Hoping. . .

You remember. Everybody does. No one really believed Donald Trump could become President of these United States. When he came down that Trump Tower elevator with his glamour queen, it seemed preposterous, even laughable. Here he was, running up against Jeb Bush of the Bush dynasty. All Trump did was call him names, and Bush went down like an old ash. 

Same with all the others--one at a time. Republicans who seem to love him today said awful things about him, too--how he was unfit for office, how he had no experience, how he was a wild man, a conscience-less bigot. Who dared--who could believe this?--how could he dare to say that John McCain wasn't an American hero because he was captured? The Orange Man said he didn't like his heroes captured and walked away unscathed. 

He fondled women, couldn't help kissing them, he said, grabbing 'em right by the crotch--said as much, on tape. No matter--he blew right through that. What we didn't know was that he was, right in the middle of all that, putting two old lovers to bed financially; but when that story blew wide open it amounted to nothing either. Nothing touched him. Other candidates--other Presidents--would have been smoked for indiscretions and outright acts that never laid a glove on him. Famously, right here at my alma mater, he proclaimed that were he to shoot somebody on Fifth Avenue, he wouldn't lose a voter.

You remember. People started to wonder whether he could pull it off. The media occasionally suggested that some people could well vote for him in the privacy of the booth, but they'd never dare admit it to their friends or to pollsters. The Russians rode in to rescue, and James Comey stood up just a few weeks before the election and said he was reopening the Hillary case--those 30,000 derelict emails ("lock her up!"). The big man squeaked it out, won by the skin of his teeth, even though he lost the popular vote by almost 3 million ballots. For some of us, Tuesday, November 8, 2016, carried a nuclear shock--the man with the wild hair walked away with a victory. 

The polls had it wrong. People hated Hillary, the whole Clinton thing, more than some thought, and lots who voted for the guy, would never have admitted that they would--before the election.

Today, of course, he's a phenomena. The economy is buzzing. Unemployment is somewhere beneath the basement. But there's no denying the man is crook. Just yesterday, for starters, a judge fined him a couple million for financial fraud, while at the Roger Stone trial, what seems very clear is that there were all kinds of connections between Russia and Trump or his people (remember Mueller?). About all such accusations, Trump lies triumphantly. He never touched other women--they're all making it up. Even his disciples don't believe much of what he says--in a way, for some of them at least, that's half the fun of it. 

Not in American history has a President gone through so many of his own administrative heads, secretaries of this or that. From day one, he's made himself the supreme national divider, claiming Dems are liars, lefties who hate America, while he's pure as the driven snow. He hasn't done a thing to bring the country together. He thrives on hate, loves a mess, eats enemies or tries to, respects the racists who love him.

He gets mega-crowds at campaign stops that dole out his praises. Still, that people are blitzkrieged by his ham-handed governing style, his shameless narcissism, that we're all of us--supporters and noTrumpers--beat up by the toll of the insanities he tweets is clearly evident. He is far less human than phenomenon, an elected President who has no sense of shame. None. Zero. Most parents don't want their kids to grow up to be little Donalds; he's a man who raises himself up by beating others down, especially those who will not worship at his feet.

You remember. People who wouldn't admit they'd vote for him, did. Once they got into the the booth, they voted "Donald J. Trump." 

Here's what I'm thinking. Even those who adore him are beat up. We'r'e all weary. Ever hear of "Clinton fatigue"? Well, how about "Trump fatigue." I'm wondering if this time around--November, 2020--some fraction of the 40-some percent of those who believe in his policies won't vote for him. Once more, in the privacy of the voting booth, they'll pull the lever for whoever the Dems put up, then walk out, get behind the wheel of the Dodge Ram, pull on the MAGA hat, and pretend they hadn't voted the way they did. Even his supporters--some of them at least--are just plain beat up.

Trump will make it through impeachment. His bootlikkers are scared stiff of losing 85 per cent of Republican voters who compose his beloved base. There'll be another national election, and Our National Embarrassment will create nicknames if he hasn't already and smear whoever it is whose name is on the ballot. Whoever that person is, by November, he or she will have done undeniably horrifying things. Just wait. 

He's President, but he's not satisfied. He really wants to be a god. 

And we all know it. But I'm thinking--hoping--that some who worship him know better. I'm thinking--hoping--that some of those will, in the privacy of the voting booth, tell themselves that for the good of the country, it's time the impulsive provocateur goes back to reality television.