Talking Trump in a bar in Fort Worth, Texas
Still standing, but not making much of a difference
Dusty and his buddy sidled up to the bar beside us in the Stockyards section of Fort Worth, sun nearing the horizon, summer cowboy hats looking just right over button-down shirts, wide belts, jeans, and handsome boots. Dusty’s friend explained they were back from a day of riding, showing a cellphone photo of him astride a beautiful brown and white “paint” pony.
“Been riding since I was three years old, but all these years I’ve always used force to direct a horse,” he said. “Dusty here is showing me another way.”
“You mean like knees and leaning one way or another?” I asked.
“Exactly, I’m really appreciating it.”
We were joined by a few other customers, the quietest (and designated driver) a self-described cow-roping champion – and he was not the exaggerating type.
Dusty’s face was flush. It was 100 degrees and hadn’t rained in two months, so that made sense though his flush seemed deepened by a few beers. He looked us over and came to a conclusion:
“You folks aren’t from around here.”
“No sir, we come from Massachusetts, live along the coast and don’t see cowboys, though I work with small-boat fishermen and in a way they’re your equivalent.”
“That’s interesting,” said Dusty, “though coming from there I’m assuming a couple of things: You don’t like Trump, and you’re a Communist.”
The pleasant young woman bartender, blond hair under her smaller cowboy hat, turquoise and silver jewelry on wrists and fingers, began to get nervous.
“Well,” I said, smiling, “if people back home heard you call anyone from Massachusetts who doesn’t agree with Donald Trump a Communist, they wouldn’t take it well.”
Dusty’s sidekick eyed the bartender, getting nervous too. “It would be so much better if we could just talk, share opinions and not get out of hand,” he said, as she nodded.
“I agree,” I said.
“Thing is,” said Dusty, “within two years there’s going to be violence. 100 percent. They’ll try to steal another election and we’re not going to let that happen.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.
“You know who,” said Dusty.
“No, honestly I don’t.”
That swung the conversation, like using force on a horse, toward the Deep State and Hunter Biden and of course Hilary Clinton. Then came The Wall, how California is going to allow anyone to vote (citizen or not), then back to Trump as savior.
“We come from his part of the country,” I said. “I know someone who used to work in the man’s organization. The job was to make sure when Trump’s wife went down the main elevator, and his mistress was coming up the service elevator, they didn’t bump into each other.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Dusty. “Besides, Trump has gotten so much poontang by now, he doesn’t care about that, it don’t matter.”
I stood up. “Dusty, could I share one story with you before we head out?” I asked.
“Surely.”
“We have two beautiful godchildren, one of whom was just sworn in as an American citizen and the other will by end of month. She’s why we’re here, she’s starting freshman year at Texas Christian University.”
He put up a friendly fist and we bumped. “Congratulations,” he said.
“Thank you. Both of our girls came here from Haiti,” I continued. “Might you remember that President Trump, in the White House, referred to Haiti as a ‘shithole country’?”
“I do recall that,” he acknowledged.
“So can you imagine the conversation around our home, two smart girls? It went something like, ‘We know there’s only one thing that comes out of a shithole. And we know what color it is, too.’”
I leaned into Dusty’s ear because what I said next I wanted to be just for him: “So far as I’m concerned, Donald Trump can go fuck himself.”
Dusty grinned, our eyes close. “I see now it’s about family, I get it,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what: You should write to him, get a letter to him, tell him what happened. I guarantee you, he’ll apologize to you.”
“Good idea,” I said without sarcasm, holding back what I was thinking; how pathetic and absurd. Even if the impossible happened it would do nothing for millions of Haitians who heard and understood just as well as our girls. Dusty’s sincere comment captured the religious, pervasive, wholly (and unholy) undeserved belief in this dangerous, brutal, sycophantic man.
Then, with best wishes all around (and a sigh of relief from the bartender), we said our goodbyes and moved into the hot, dry Texan dusk.
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Brave man!
Texas. I have not been there. Doubt it’s in my future. Thanks for the insight and honesty represented in this encounter. You dont shy away from subject matter do you. I do hope the education piece works out for your kid. She is a lovely person who deserves to have every opportunity the world has to offer. Glad you are with her Seth.