You summoned the press to your tower, to collect their comeuppance.
You were angry. They had hurt you. They had reported with their usual degree of accuracy, from more or less objective reality. But you had constructed a new and exciting reality, where Hillary was a criminal, you were not, brown people were scary and, most importantly, you were so very loved. Breitbart lived there. A lot of Russians seemed to live there. Thousands of people in little red hats lived there. Why couldn’t they?
So you berated them, imagining crimes to justify your anger. You had lied prolifically, prodigiously, effortlessly, and they had refused to play along. Why couldn’t they just play along? Doesn’t that make them the liars in this bold new world?
Now, they would all have to kiss your ass.
“Every critic, every detractor,” Omarosa predicted before the election, “Will have to bow down to President Trump.”
“Everyone who ever doubted Donald, who ever disagreed, who ever challenged him. It is the ultimate revenge to become the most powerful man in the universe.”
She is now Assistant to the President. You are now the President of the United States.
That should feel good, shouldn’t it? It should fill the abyss in your heart, the thing that demands respect, admiration and the closest approximation to love that anyone can muster. You’re just like Obama now, right?
But revenge isn’t as sweet as it seemed. The press isn’t kissing your ass. No one seems to be.
Instead, they released a document that had been circulating for months, alleging that you had engaged in the capital crime of espionage in exchange for Russia’s help installing you as president. To the outside observer, it looked far-fetched and yet… All too plausible. Alfa Bank, your whereabouts, Manafort, Russia’s hacking... There’s no fire, you can assure us, it’s just that a lot of people seem to be dying of smoke inhalation.
And what of Russia? If there was no collusion, the Kremlin must really believe that your presidency will damage the US so much that it will make Russia a superpower again. That’s a lot to rationalize. Must take a lot out of you.
All along, the press breathlessly reports your disastrous transition, your inept appointments, every embarrassment they have the time and energy to recognize. They are aching to cover the impeachment you’re already courting.
The attention is nice, though, compared to the cold indifference of the public.
The inauguration crowd at the National Mall was a faint echo of the masses that came to cheer your predecessor. Bleachers sat empty. Along the parade route, you’d have found more people during the average lunch rush.
Just 40% of the public claims to like you, and new presidents typically see a 20% boost. How long before that number drops by half?
47% voted for you, though. Just three million fewer than Hillary. Just two whole points. Does that make you an illegitimate leader? Not legally, sure. But morally and intellectually, your authority is at the mercy of a people who declared you first runner-up. It kills you to know that your ascent was not the will of the people, but a grotesque accident of history. You railed against your own presidency before you even saw it coming.
Hillary was the better candidate. She’d make a better president. More people wanted her. All of this is true. You’ve always known it.
Even if you could shake this thought from your mind, a good chunk of her voters wouldn’t let you forget it. They’ll post it on signs outside the White House. They’ll wear it on t-shirts. They’ll shout it at you when you dare step outside the bubble.
It especially stings to hold them in higher regard than your own voters. A con-man never respects his mark. He has to convince himself that they’re inferior, they had it coming. The best cons prey on our worst instincts. The smart ones don’t fall for it. You don’t think of yourself as a con-man, of course. You’re a showman. Like PT Barnum. But the smart ones call you a con-man, and they have never hated a president more.
You somehow thought that it would be different. That the office would elevate you. Instead, you have diminished it. Your first day and you’ve already sullied the presidency in ways that Nixon and Harding would never have dared.
And, in the back of your mind, one thought eats away at you: How long can I last? How long until Ryan and McConnell--or Pelosi and Durbin—have had enough?