Trump's Plan

In restaurants, J. Parker Wolfgaard has the unpolished  habit of pointing out persons with his utencils. Just yesterday as we lunched on  the Hanger Steak Salad Monday Lunch Special, $13.95, at Plein du Dommage on X Street North West, near Capitol Hill, J. Parker directed his tines at a nicely sculpted  bobbed blond sitting a few tables away and commented between chews of his spring mix, “That beautiful woman over there  is Gail Force, our latest, greatest political scoop artist. She’s going to publish an exclusive blog  this afternoon at 3 p.m. on Donald Trump’s secret negotiations with Mexico to have it pay for the construction of a 2,000-mile-long wall along our joint border.

The ever-alert Ms. Force, detecting that she was being singled out by fork by Wolfgaard, nodded her acknowledgement and then returned to the conversation she had been having with her luncheon partner, a smart  phone.  We call it dining au cell.  I could not take my 60-year-old eyes off of her. She was in her 40s, had lips as thick as seat cushions, a beach queen’s body, and  eyes as wide and as deep as Little Orphan Annie’s.  

 Wolfgaard, who thirsts  for one’s fullest attention,  uttered a long “Ahem.”

“Ahhhhhheeeeeeeeeem,” he said.  “It turns out that Trump is going to turn Mexico into an exclusive drug, gambling and golf enclave. The citizens of Las Vegas will be apoplectic.  The wall is going to be an exact replica of China’s Great Wall, with a major exception--there will be but one gate, members only. Fee’s start at $1 million. Americans  will be queuing up for miles to get down to Mexico. Mexicans no longer will want to leave because of the influx of the deep-pocketed gringos.”  Wolfgaard said this with the definiteness that only an editorial writer like himself can conveniently muster.    I knew him well. I was his libel lawyer. No doubt he had made up his mind in a snap and would spend the next few days mustering academic studies and facts to bolster his opinion.

 I tried to puncture his self-assured balloon.  He appreciates my devil’s advocacy, which is why he generally invites me to lunch.  My opinion this day would cost him but $13.95.

 “What about prostitution, J. Pierpont? “ Las Vegas at least had this service industry going for it.

 “The world’s oldest profession will be legal.  Drugs too. The seven deadly sins are all-in. Not even a member of the President’s Secret Service detail will be able to get into trouble down in Old Mexico, amigo!”

  “We’re broke. Mexico’s broke. Where are they going to get the moola, J. Pierpont?”

 He jabbed his fork at me.  “That’s the beauty of  Trump’s idea.  The Chinese will pay for it.”

“The Chinese? You must be joking.  Why would they pay for it?”

 “They get the lease to operate the wall for 20-years.  Anyway, those Chinese are real-estate crazy. They’re buying up empty condos in Vancouver and building reefs in the middle of the ocean.  They’re already spending billions in South America  for infrastructure. So they will build it. Then at some point Mexico will file for bankruptcy and the Chinese will be forced out in the reorganization. The man’s got a brain under all that crap on his head,  I will tell you that!”

 When we left the restaurant together. J Pierpoint still had the fork in his right hand.  He pointed to a bum begging  on the street.   The bum was yelling, “Spare change, spare change” instead of “spare some change?”  It irked  me that he would think I had spare money as opposed to money to spare.

“That guy owns stacks  of gold,” said J Pierpoint.  "He used to be a libertarian economist.  The stuff is worthless."  

“Libertarian economics?”

“Gold, you ninny.”

“So now he wants funny money?” I asked.

“He only accepts credit cards,” scowled J. Pierpoint. He used his fork to hail a taxi and then used the fork to point out his way.