Manifest

The last Diet Coke

On the second floor of the White House, in a private suite — sitting room, dressing room, dining room, bedroom — Donald J. Trump sits slumped on an overstuffed sofa.

The decor is a liberal smattering of gold-plated accoutrements — the resident prefers the “real deal,” 24-karat. Real or not, the effect is less presidential suite than bordello.

Trophies, mirrors, cherub tchotchkes, paperweights — all gold. A fireplace rimmed in gold paint. Gold decals pepper the walls, with no aesthetic, beyond “more is more.”

The leather sofa, heavy-framed with thick padded arms, is the color of his favored bronzer: muddy brown with a touch of tangerine. It isn’t the sofa a normal family would pick; its formality is undercut by a sloppily folded blanket and haphazard throw pillows, one bearing an unidentifiable stain.

Trump slumps in the middle. A flap of hair tips forward like a badly patched carpet, revealing his pink scalp.

Empty fast-food wrappers are strewn around his feet. A visitor would catch the greasy smell rising from the carpet.

Trump lumbers to his feet, one hand on the sofa arm. An empty Big Mac wrapper falls from his lap to the carpet.

He wears a robe, loose and nearly to his swollen ankles. In “Trump gold” the shiny fabric could be satin or polyester, straight from the Trump Store.

The belt of the robe has come undone, revealing a sliver of Trump’s gut, earned by years of pounding junk food. He tries to tighten it, then comes a soft knock and a measured voice, from the doorway.

“Mr. President, are you up, sir?”

Trump flexes his hands, testing whether they work.

“Why wouldn’t I be up?”

“Well, sir, you had a late night — uh, morning.”

Trump tugs on both ends of the belt. Good enough.

Rooted to the spot, Trump takes a tentative step with his left leg.

“What do you want, Bailey?”

A pause; a soft intake of breath from the other side of the door.

“Mr. President, you asked for a reminder. You have an hour and a half before the press conference.”

“What the fuck is this one about again?”

“Iran, sir. The war in Iran.”

Trump waves this off and stumbles.

“Fuck the war. We won that. We obliterated them! In spite of that low-IQ Hegpith.”

“Hegseth, sir.”

“Say again?”

“Hegseth, Mr. President.”

Slowly, Trump makes his way to the dressing room.

“Barack Hussein Obama!”

“Sir?”

“Barack Hussein Obama!”

“Yes, sir.”

At a level too low for Trump’s failing hearing.

“You motherfucker.”

Trump trips on an ornate rug but grabs onto a door frame and steadies himself. Slowly, carefully, he sits down in front of a large, Rococo mirror bordered with his signature gold.

Pots and tubes litter the top of the dressing table.

Under the brighter light, we can see the real Donald Trump. Pasty-faced, without the “man tan” he uses to sell himself as outdoorsman, pro golfer, sun god. He looks small and tired. He looks like a dead man walking, and he knows it.

Trump barks out a directive to his aide, who has not yet left his place outside the door.

“Bailey! Where’s my Coke?”

“Sir, I’ll have it sent up directly. We had a temporary shortage. Your consumption has had an uptick, Mr. President.”

Bailey mutters, “At levels no one has ever seen, you prick.”

Trump picks up a tube of foundation and hurls it back onto the dresser.

“Do you think Barack HUSSEIN Obama had to wait for whatever the hell that low IQ thug drank? Or Sleepy Joe Biden?”

Silence, then, “Uh…I don’t know, sir. I really can’t say.”

Trump selects another tube, bronzer this time, and squeezes some into his hand.

“Bailey! Are you low IQ too? Am I surrounded by stupid people?”

Bailey clears his throat, louder now.

“Mr. President, I’ll take care of it, sir. I’ll have your Diet Coke sent up while you ready yourself for the press briefing.”

Trump smears bronzer on one cheek.

“How long’s this gonna take?”

“The Coke, sir?” He hesitates. Well…”

The bronzer is a muddy rust, too dark for Trump’s pale skin.

“NO. The briefing.”

A thud. A shoe hits the door frame.

“As long as it needs to take, sir.”

Trump drags the bronzer across his face but it refuses to spread evenly.

“I have a game. Tee time is two.”

Bailey sighs.

“I must have missed seeing this on your schedule. No matter. You’ll make it, Mr. President. Your club is only forty-five minutes from here, as you know, so the sooner you meet the press, the sooner you’re off to golf.”

Trump squeezes out another brown ribbon.

“Just get my drink. Now.”

“Right away, sir.”

As Trump fights with the bronzer —

A soft knock.

Trump jerks and a blob of mud falls on his robe.

“WHAT?!”

“Mr. President, a Mr. Samuels will be bringing your Diet Coke. Billy is out sick today.”

“Who?”

“Samuels. Mr. Samuels. He’s what you might call a ‘temp’.”

