The Annual White House Correspondents' Association Dinner – an exclusive gala celebrating the work of the nation's top-flight journalists who cover the White House and the President of the United States – was soon to begin. That night, before traditionally humorous speeches from the President and a featured comedian, the Association would bestow prestigious awards for the year's greatest achievements by members of the White House press corps.
Before the formal festivities commenced, a less-noticed, but just as important ritual would take place: the orgiastic merging of streams of A-list invitees, including the hottest celebrities and most powerful politicians, all mingling amongst the honored journalists and their colleagues. This being their event, the media attendees would necessarily maintain the utmost professional poise, upholding the dignity and independence of their vaunted public role even as one marquee name after another strode into the hotel, all dressed in black tie and formal gowns.
Casually lounging at the open bar, Ed Henry of CNN, Savannah Guthrie of NBC News, Mike Allen of Politico, and some of their press colleagues struggled in vain not to watch the door. They were, after all, supposed to be steely-eyed bearers of the storied legacies of Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite, having far more important objects of concern than whether the cream of Hollywood deigned to grace the "nerd prom" with their presence. This immovable journalistic coolness, this unflappability in the face of power, fame, and fortune, was the reason for their elite status and compensation.
Two bodyguards wearing earpieces and wraparound shades entered the ballroom. They stood at either side of the doorway. All seemed to go quiet.
Striding in after the bodyguards, in ultra-slow motion, was rapper "will.i.am," followed by reality TV star Kim Kardashian. Their aviator sunglasses brilliantly reflected the flashes from the banks of photographers flanking them on either side. They panned their mirrored gazes across the room, then stopped to pose. In perfect unison, still in slow motion, they removed the sunglasses from their faces and turned meticulously honed, gleaming smiles toward each cameraman in a left-to-right sweep.
Ed Henry scoffed into his glass of single-malt scotch and shook his head. Was he supposed to be impressed and captivated by these tawdry, temporary objects of the public's fickle imagination?
Savannah Guthrie nearly dropped her cosmopolitan. She gawked at Kim and will.i.am. "Oh my God, it's really them," she gasped. She grabbed her bewildered, pudgy NBC colleague by the wrist and dragged him with her to the celebrity pair. Ed Henry snorted again.
Will.i.am turned to Savannah as the snapshots around him began to die down. "Oh, hey," he said to her, pointing. "You're that hot reporter from... oh what channel was that..."
"NBC News," she said, blushing violently. "I am just a big, big fan, will.i.am." She leaned in to whisper in his ear, "Your 'Yes We Can' song during the 2008 presidential campaign gave me chills."
"All right, all right!" he said, nodding at her low-cut, red satin gown.
Savannah's colleague stood quietly in his rented tuxedo, eying Kim Kardashian with clammy intensity. "Hi, Kim," he mumbled, waiving at waist level.
Kim didn't notice. She was busy signing Admiral Mike Mullen's copy of her hot pink book, Kardashian Konfidential.
Nearby, just behind the photographers, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid and Speaker of the House John Boehner looked on sheepishly. Savannah Guthrie saw them and immediately waved them over.
Reid vigorously shook his head and put up his hands. Boehner stared, unblinking.
Savannah beckoned with even bigger gestures. Reid looked at Boehner. Boehner looked at Reid.
Will.i.am smirked. "Come on, fellas, just get over here," he called. Boehner shrugged. Reid grinned to himself. The two finally shuffled over, shy eyes turned to the ground.
A blonde Vanity Fair photographer stepped in front of the group as they assembled for a picture. "All right everybody, say 'public interest!'" she chirped.
On cue, Boehner, Reid, and Savannah all turned their heads at 45-degree angles, puckered their lips, and made backwards peace signs with their fingers. The white flash flooded over them like stage lights shining through a diamond.
Back at the bar, Ed Henry was arguing with Mike Allen over which was "nicer," the new BMW Z4 convertible or the Audi S5. Their discussion was interrupted by the sudden sound of dozens of women screaming uncontrollably out in the hall.
Ed turned toward the concert-like shrieks. He couldn't see their source. "What the hell?"
Mike was reading from his Blackberry. "President Obama just arrived and... He's making a very brief appearance in the lobby before taking a seat at the head table."
