Taking Out the Trash With Donald Trump
Former President Donald Trump didn't get arrested today. In celebration, I took out the trash.
I was going downstairs to get the mail, and my wife gave me some trash to take out and reminded me that a half-dozen of my shirts were in the dryer, waiting to come upstairs.
And maybe this is how we've always experienced great historical events. Two days after Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, you were feeding a cow when your neighbor came over to tell you he'd been to town and he'd heard the president was dead. Maybe you didn't go right up to the house and tell your wife Lincoln was dead. Maybe you finished feeding the cow first. Lincoln would stay dead. The cow was hungry now.
Trump may well get arrested, in one state or another, on one charge or another, since the man is a wandering plague of prostitute-enjoying, election-subverting, lying, cheating, un-patriotic fun. I'll probably be doing laundry when I hear, or coming back from the store with a bag of carrots and some ice cream.
And I'm not going to like that day.
I don't like Trump, not at all, but I'll be sad on any day he's arrested, convicted or jailed.
It's not possible to jail the man for bad taste, infidelity, cheapening the country, subverting the meaning of patriotism and encouraging the most frightened percentage of the population to vote their fears. None of that stuff is illegal, and none of it should be illegal.
We're "the people." We're supposed to know. Somewhere in us, the founders thought, was some spark of conscience, some urge to do right and some inborn compass that always pointed north. If you let us talk something out, we'd get it right. After all, we'd just fought a whole war for freedom. We weren't going to be cheated out of our democratic dream by the first flag-fondler who told us he was a "businessman" and therefore never wrong.
And most of us didn't fall for it, but almost half did, and that turned the country into a bleeding wound with ragged edges.
There are people who want Trump to get arrested, and they'll drink Champagne when the handcuffs adorn his old, freckled wrists. Other people will threaten and riot and mutter darkly about the Bible and Jews and gays and every other centuries-old scab of a fear that we can pick at until it weeps anger.