Backup plan

Boxed in

[The Throne Room at Mar-a-Lago. There are more black-suited figures skulking at the margins than usual – but they don’t have the sleek, clean-cut look of Secret Service agents; they look more like Michael Madsen in Reservoir Dogs or “Mayhem” from the Allstate commercials. Downstage of the Supplicants Bench, laid out on two luxe, padded beach chairs with the Presidential seal on them, are TRUMP, wearing his gold-trimmed fluffy white robe and slippers, and BAYANI, a slim Filipino with short, spiky hair in his early 20s, who wears faded khakis, ASICS, and a grey t-shirt. Both have drinks and a side table to set them down on: BAYANI has a large ornate glass with some yellow-orange slurry and a straw in it, through which he drinks; TRUMP’s Diet Coke is on his side table. TRUMP watches BAYANI drink. BAYANI sips cautiously but clearly enjoys it.]

TRUMP: Ya like it? Taste good?

BAYANI: Very good, sir.

TRUMP: Good, you just relax, enjoy. They don’t have drinks that back where you come from, hah?

BAYANI: In Greenacres? No, sir.  I had one at the Applebees big like this but not so good.

TRUMP: I mean in your country. What country you come from, your people?

BAYANI: My parents come from the Philippines.

TRUMP: Oh yeah? I thought from India, because you’re named after the sauce they have.

BAYANI: My father’s name was Bayani.

TRUMP: Oh, he died, huh.

BAYANI: Yes, sir.

TRUMP: What, he get shot?

BAYANI: No, sir. Colon cancer.

TRUMP: Yeah, that’s always a danger. Because, you know, the sanitation. I knew a guy got the clap there, couldn’t get rid of it. Months it took. You can bet he was sore. Listen, Bayani, can I trust you?

BAYANI: Yes, sir.

TRUMP: Good, ‘cause you seem trustworthy. You have an honest face and your manager says you’re tops. You know pool cleaners are usually the biggest crooks, ‘cause they don’t get tips, they resent it.

BAYANI: I get a bonus.

TRUMP: Sure, look, Bayani, you read the papers? ‘cause — what am I saying, I mean, you watch the news shows?

BAYANI: Not much.

TRUMP: You know I’m in the news these days.

BAYANI: Sure, you’re the President!

TRUMP: God bless you, I thought maybe you saw Walt Nauta was in the news too. You see that? About Walt?

BAYANI: Umm, I don’t think.

TRUMP: You don’t think?

BAYANI: I mean the others, they talk, they say something about Nauta in trouble.

TRUMP: You know the guy, right?

BAYANI: I know who he is.

TRUMP: You talk to him?

BAYANI: No.

TRUMP: No?

BAYANI: Say hello, I guess. Maybe. But Nauta’s a big shot. I’m just a pool boy.

TRUMP: Funny thing is I know people say you talked to him a lot.

[BAYANI puts down his drink, which is now half empty.]

BAYANI: A lot? A lot I talked? They say?

TRUMP: That’s right. A lot. Not just hello.

BAYANI: I don’t know.

TRUMP: Did you talk about the boxes? [Pause] Hello?

[TRUMP hoists himself, with difficulty, and swings himself around to sit on the side of the chair facing BAYANI. His tone is much less friendly.]

TRUMP: Hey – unh – unh – hey, Bayani, listen, don’t bullshit me. You said I could trust you. Right? You said I could trust you. Now, can I trust you or not?

BAYANI: Yeah, yes sir, but —

TRUMP: But what?

BAYANI: Sir, I have to go to the toilet — excuse —

[BAYANI tries to get up, falls back.]

Ooooh.

[TRUMP has pushed himself upright.]

TRUMP: Whatsamatter, you sick? Hah? You’re gonna feel a lot more sick if you don’t talk. [Loud, to the black-suited figures] Hey, little help here!

[Three of the men come forward. BAYANI has managed to draw himself upright, but one man takes his right arm and another takes his left, which the third stands just behind him. BAYANI looks sick and frightened and moans softly.]

TRUMP: You talked to Walt about the boxes, didn’t you? You’re full of shit, you know everything. What’d he tell you? What’d he say? Did he say he talked to anyone else about the boxes? What’d he say about the boxes?

BAYANI: Ooooh.

TRUMP [To the man behind BAYANI] Give him a little.

[We can’t see what he does but it makes BAYANI’s eyes widen and his moans a little louder.]

TRUMP: You wanna get fucked, Bayani? You wanna get fucked? You wanna get colon cancer like your old man? No? Then start talking! What did you talk to —

[BAYANI vomits; a little spray of it seems to get on TRUMP, who reels back and begins to shake a little.]

CLEANER! CLEANER! CLEANER!

[A couple of guys dressed like waiters come in with clean sponges, brushes, and spray bottles. One concentrates on TRUMP’s face, dabbing gently at it with a sponge, while the other examines the robe, but seems satisfied that nothing is amiss, though he brushes the front lightly to show he’s paying attention.]

[To the black-suited men:] Get him out of here. Throw him in the pool.

[The men start to hustle BAYANI out.]

No, wait!

[The men stop.]

Like I need more trouble! Get the driver to take him down near the police station and call in a drunk and disorderly.

ONE MAN: How long should we wait —

TRUMP: Tell ‘em where you came from, they’ll come right away.

[They men leave with BAYANI. TRUMP points at the floor, roars at the cleaners:]

The floor! Look at the floor! Clean it up!

[The cleaners do. TRUMP pulls an iPhone out of his pocket and calls.]

Yeah. The dink came up snake eyes. So maybe that bartender. He’s gotta know something. Yeah, I bet he’s smart, so maybe we go straight to the muscle. Or money, maybe. Set it up. I’ll think of something. Oh! And hey! You tell anybody about this you’re dead, you know that? Good.

[He puts the iPhone away, starts manically brushing the front of his robe.]