I’m driving down the street today just dying to know everybody’s business in the houses I passed when the passenger door opened and the town leper colony rolled onto the front seat. Only one leper but how many do you need?
“Mr. von Willingham, sir. This Trump business is really bothering me.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Just don’t pick at your sores. Do you have a question? If you don’t, wait until the car is going 60 mph, then jump out.”
“It’s a question inside a concern wrapped inside a twenty dollar bill.”
“Alright, I gotcha,” I said as I pulled my wallet out of my pants pocket.
“The government does nothing to help the homeless. They expect private charities to do all the work. So after Trump gets his ass handed to him on November 8th, why doesn’t he use some of his money to build housing for the poor. That oughta help him next election.”
“Aye, me boy,” I said, flicking off on invisible ash from my unseen cigar onto his filthy lap. “You’re asking him to crash into the iceberg of his Winner Ethic. Would you crash into the iceberg of your Winner Ethic? Even if I asked you to? I don’t think so. I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“Mr Trump cannot, will not erect Loser Buildings. By that I mean, buildings for Losers, which includes lepers by the way, ” I said.
“I understand my lowly social position as Unclean,” the Nameless One pushed through his sore red and yellow lips.
“Acceptance will get you halfway there”, I said. “Trump would just as soon round up your sorry asses and force you into a large desert plot surrounded by razor wire. It will be so humane it’ll make your head spin. For example, TrumpForce will only use Lady Schick razors. You won’t have to take your showers alone, either. We will arrange you in your family groups. We have other exciting special touches as well. You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about it.”
“Thank you, Mr. von Williamingham, sir. May I call you Du?”
“No, you cannot.” I slammed my brakes to stop. “Out with you! Out! Here is a little something to tide you over.” It was a coupon for half-off any dinner at Frankie’s Chop House.
The leper read the coupon. “This joint’s in Philadelphia.”
“But we’re in Dallas!”
“I thought you people travelled.”
The fellow was grinding his teeth. Was he preparing to attack me?
“Okay, sir. I might wind up in Philly someday. Who knows?”
“Maybe they will open a restaurant right here in Dallas. Who knows?”
“Thank you, Roger.”
“I told you never to call me that.”
“It’s your name. You Roger, I’m Tom. We’re brothers.”
“We’re in the middle of traffic. Kids released from school. I got to go.”
“Good bye, Roger.”
“I got to go.”
All I could think about was how could he bring up family matters at such an inconvenient time.