(Un)seriously serious
I once interviewed Donald Trump. It was 2004, when I was largely unsuccessfully making ends meet as a freelance writer in New York City. And the occasion was Trump had cut a deal (true to form, he claimed it was for $1 million when it was actually $250,000) to be a spokesperson for Australia’s Holeproof Computer Socks, which famously had the catchy but weird tagline “They fall up, not down".
It was a similarly weird assignment. The sock deal seemed ho-hum, but the editor of the (sadly) now defunct men’s style australia and I agreed it was a useful excuse to speak to Trump, who was at the time known largely as a sham and a blowhard who had fallen up (not down!) into the role of playing a successful businessman on The Apprentice.
In any case, the day began auspiciously but, with the benefit of hindsight, entirely predictably. If I recall correctly, Trump had organized the press event at his Boeing 727-100—presumably so images of him holding socks in front of his penis-extension plane could be beamed around the world (quick aside: he’s since upgraded to a 757, which is now nicknamed “Trump Force One”).
But, in a cab on my way to a date with a gold-plated phallus, Trump changed his mind: the event would instead be at Trump Tower. I was annoyed at the last-minute switch—albeit not as annoyed as the New York cab driver told he had to somehow do a U-turn on the Van Wyck Expressway. In any case, we managed to land on Fifth Avenue and the weirdness truly began.
Trump’s office was, flatly, a dump. Yet it was also a shrine: amid the clutter and piles of paper, the walls were plastered with magazine covers of the man himself, including the fake ones (which he has a penchant for). When Trump did appear, it was one of those transparently choreographed efforts to project importance. He kept us waiting for too long and strode in too forcefully, wearing a suit a size too big, a tie too lengthy, and a tan too orange. He did shake hands—which was something of a surprise—and did his best to pitch a product it was obvious he knew nothing about. Then again, what can you say about … socks?
I do recall asking him specifically why an apparently rich and successful businessman (yes, I was transparently playing to his ego) could be bothered plugging an Australian sock brand. And he said something like, “If they want to pay me $1 million* to do it, I’d be crazy not to.” That tallies with his history: he once famously cashed a check for 13 cents.
Aside from that—and writing his truly astonishingly odd hair resembled “a dead raccoon sleeping on his head”—I promptly forgot about Trump. Then 2016 happened, followed by four excruciating years. The clouds lifted in 2020, the wheels of justice turned slowly, and today Trump was arraigned for his role in the effort to overturn the result of the last presidential election.
It’s hard to know what to feel. Joy? Not really. Relief? Not yet. Satisfaction? Only that the system appears to be working. I guess more than anything, I today had a sense that (finally) something serious was happening to a profoundly unserious man.
Trump is a clown. He’s a poor person’s idea of a rich one, and an idiot’s idea of smart. He’s boorish, tasteless, crude, and narcissistic yet profoundly insecure. His genius is his ability to prey on the weakness of others and present himself as something he’s not. But he’s fundamentally not a serious person, to paraphrase the legendary Logan Roy.
That’s why there was something about seeing him in court today. A person who’s spent his life skirting the rules has finally come up against people who are actually good at what they do, who have an ethical core, and who believe the rule of law still matters.
Of course, one swallow does not a summer make—especially with a third of the electorate apparently still under Trump’s spell. But, for this newly minted American, there was the comforting thought that the country still has some serious people intent on doing serious things. And for an unserious person, that’s trouble.
* Just a reminder: it was for $250,000, not $1 million. As my old man would have said, Donald couldn’t lie straight in bed.