A Philly Tale
Now that Trump's legacy is turning into toast, maybe it is time to say how somebody like Trump got to where he is now.
In the Seventies, finding a place to hide out from his office responsibilities, young Donald found himself sometimes killing an afternoon watching recent and vintage flicks at an artsy film house in the Village near NYU - all for a buck fifty.
For some reason this one film house was still showing the bomb of the 1974 Robert Redford's film The Great Gatsby. He of course identified with the rich handsome blond dude Redford aka Gatsby.
The other story line of Nick and Daisy got lost in the slowness of the firm, so Donald daydreamed which is what he was good at all his life.
The Nick character reminded him on the one time he ate Pizza in Philly with his ritzy U of P purebreds. Nick reminded him of the time he had a moment of sudden passion in his mind with the girl behind the counter selling the Pizza, one Bridget Sarcone (not her real name). He of course would not ask her to go out on a date in front of his rich friends. Now he put the address of the place on a napkin and vowed to come back alone and talk to Bridget, a mix of Irish and Italian immigrant stock.
Maybe they could go out on a date and maybe she could introduce him to Philly Cheese Steaks and Italian Hoagies. He had heard about them somewhere in the background noise of the Philly Streets. etc.
Well Donald's napkin with the address was left in the pocket of a shirt and got laundered and was unreadable and worse than than the ink had bled though and ruined a very expensive made in Hong Kong shirt.
Watching and fantasizing on those lazy movie afternoons were a prelude to his buying the old 1920s Florida estate of some long forgotten billionaire heiress, Mar-a-Lago, and the decadent Gatsby style parties he would throw there to attract the Bridget Sarcone of his dreams - a dead ringer in his memory of the film persona of Mia Farrow - Daisy - oh the ships that have sailed to Troy and crashed onto the rocks with the image of Mia on their seafaring fevered little brains.
It all came together in his mind, Castle, Estate, Robert Redford, Pizza, Cheese Steak, Hoagie and the dozen times and afternoons he watched that horrible Great Gatsby movie rather than work.
In the end, the movie was real and reality was a movie and Donald Trump's whole life was not even as good as a bomb movie he once watched in a Village film house.
The End
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