I WON, I’M A WINNER, I’M THE WINNER
The one other big, big day between the election and the inauguration was January 6, a Friday. So as soon as I woke up I said “TGIF” out loud, which I’ve done every Friday since I was seven, even though my father called it a sissy thing and told me to stop, so for years I just mouthed it with my lips.
Right away I received an important and surprising piece of intelligence. I learned that five million Americans, actually less than five million, had watched the second episode of The New Celebrity Apprentice, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, who can’t be president, by the way, because both he and his parents were born in foreign countries. “Five million viewers,” I said to Reince when I got down to the office, “probably the five million illegals who voted for Hillary.” He chuckled, which bugged me. “I’m not joking, Reince.” Then I received more intelligence—government stuff, classified—about the “hacking” of the insecure Democrat computers by whoever they let do that; all those e-mails from Hillary’s staff saying she’s horrible—which, according to all the intelligence agencies, had no effect whatsoever on the election results, which actually surprised me, but whatever, fine. And somebody told me the FBI was investigating my national security adviser, Mike Flynn, because he’s been working as a “lobbyist” for Turkey—because, under Obama, making a buck as a private citizen is against the law! Busy morning.
It was also the day that members of Congress—all of them together in that one big room, Congress Hall—actually opened and counted each one of my hundreds of electoral votes and legally certified my historic landslide victory, which meant that it was now completely real, as somebody said, “irreversible,” or, as I thought, like when the loan documents on a deal are signed and sealed and no matter what might happen later, there was nothing they could do to take it away from me. We watched it on C-SPAN, which I’d never actually watched before. It’s like cable news from the 1950s or in some foreign country. No close-ups. No action. No music. No ads. So boring. I’d told Speaker of the House Paul Ryan I really hoped he would stand up during the ceremony and hit the gavel and announce that of the seven electors who went off the reservation, five of them did it against Hillary and refused to vote for her, which was like the most ever, but I guess “protocol” prevented him. He’d told me he was worried that if he did that, some of his guys from the House might actually start chanting “Lock her up.” And I said: “You’re ‘worried’ about that?”
In the afternoon I had another nice piece of news that combined personal and presidential, which I’ve discovered is the very best. “Holistic,” Ivanka calls things like that. We completed a deal for my personal lawyer’s uncle-in-law—successful businessman, art dealer, real estate, grains, well connected, not a Russian, a Ukrainian, actually a former Ukrainian, an American citizen, stays in a condo down at our beautiful Trump Hollywood property, two hundred units right on the ocean—this guy Ivan, Alex, whatever, he’s all set, starting that day, to help do a fabulous peace plan involving Europe. It’s a peace plan the likes of which nobody’s seen since World War II. It’s still top secret so I can’t go into the details. Actually, since I wasn’t president back then on January 6, legally I could discuss the details, but I probably shouldn’t. Maybe in a later chapter. And also, because I wasn’t president yet, I was setting up that peace plan for free, as a gift to the American people. One more thing, by the way—even if I had been president at the time, and if I eventually made $10 billion from some amazing deal involving Europe—gas or oil or whatever—or $100 billion, it would be totally fine, because it’s legally impossible for a president to have any conflict of interest, according to the Constitution. Which is surprising, but so great, because our presidents have enough to worry about without getting all caught up in technicalities. It’s the kind of little-known but really fantastic item that makes me respect our brilliant Founders so greatly and feel so proud to be an American.
IVANKA JUST OVERHEARD that last part and reminded me to mention that January 6 was also her little brother Eric’s thirty-third birthday, and also the day we found out his wife was pregnant with my ninth grandchild. So that probably made it a very nice day, too. Because, quite frankly, Eric has been married for two, two and a half years, so Don Junior and I had already started with the funny “shooting blanks” sound effects, plus his wife is at least a couple of years older than Eric, not exactly a young woman.
