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I Dream of Donald Trump by Shelia Evans | Creative Non-fiction | #thesideshow

Barnacle by Jesse Rice-Evans | Micro Essay | #thesideshow
December 1, 2017
Ode to the Last of the Self-Driving Cars by Amorak Huey | Flash Fiction | #thesideshow
December 3, 2017

I Dream of Donald

(an actual dream, October 2017)



Shelia Evans

How did I come to be in Donald Trump’s White House and
under his employ?

I was a young student seeking a part time or internship position
to help with upcoming college expenses.  I wandered through
a job or two, then was recruited at the office of my most recent
position by a businessman who said he saw potential in me.

What that potential was I could not say because I had been just
sitting quietly doing my assigned menial tasks, but I certainly
did not want to argue with opportunity.

The next day, I entered the White House and was directed to an
interior office built like a silo, with high circular walls, only one
door, and no view to the outside world.  It had a sleek white
modern appearance that was impressive despite its austerity.
The setting lost its sheen a bit when I was told that I needed to
borrow a restroom key from a coworker who was not always in
the office, but I just shrugged it off at first.

The staff consisted mostly of professional, middle aged women
who were pleasant enough to me, but I could never shake the
feeling that they saw me only as an interloper, an outsider who
should never be told the full truth of any situation.

Lo and behold, I was introduced to Donald Trump himself, who
gushed over me but then laid down certain draconian rules con-
cerning grooming and deportment.  In the office was another
newcomer who projected an air of quiet desperation but when
in full make-up and dressed to the nines turned out to be First
Lady Melania Trump.  She was to me as I was to the other office
staff — an alienated outsider looking for a way out.

An important event was approaching, an award show or movie
premiere, or something similar.  On the big day, we were all
primped and pumped, except for Melania.  By this time I knew
that she wanted to escape her situation, so I wondered why she
rejected an outing from which she could flee more readily than
from the White House.

The limousine arrived to transport us around our tiny kingdom,
saving us from walking a ridiculously small number of steps.
I was seated grandly next to Donald Trump in the front seat of
this driverless vehicle.  Projected on the whited out windshield
were the lyrics of a recorded hymn to speed us along our way.

To my surprise, Trump sang along with the music, so I joined in
as well.  At an intersection, Melania burst into the limousine,
finally dressed and ready, and breathlessly apologizing for inter-
rioting the flow of our musical experience.  She sang along with
us, starting the second hymn before it even began.

Melania had climbed into the back seat of the limo, which began
to circle its way out of the White House grounds.  By that time,
I knew that I was merely an actor in a movie or dream, but I did
not know whether Donald Trump realized it yet. Either way, I
felt confident enough to .relax and enjoy the spectacle of the
larger than life character beside me.

As the limousine turned, I glimpsed the sunset replete with a
orange halo so fiery that it seemed a foreshadowing of some-
thing explosive happening at the event.  I took a deep breath
and leaned back to fearfully enjoy the rest of this thriller.

Sheila Evans earned an English degree, taught for two years, then spent her careers days as a computer specialist. Now retired, she is finally beginning her  career as a writer of essays.