I ask Donald, “You ready for Big One?” He look at me like me I’m the crazy one. My little boy No. 2, he say, “What you talkin’ about? I’m ready for anything. Big One, I know about Big One.” He think about Little Mike spending more on ads than Trump Tower is worth. He say, “Little Mike just wants to show he is taller than a can of Bud Light and thinner than a bag of Cheetos.”
I tell M.L.B. No. 2 that isn’t Big One. He now puzzled. He then think I talk about Joe Manchin. He tell me Joe Manchin wears risers and only reason Joe Manchin is not so heavy is because he has irritable bowel. I say, “Wrong.” M.L.B. No. 2 is now really puzzled.
He ask whether I mean next missile strike on monster like Soleimani or big, unfair sentence for Roger Stone. I say no. M.L.B. No. 2, he goes orange around the collar. I think maybe he would have tough time getting good grades in high school in Ljubljana. Maybe he not even know names of six republics of Yugoslavia. I say, “Try again.” He think virus—like in China. (Sometimes until he has sent 20 tweets, his mind does not work.)
I give him one last chance. “Big One—what does it mean to you?” He start explaining. I tell him, “Stop. You disgust me. My father never thought about my baptismal candle like that. Amalija would have slapped him.” Finally, I tell him. “Big One. It’s in April. The 26th. I am 50.”