I think Trump was served food by the same Muslim Lebanese owner I use to work for at on Haight and Ashbury in the 90s.
‘I was son,’ he said, as we devoured a Fat Burger, fries and a Doc Pepper down at the Mission. I told him how the Lebanese immigrant wanted to kill me after I demanded my five dollars an hour pay.
The youngish Donald said, ‘Don’t worry about that son.’ Then he told me about his experience at the same lebo joint. “One bite of that darn falafel and I tossed it on the ground.’ He said shit had tasted better. ‘Then that Lebo went pig dog mad on me and chased me out of the cafe with a butcher’s knife.’
From our first meeting, I could see Donald was the champion of the downtrodden. He knew I was working illegally, while on a tourist visa, but was more concerned about how I was being cheated by an immigrant. ‘That’s very un-American,’ he added, ‘ even the Irish American don’t stoop that low.’ He said if guests can’t manage to at least sincerely try to be American, then ‘they can fuck off south to El Paso or Tijuana.’
Then he put his hand on my shoulder, before wiping it clean on my shirt, and proceeded in all earnestness.
Those words came out like a regular truckie. His mouth was full of Angus beef, and the lettuce and tomato ground down the consonants and vowels. He was your regular Joe Public.
‘One day we’ll be more selective in the future.’
I think that day has arrived.