to be wildly enthusiastic about the GOP, it was becoming evident that that was his destination. Word circulated that he was hiring staff in the early-primary states. More telling than this, Trump was doing deliberate outreach to some of the strongest voices in the conservative movement, such as my old friend talk radio giant Mark Levin, along with some of the most influential activist leaders in the movement, such as Citizens United head David Bossie, a longtime companion in the political trenches.
It was Bossie who urged me to meet Donald Trump. I was skeptical. When I questioned Trump’s sudden conversion to the side of the angels, Bossie was quick to defend it: “He’s the real deal.” When I questioned his seriousness of purpose, Bossie was equally enthusiastic. “I think this time he’s gonna do it!”
On December 5, 2014, I received an e-mail from then-Trump aide Sam Nunberg inviting me to meet Mr. Trump in New York. I accepted.
On February 26, I arrived at Trump Tower. Walking into the lobby of the twenty-sixth floor, I was struck by how dark it seemed. Staffers were coming and going, busily but quietly. There seemed to be something surreal about the place. We were ushered into “Mr. Trump’s” office. Everyone but everyone called him “Mr. Trump” or “sir.” I expected a vast gilded throne room akin to those pictures of his gaudy penthouse. To be sure it was polished, with a magnificent view of the Manhattan landscape, but it lacked the aura of a business tycoon, especially one who designs and constructs his own skyscrapers. The desk wasn’t even centered in the room; instead it was pressed against a wall. He sat behind that desk looking like just another corporate senior staff, not the Man Himself.
He came to life instantly. After introductions, we began to chat, but almost immediately a staffer, member interrupted. He approached the desk and handed “Mr. Trump” a report, maybe twenty or twenty-five pages long. Taking possession of it, Trump placed it on his desk and explained that this was his new bio. “It’s very, very good!” he enthused as he urged me to read it (though he never gave me a copy). There it was, Braggadocio Trump. He stood and gave us the tour of the trophies along his wall: Mike Tyson’s heavyweight championship belt, Tom Brady’s Super Bowl helmet, one of Shaquille O’Neal’s sneakers, and a framed photo of him shaking President Reagan’s hand, to name some of them. Each was a “good friend” of his, and as he recounted how each item came into his possession, you sensed you were being treated to the VIP tour every visitor entering that office received. But I was not turned off. There was something endearing here. It was clear that Trump thoroughly enjoyed being the Donald.
Off we went to lunch and to the next surprise. I expected that we’d dine in a private room or perhaps the private room in a swanky restaurant not just because of his pomposity but because of the vicissitudes of celebrity. No such thing. We took the elevator down to the now famous escalator to the Trump Grill. Tourists milling about all recognized him and called out his name. He waved simple hellos and smiled. He made it a point to stop and greet some of the staff, especially the waiters and vendors selling memorabilia at the kiosks. We took a table, ordered, and began to talk.
And for the next forty-five minutes I visited with someone else.
I’ve never spent almost an hour in conversation with a man who was the exact opposite of everything I knew—or thought I knew—him to be. Bombastic, yes, but now he didn’t come across as a braggart. He was proud of his successes, but now he was not boastful. He talked a lot, but by no means did he corner the conversation. He spoke in a low voice and earnestly. He asked questions and listened intently. He was razor-sharp, focused on his guest’s answers, prodding and probing, nodding quietly when in agreement, and when at odds he pushed back softly, gently—two words I would have thought could never appear in a sentence also containing the word “Trump.” His intelligence was clearly evident. But so was there a thoroughly unexpected—dare I say it?—humility and graciousness.
He wanted to know: Did I think he should run? It was clear to me that he’d already made up his mind and it would take something extraordinary to dissuade him. He’d been told I was supporting Ted Cruz, but I reminded him of this immediately so that there would be no misunderstanding.
My answer was no and yes. I wasn’t going to lie. I was convinced he couldn’t win, and I owed it to my host to tell him so. But I urged him to run nonetheless. One, he needed to scratch the itch, and with all his scratch he might actually enjoy it. Two, in American politics it sometimes takes more than one attempt to reach the summit, especially when there is dirty laundry to be washed in the court of public opinion, and God knows he had plenty of that. But those were minor points. There was a much more compelling reason.
It’s my belief that no politician can control our runaway federal government, as large as it is inept—never mind reduce it. I reminded this businessman of the Grace Commission, launched by President Ronald Reagan in 1982 and chaired by the industrialist Peter Grace. His mandate was to use his business expertise to cut the size of the federal government as a means toward the end of reducing the power centralized in Washington.
I wanted Cruz to win, but wouldn’t it be terrific if he then tapped Donald Trump to form the Trump Commission to make sense of the federal mess? Wouldn’t it be music to America’s ears to hear “You’re fired!” several hundred thousand times to rid us of that obnoxious, arrogant, and criminally incoherent creature known as the federal bureaucrat? This, I told my host, was my dream, and it might happen if businessman Trump focused his campaign on this message.
Trump listened intently but was not convinced. “I think I can win. I really do.” He said this several times, but with no chest-thumping. He said it quietly, thoughtfully. “I really do think I can win.”
We chatted more about the upcoming race, and then it was time to wrap things up. Trump asked me if he’d supported the Media Research Center (MRC), which he praised strongly. I told him he hadn’t, and he advised that this would change. We walked back toward the elevators for a good-bye, but not before stopping at the gift stand, where he grabbed a handful of Trump ties, Trump cuff links, and Trump cologne, dutifully celebrating the merits of each item before bequeathing them to his guests.
(Sure enough, a week later a check for $5,000 from the Trump Foundation arrived with Trump’s handwritten emphasis, “In honor of the Great Brent!”)
Trump