THOSE WERE THE TWO top-of-the-line days between November 9 and January 20, the only two out of like a hundred. I figured that the two months of being president-elect would be two of my best months of all time—I won, I’m a winner, I’m the winner, millions of people excited about me, millions of people scared of me, I’m on vacation. But those two months were, quite frankly, two of the most boring of my life. In fact, I must tell you, one of the major, major challenges of being president that nobody has ever talked about or even known, not even historians—until now, because I’m being totally honest with you—is how boring the job is so much of the time. And not just boring, the way talking to some applicant from South Dakota for farming secretary is boring, but also so many complicated explanations you have to hear, unbelievably complicated—math, history, legal, all of it. I mean, I’m a smart guy, graduated Wharton top of my class, great at accounting, math, but you wouldn’t believe the boring. And so many long meetings, listening to these know-it-alls, the grinds and geeks and “experts.” I’ve never been a big meetings or “experts” guy. I do my best to make being president exciting, the way it’s supposed to be, but it takes work, trust me, and it takes Trump.
I did hire a fantastic cabinet, probably the best cabinet in American history, certainly the best one since we were a country separate from England. But getting there was a job the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on anybody. I conducted an unbelievable number of interviews, at least a hundred, possibly a thousand, a truly crazy number. Hiring the cabinet was like casting the candidates for The Apprentice and The Celebrity Apprentice, NBC’s most successful show of the twenty-first century, but compressing what we did over fifteen years into two months. And at least a lot of the people back then, casting The Apprentice, were very attractive women; for the record, I was unmarried until the end of the second season. And unlike with the shows, until January 20, 2017, I wasn’t even getting paid! I was working totally pro bono, pardon my French. And so was Jared, working for those two months on very important and very secret arrangements with some major international players to bring peace to Syria, among other major, major things that will make America great.
I am a strong believer in sitting down personally with the people dying to work for me—eye to eye, face-to-face, kick the tires, give them the smell test. And the smell part I mean literally. For instance, when I first met Steve Bannon in 2011, I thought, “Hey, come on, the khaki slacks and the no necktie and the big gut and spotty face—quite frankly reminded me of the actor Broderick Crawford kind of imitating Truman Capote. But then I got a whiff off Steve of this certain aroma that winners have that I’m able to smell. It’s hard to describe, and other people can’t smell it, but it’s kind of peppermint plus leather plus electrical fire or butane, but nicer, more like air-conditioning. If you believe in superpowers, which I found out a lot of people do—the Christians, the charismatics, love the charismatics—then smelling winners is one of my superpowers. Speaking of those, I sometimes feel like Steve can almost read my mind, like how my mom knew when my dad wanted to smack me, or how Aquaman could talk to all the sea creatures underwater. Sometimes I’ll be trying to put a complicated idea into words and Steve suddenly says exactly what I’m thinking. One night when the two of us were alone in the Oval Office and he said a guy thing about Hope Hicks, my fantastic twenty-eight-year-old PR girl—so good-looking, so loyal, doesn’t gossip—it was almost like he was one of those magic ventriloquist dummies from The Twilight Zone.
You probably don’t realize that there are like twenty-five individual cabinet members, plus fifteen or twenty other “cabinet level” positions, where a lot of my fantastic women are, such as Mrs. Mitch McConnell, who’s also Chinese, which is great. (I mean, even Reince Priebus is technically cabinet level, which makes me smile every time I think of it, but good for Reince. Also, Reince needs Secret Service protection? I thought they were kidding me the first time they told me that. And Reince: Weird name, right? You have to force your mouth into a funny fish-face just even to say it. And Priebus, for that matter—he swears it’s German, but I don’t know, because I’m very familiar with the German names and that’s not like one I ever heard.) And that’s not even counting the guys up for Supreme Court who met with me at Trump Tower but were all secretly brought in, I think some in disguises, one possibly dressed as a woman.
It was extremely hard work, all those interviews, one after another, most of them the kind of people I’ve never spent more than ninety seconds with at a time. Although because the offices and conference rooms on the twenty-sixth floor of the Tower are all fitted out with the very best A/V equipment, we now have fantastic high-def video of all my meetings with all the finalists for the cabinet, for the Supreme Court, for embassies, for everything. Plus all of the phone conversations I personally placed to the losers. Such fantastic stuff, dramatic and funny and historic. And sometimes truly moving. It was Bannon who actually told Chris Christie he was out as head of the transition team—that was in Trump Tower, and we’ve got this amazing zoom-in on Chris’s face where he uses his tie to wipe away the tears. Later on, picking my cabinet, I phoned Chris with the heads-up he wasn’t the right fit for any of the varsity jobs, and on that tape you can hear him choke up. “C’mon, Chrissy,” I say, “the surgery is starting to work, and if you get down to 250, 225, we can definitely see if there’s an opening in 2018, 2019.” (He’s been texting me every time he loses a couple more pounds. Cute.) Anyhow, every one of them signed waivers giving us permission to use any records of those meetings and conversations in any way we wanted, so Mark Burnett has actually started putting together a season of Ultimate American Apprentice before we hand over the material to the Donald J. Trump Presidential Library and All-American Golf Resort™, and eventually also to the National Archives. I can’t wait for you to see it.
