I work in the Trump Tower.
Oh, not upstairs! No, I work in the parking ramp, way down in the basement, underneath all the glitz and glamour.
Every day I put on a uniform and stand in a glass booth, checking in a long line of expensive cars with their limo drivers. Every night I punch out and ride the crowded subway across town to my little apartment, and I eat leftovers, and then I open a beer and drink it at the window, trying to catch a breeze.
That was my life, until tonight. Until I had this nightmare.
There aren't many jobs out there these days, but I know one thing. I'm not working there any more. That's it. I quit.
Here's how it happened.
I woke up with a jolt about 2 a.m., all in a cold sweat. Man, I was shaking, and sobbing, and all twisted up in the sheets. I've been pacing the floor ever since, trying to calm down.
I can't get them out of my head, those two faces, their hands holding onto each other. Finally I decided to write it all down. If I don't do something, I may never be able to sleep again.
The dream started okay, I guess. I was at work, see. It was really busy, and the stream of cars seemed to go on and on. Finally one last limo drove through, and it was quiet for a few minutes. Then I started to hear this wheezing, coughing sound, getting louder and louder. It was a battered old truck, all dusty and dented. It rolled slowly down the ramp and lurched to a stop right in front of me.
The man behind the wheel was old, in battered jeans and a dirty shirt, with dark, sunken eyes. The women next to him - his wife, I guess - was all bent over, coughing deep, racking coughs. They both looked sick and exhausted.
"Please - " he stopped to cough, covering his mouth with a shaking hand. His dark skin was gleaming with sweat. "Son, we need - " he coughed again - "We need to talk to the President right away. Can you fetch him for us? Please?"
"Sure, I'll go get him. Just wait over there - I'll be as quick as I can." I motioned him to a parking place and hurried over to the elevator.
See, in the strange way of dreams, it made perfect sense that I would go looking for the President of the United States in order to bring him down to the basement.
The elevator crept up so slowly. So slowly. Wasn't I ever going to get there? Up I went, floor after floor, and all the while I was shifting from foot to foot, getting more and more worried. Finally, at the top floor, I stepped out and stopped short.
After all these years of working down in the basement, I've never been up in the Tower. It isn't like anywhere most of us live, that's for sure. It was all lit up, with this huge open space in the middle so the ceiling seemed like it was a thousand feet above you. Every inch of it reeked of money and power. It was a whole other world, a million miles from my tiny apartment across town. I sure didn't belong here, me with my shabby shoes and my scrabbling for every penny just to pay the rent.
Now I could hear a hum of excited voices coming from somewhere far below, and I crept forward and peered over the railing. There it was, that huge golden escalator we've all seen a thousand times on TV, and far, far below, a crowd of people were waiting, men in suits and ties, and women in expensive-looking clothes, and bodyguards talking into their earpieces just like in the movies.
But I had to find him, so I took a deep breath and started out.
I tiptoed along, opening doors and peering into empty rooms, with their luxurious suites and four poster beds. There was a meeting going on in one of the rooms: all these guys in expensive-looking suits sitting on high-backed chairs at huge tables, talking in low voices and signing papers. I shut the door and kept on looking.
Hurry, hurry, I thought.
Finally, at the end of the hall, I found him.
The door was emblazoned with big golden letters: D. J. TRUMP. It was slightly ajar, and I peered in.
There he was, our president. He was pacing back and forth, all full of restless energy. Was he planning a great speech? Figuring out how he was going to save us from the pandemic?
Now I could see that there was something on the desk that was bothering him. Over and over he'd walk over, pick it up, grimace, and toss it down.
Finally, I couldn't wait any longer. I tapped on the door.
"Come on in," he bellowed.
"Um, Mr. President?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm almost ready."
"No, sir, I -"
He strode back to the desk. "Look at this thing. Can you believe it?" He held it up, and now I could see it was a mask, dark blue, with the presidential seal.
He shook his head and flung it back down. "I can't. I just can't do it. I'll look like an idiot. And why do I have to wear one? I'm not just anybody!"
"Well, sir, it's to keep people safe. But I'm not here about that - there are some people downstairs who need your help - "
He ignored me and glanced at his watch, and then grabbed the mask and stomped over to the mirror and wrestled it on. I watched openmouthed as he tilted his head back and forth, moved it up and down, sighing. Finally he turned to me.
"How do I look?"
"You look fine, sir. But I'm not here about that - Mr. President, please, please stop - "
But it was no use. He pushed past me and strode down the corridor.
I hurried after him, desperate. "Sir, there's a couple down in the basement who are asking for you. Mr. President, I think they're sick, and - sir? Please, listen to me!"
But he was gone, stepping onto the escalator, raising his head high as he began to descend. The crowd of people below caught sight of him and began to clap and cheer, filling that gigantic room with noise.
I gripped the rail and watched as he reached the bottom, making his way through the crowd, shaking hands, even with the people who flinched away.
Outside, an ambulance rushed by, siren wailing, but he ignored it. His bodyguards helped him into the waiting limousine. One of them carefully stowed a bag of golf clubs in the trunk. The motorcade revved their engines, the bodyguards signaled, and they were gone.
I groaned in frustration and ran for the elevator. Slow, so slow...
"I'm so sorry," I said as I rushed up to the open window. "But he wouldn't listen. I tried, I really did." Then I stopped short.
They didn't move. They didn't look up. I began to shake, but I made myself move closer and bend down to look.
She was cradled in his arms, and there were tears on his cheeks. He had one hand on her hair, and his other arm around her tight, like he was trying to keep her safe. Her hand was clutching his shirt, pulling him down to whisper some last words - words he never heard. It was too late.
It was too late.
That's when I woke up. And now I'm sitting at the window, watching the night tick by, wondering how many of us are going to end up like those two before all this is over.
It's just about dawn now. The streets are filling up with people heading to work. We can't stay home, most of us. How many of them are wondering, is this the day? Is it waiting for me, too, somewhere?
Pull yourself together, I tell myself. It's not just up to him. If he doesn't get it, it's up to the rest of us to find our way out of this mess. Maybe, if we all work together, we'll survive this somehow.
But I'll tell you this much: as of today, I'm quitting. I'll never get the chance to tell him face to face, but I'm getting out of that basement of his once and for all.
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