I was assigned the Donald Trump account several years ago. Manager Grace Gonzalez ordered me like a slave– “We stole this one from Urban. They couldn’t get it there by 7:30. I don’t want to lose this account and I know if I give it to you, it will get there on time.” Trump’s tower is on 5th Avenue and 57th Street, the warehouse and Grace and her full of crap management style are on 29th and Seventh. Even in snowstorms when it was still dark outside, I made that walk every Tuesday. I enjoy the stroll past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the loveliest of all buildings in New York City, in my opinion. They were refurnishing pews this week. I walked by as the long, mahogany pews were taken from a truck with some business that specialized specifically in pew restoration, for the side of the long truck advertised this. I have other rush paychecks on Tuesday that all must be delivered by 9 am, including East Hampton’s own, The Douglas Elliman Real Estate Firm down on 43rd and 3rd. They are largest real estate agency in all of America I imagine while carrying their heavy-ass boxes of paychecks in a backpack. Neither Trump nor Elliman tipped me at Christmas, a point worth noting in a time when one is running for President and the other is just days away from another major market crash, in my view.
Trump had a delivery the same day he announced he was running for president. I arrived at least 15 minutes early, anticipating the press. The doorman permitted me to enter, just as he has done over the past several years at 7:20 or so. A man who was coordinating the reception area for the soon to be presidential announcement approached me like I was a terrorist or something–
“Who are you?” He asked, as if addressing one of the paid Trump supporters who had shown up early.
“I’m here to deliver a paycheck,” I explained.
“Who are they for?”
“Trump,” I answered. The Italian queen grabbed the three checks from my hands as though they were sunburned and brown, and Mexican. He walked away to speak to one of his aides about the soon to begin ceremony on the escalator above. The lobby of that building is adorned with Trump materials– his books are on display as if his writing was as keen as mine, and he sells coffee cups to foolish tourists who wander into the marble lined trap after shopping at Tiffany’s just down the street.
I stood there with my pen and manifest and waited for who may one day be the Secretary of the Interior to return to me and sign for the delivery. He did, of course, it was obivious I was not leaving without the autograph.
“What’s your name?” I demanded as if I were competing on the Apprentice.
I forgot his name the moment I typed it into my scanner.