"Shit! We're going to miss it, aren't we?"
"Looks like it." Mike Allen glanced up from his Blackberry and, over Ed's shoulder, saw a cluster of people by the ballroom entrance. It was Donald Trump, standing at the threshold with his mirthless Washington Post hosts. Trump squinted at the gauche lack of gold leaf in the room.
Mike pointed at the Celebrity Apprentice star, "Can't miss that."
Ed Henry turned to look, as did the other reporters at the bar. He saw Trump and immediately turned back to Mike Allen again. Ed mockingly pouted his lips and tangled his fingers over his head, imitating Trump's bizarre hair.
The other journalists all chuckled. "Ha," said Mike, barely taking his eyes away from his Blackberry.
Suddenly, Mike Allen froze, his fingers no longer manipulating the phone. Ed stared into his scotch. The others at the bar stopped smiling. Silence.
All at once, Ed Henry, Mike Allen, and the other reporters broke for The Donald. They fast-walked as briskly as they possibly could without running, passive-aggressively elbowing each other out of the way to get to him first, stiffly rifling through their tuxedos to locate audio recorders and notepads.
Finally reaching him, they all spoke at once.
"Donald!"
"Mr. Trump!"
"Donald John Trump, Sr.!"
Trump took a deep breath through his nose and put his hands akimbo. He was taller than most of them and, besides, his net worth was surely many times their net worth, combined. "Yes, yes, I know you all have many questions for me," he said.
"Mr. Trump, sir!" Ed Henry called, his voice higher and louder than the others.
Trump recognized him as the one who, a few days earlier at a televised press conference, asked the White House press secretary about Trump's demand for President Obama to release his long-form birth certificate.
"You, the one who looks like a chipmunk or whatever, what's your name?
"Ed Henry, CNN."
"I'm a fan of your work, Fred. What's your question."
Ed suppressed a smile. Being a seasoned, professional journalist, he knew he had to cut straight to the chase in this situation. He would ask the kind of question that had become such a reliable staple in contemporary journalism, the deep, probing interrogatory big-shot reporters throughout the Beltway would kill to ask a man like Trump.
"Mr. Trump, what would you like me to ask the President or his press secretary at the next White House briefing?" Ed Henry asked.
Trump expected the question. He didn't skip a beat. "Obama may have released his long-form birth certificate like I demanded – and I'm very proud of the role I played in making him do that, by the way, and you should be proud too, Fred. But there are still many serious questions I have about this guy."
Trump paused to adjust his pants. He spoke to the high ceiling. "Look, I say this as a man who has a great relationship with the blacks. I mean, the blacks just love me. Because I am so un-racist. So keep that in mind. Anyway, what I'd like to know is, how'd a black guy named Barack Hussein Obama make magna cum-laude and president of the Law Review at Harvard?" Trump fanned his hands out for emphasis, his trademark gesture. "I mean, he is black, right? Well, to be fair, half-black. But still."
Ed Henry scribbled furiously on his notepad. He raised a hand for Trump to stop for a second. "Let me know if I'm not quoting you exactly," he said, reading from the notepad. "What you'd like to know is, how'd an African American named Barack Hussein –"
"No, it's 'black guy,' not 'African American.' Come on, Fred, what's with the political correctness."
The other reporters laughed heartily. Ed Henry blushed. "Sorry. What you'd like to know is, how'd a black guy named Barack Hussein Obama make magna cum-laude and president of the Law Review at Harvard."
Trump nodded and pointed at Ed's notepad. "And don't forget the part about how un-racist and loved by blacks I am."
Ed wrote as fast as he could. Journalism was hard.
"Next question," said Trump.
"Mr. Trump, Mike Allen, Politico."
"Oh, Politico, I love Politico. I see a lot of your stuff on the Drudge Report."
"Thank you, we try. My question is, did you watch the royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton? And if so, what did you think?"
Trump clasped his hands together, gazing at the ceiling again. "I did watch it. And it was lovely. Just lovely. Turns out I have more hair than the heir to the British throne."
The reporters chuckled.