Unfortunately, we only have audio of Mitt Romney from his interview to be secretary of state, because I did that one in public, so the whole world could see. People say no president-elect ever did anything so transparent. (Although for the show, Burnett says we can do an over-the-shoulder two-shot of me and an actor playing Mitt, with me reenacting my lines and Mitt’s authentic original ones dubbed in.) Our meeting took place at Jean-Georges, in my hotel overlooking Central Park, maybe probably the best restaurant on earth—Trump International Hotel, beautiful giant silver globe of the Earth out front, international restaurant; chef has a French first name and a German last name, perfect place to discuss secretary of state. My idea.
It was right around Thanksgiving, which I understand the Mormons do not celebrate as a religious holiday. I was mostly doing it as a courtesy to Mitt, letting him apologize in person for what he’d said a few months earlier—that “dishonesty is Donald Trump’s hallmark,” that I’m “a fraud” who’s all about “the bullying, the greed, the showing off, the misogyny, the absurd third-grade theatrics.” I must tell you, I began with serious doubts about somebody who talks like Professor Thurston Howell III—“misogyny,” “absurd theatrics,” please. And really, would we want somebody who, after saying that crap, comes groveling for a job that doesn’t even have much real power? Very weak. Very sad. (Rick Perry called me a “carnival act” and “a cancer” back in 2015, but he’s not some Harvard phony like Mitt—when Rick recently said to me privately and very sincerely, “Donald, Mr. President-elect, the darned truth is I’m just not as smart as you,” he suddenly reminded me of Otter in Animal House, so I felt forgiving. And secretary of energy: Who cares?)
Mitt looks like he could be a winner, I know, central casting, but he just doesn’t smell like a winner. Certain members of my own family are similar, quite frankly. By the way, Mitt drank a Diet Coke before our dinner, which surprised me, since I know that’s a sin for Mormons. Also? After dinner in the men’s room— gorgeous restrooms at Jean-Georges, by the way—he refused to arm wrestle me, and then I couldn’t even hear his stream hitting the porcelain. (Neither could Anthony, my African American Secret Service man.) That is an actual scientific sign of weakness, I’m afraid, a medical fact I got from Dr. Oz personally.
“Not good,” I told Reince on the ride back to Trump Tower. “Not a winner. But quite frankly, I do really, really love the look of Mitt. Who’s got that look but also true toughness, and a strong stream?” Reince brought up Bob Corker, the senator from Kentucky or Mississippi, one of those. “I don’t love the hair,” I said, “his name’s like a joke, and he’s even shorter than you, Reince.” A week later at Trump Tower, when Rex Tillerson was in front of me—standing beside me, actually, a hydrant, like a minute ten—I knew I had my man.
Although, can I say something about those job titles? Secretary of state, secretary of this, secretary of that. It’s not prestigious, not respectful. Even your actual secretary you’re now supposed to call your assistant, right? Well, we’re going to fix that, because guess what: I discovered “secretary” isn’t in the Constitution, which nobody really realized, so starting very soon we’re changing all the job titles. Secretary of state and treasury secretary and defense secretary become EVP International, EVP Finance, and EVP International Security. We make HUD secretary our SVP Buildings and Grounds, Cities; and interior secretary becomes SVP Buildings and Grounds, Rural; and secretary of commerce will be SVP Business Development; and so forth. More clear, much more dignified. Mike Pence was a little iffy about the SVPs and EVPs, but I told him the Constitution ties my hands on what we call him—but then I had the idea of always calling him the vice president, emphasize the word “the,” which calmed him down. Good guy, Mike. And I also told him sure, if it’s important to him, he can be my official White House “prayer warrior,” too.