The Life of the Safe at Mar-a-Lago
The FBI searched the Mar-a-Lago home of Donald Trump... “They even broke into my safe,” Trump said in a lengthy statement. — Politico
It is dark. Is it dark? I don’t know what else it would be, but I seem to know that it is definitely dark. Then, suddenly, there is light. A lot of light. A man caked in some kind of burnt orange makeup is wearing an ill-fitting suit. He is talking to another man. He wants to know the combination. The combination to what?
To me. I am realizing that the combination is to me. Then the burnt orange man says the combination is too hard to remember, and can they just leave it open? The other man doesn’t recommend they leave it open. So burnt orange man says to make the combination “one two three four five.” The other man says the combination always comes programmed to be “one two three four five.” Burnt orange man says, “Good, don’t change it.”
Now it is dark again. The dark lasts for what feels like a few days. Then, after a while, I can hear cursing and the sound of someone yanking at the door. I hear a voice yell, “What the hell is the password to this thing!” I hear another voice shout a muffled reply. Then, abruptly, there is light again. And the burnt orange man puts a stack of papers inside of me. Then he looks to his left and right, and then he looks back at me. He quickly adds a hamburger wrapped in crinkly paper. Then it is dark again. I hear him say to someone else, defensively, “It’s for later!”
It smells like hamburger for weeks.
And it is dark again for a long, long time. I lose track of the hours and the days. I am alone with my thoughts for what feels like an eternity. Then, one day, I hear it: that familiar yanking sound of someone who has forgotten the combination. But this time there are many intense, urgent voices. And then it is suddenly light, but this time the light is actually dozens of smaller lights all pointed directly at me. I can barely see. I can make out many men wearing the same outfit, carrying weapons and shouting commands. One of them yells, “Holy shit what the fuck is that smell?” Another one grabs the hamburger. “It’s a fucking hamburger,” I hear him say. “It’s a goddamn fucking hamburger.”
The men take the hamburger and the papers and walk away and then it is light for a while—normal, uninterrupted light like before. I feel exposed, but I also notice the hamburger smell is fading somewhat—though not completely—and for that I feel grateful.
But it is only light for a few hours, and then the light is overtaken by the visage of the burnt orange man—that crackly, taught skin bunched up under hair made of straw. He is staring at me while speaking to someone I cannot see. “They even broke into my safe,” he says, “They even broke into my safe. They took everything. What? Yes, even the burger. Who can we call? We gotta get ahead of this. And order a new burger.”
Then it is dark again, and I am sitting here hoping it is dark forever—because if there is one thing I have learned about the light, it is that it forces you to look at the absolute worst things.
I also learned that it does not fully get rid of the smell of hamburger.
Q&A about this piece
Q: Wait, who is burnt orange man?
A: That’s Trump.
Q: I know, I was being sarcastic.
A: Oh. Why?
Q: Because calling him orange is so overplayed and boring.
A: I thought the use of “burnt” was new and interesting, especially in the context of caked, crackly skin.
Q: Ew, gross.
A: See?
Q: It’s still about his appearance, which is such low-hanging fruit.
A: Just like…
Q: Don’t say it.
A: …an orange.
Q: You said it. And it’s not even true—oranges are high up on trees.
A: Whatever.
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That’s all for this week—thanks for reading! Goodbye.
My favorite descriptor is Cheeto Mussolini.