"And probably greater net worth. But watching all those royals there together in all that decadence actually made me thankful to live in America. I mean, over in Old Europe, it's all inheritance, heir to this and heir to that. Generation after generation, all that entrenched aristocracy and inequality." He stopped for a moment to pluck a prosciutto-wrapped sea scallop from an hors d'oeuvres tray brought to him by a waiter in black tie.
He continued as he chewed, "Thank God we live in a country, these United States of America, where a man such as myself is freer than some British subject."
Trump thickened up his New York accent. "Free to be born to a multimillionaire, inherit his father's wealth and business, fail repeatedly at it, go bankrupt several times, and still maintain good standing in the economic and social elite. The English could really learn a lot from us. In their heyday, they were better than us at international smash-and-grab, sure, but they could learn a lot from us on class issues."
The reporters nodded somberly as they wrote.
"So that's why I have these questions about Obama's educational background. I mean, do we really want to live in a country where some elitist like him can manipulate the system to graduate from Harvard Law with honors, and even end up President of the United States? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That's just not the America I grew up in."
Trump took two more scallops from the tray and waived the waiter away. He checked his watch. "OK, I think we have time for one more question before we should probably take our seats for the presentations."
Ed Henry again shouted louder than the others. "Just a follow-up, Mr. Trump!"
"OK, Fred, but only because I like you."
"Mr. Trump, I have to ask, will you actually run for president, and when will you release your financial records as you've been promising?"
"Glad you asked that. Glad you asked that. But before I answer, I want to mention an experience I had recently on an exploratory visit to Iowa."
Ed and the other reporters listened with rapt attention.
"Let me tell you, Fred, nothing is so bracing and life-affirming as riding a grown man in public." Trump paused for effect. "Isn't that interesting, Fred?"
The other reporters snickered. Ed Henry's eyes drooped. The Donald continued, "I can't say the day laborer was eager to let me do it, but I have no doubt the experience was as memorable for him as it was for me. And he has my infinite gratitude. Infinite, infinite gratitude."
Trump didn't utter another word. He just stared at Ed.
Ed Henry chewed on his thumbnail. He glanced uncomfortably at his esteemed colleagues. They looked at him and each other without moving their heads. Ed tried to smile, but it fell as quickly as it rose. "What, you want me to..."
Donald Trump pulled his lips back into his face as he gestured for Ed to step closer.
"But..." Ed stammered, frowning. "But I'm not some day laborer."
Trump opened his hands and spoke to the entire crowd, "Fred, I didn't know you had such a sense of humor!"
The other reporters released a tight, nervous laugh.
Ed's face stiffened. "Let's hold on just a second here. You can't possibly be serious. I'm the senior White House correspondent for CNN. You – you're just a – a punchline. A joke. Everyone laughs at you."
"Fred, a guy like you should know: I'm the Republican primary frontrunner. And my support among the Tea Party is off the charts.” Trump shrugged. "But, no matter. I guess you don't want to be the journalist who gets exclusive access to my financial records first."
Trump again addressed the other reporters. He announced in a sing-song voice, "That's a hell of a lot of Internet traffic, especially if Drudge links to the story."
Mike Allen from Politico stepped forward, eyes intense with duty, his forehead glistening with sweat.
"OK!" Ed blurted. "OK." He stooped in front of Trump and turned around. To preserve a shred of dignity, he tried to keep his head raised.
Two other reporters helped Trump climb onto Ed Henry's shoulders. Trump pushed Ed's head back down as he shifted into position.
Ed's knees were bent, his shoulders slumped. Trump leaned over to the side to get a look at his mount's stance. "Come on, Fred, a big-shot reporter like you should at least have good posture."
Ed straightened. His lower lip quivered and his hands shook around Trump's tuxedoed knees. The other reporters stared with awe and envy.
Trump checked his watch again. "Well, I think the dinner and presentations are about to begin. Now, if you'll excuse Fred and me."
Ed didn't move. His face was ashen.
Trump sighed deeply. He kicked his Gucci Oxford heels into Ed's kidneys, lurching him to a start. Ed Henry staggered toward the dinner tables, but Trump pulled his hair the other way.
"No no, Fred, I'll need to use the restroom first."
Cross-posted at Mischievous Mind.