Trump works some of the brown goo onto his chin.

“Whatever. Just get him the fuck up here.”

“You got it. Sir.”

Trump grabs a used tissue and swipes at the blob, worsening the stain.

“Son of a bitch”

He squeezes a large blob of bronzer into his hand and glops it on his face. It’s all about coverage now as opposed to perfection.

Spreading the stuff like his life depended on it, Trump stops to assess.

After a few beats —

“Oh, Trump, Donnie, you can do better than this. The fake news. The fake news…all of them will have a field day at your expense. Can’t. Can’t. Won’t. Will not.”

The mask slips, providing a glimpse of a man in terror.

Then he’s back.

“Fuck it. I can come back to this. The stupid fake news sons of bitches will just have to wait.”

He turns his head this way and that, checking his hair. He grabs a comb and fusses with the thin strands.

“I can do this. Sleepy Joe can have his hairdresser. I’m a man. I should be able to do my own fuckin’ hair. I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone.”

Trump slurps up spittle. His new signature move.

With his fingers, he repositions several strands of hair for maximum coverage. He pats everything in place.

“Ha! There. Who says I wear a wig? Fuck ‘em.”

He reaches for his beloved CHI Helmet Head Hair Spray. A loud knock makes him jump. The can slips from his grip onto the floor.

“Fuck! Yes?”

A deep voice, with the hint of an accent.

“Mr. President, I’m here with your Diet Coke. It’s Mr. Samuels. I trust Bailey told you I’d be coming.”

Trump waves his hand. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon in. Finally.”

A door opens and closes, softly. Trump shifts his bulk to better see his visitor. A tall, muscular man, mid to late thirties, with olive skin and black hair, stands at the entrance of the room. He dangles a 12-pack of Diet Coke in each hand. He is dressed in formal business wear, per the president’s mandate.

“Mr. President, I am honored.”

Trump motions him closer. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Sir?”

Trump turns back toward the mirror. “I’ve never heard an aide say they were honored to bring me a fuckin’ Coke.”

Mr. Samuels sets the Cokes on an end table.

“I’m not like most aides, Mr. President. I’m a temp, remember?”

Trump gives his hair another perfunctory pat. The bronzer has dried. He looks like Trump.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what Bailey said. A temp.”

Mr. Samuels turns as if to go. “It pays the bills, sir.”

Trump turns and looks at the temp long and hard, his eyes predatory.

“Don’t leave yet. Let’s talk a little. Most people don’t wanna talk to me. They’re scared of me, quite frankly. Barack Hussein Obama. Have you heard of him? No one’s scared of him. He’s a pussy. Low IQ.”

Mr. Samuels remains silent, arms by his side, his expression passive.

Trump motions toward the Diet Cokes. “Give me one of those will ya? I’m dryin’ the fuck out here.”

Mr. Samuels complies. He pops the top off a can and hands it to Trump, who takes a long, greedy slurp.

“Ahh, that’s better.” He belches. “You know, when I think ‘temp,’ I think of a broad.” He looks at Mr. Samuels appraisingly. “But you’re all man, aren’t ya?”

A slight shrug from Mr. Samuels.

Trump waves him over. “Those legs are like tree trunks.”

Mr. Samuels is close enough for Trump to touch one of his thighs. “I’ll bet you’re in the gym all the time. Pete goes to the gym. You know Pete?”

The aide moves just to the side and behind Trump, who is once again facing the mirror.

“I go a fair amount, Mr. President. If you’re talking about Mr. Hegseth, I do not know him, but hope to, sir.”

Trump examines the stain on his robe. “What time is it? Fuck it, who cares? Let the fake news wait.”

Mr. Samuels’ reflection appears behind Trump’s in the mirror.

He smiles. The first one. “Yes. Let ‘em wait.”

Trump picks up his comb, plucks out strands of hair and tosses it aside. He’s getting bored.

“So whattaya do when you’re not temping? Huh? Gotta wife? Girlfriend?”

He farts loudly, then smirks.

The temp tries to hide his disgust.

“Yes. I have a wife, sir.”

Trump is oblivious to his own stench. “Yeah? My wife hates me. She’s a whore. Like all women. But I love ‘em. Some of ‘em.”

Mr. Samuels’ jaw tightens. “Don’t say that, Mr. President.” His accent is more pronounced.

Trump is emphatic. “Every one of ‘em except my daughter. Ivanka. You know Ivanka? People don’t like when I say this but I don’t give a shit. I’d date her if she wasn’t my daughter, ya know? She’s that hot. She’s perfect. Her mother was a whore but she’s perfect.”

Mr. Samuels closes his eyes. His lips move as if praying. Trump watches.

“What the fuck? Do I bore you?” He tries to reach behind him to whack the temp on the leg. Gracefully, the aide skirts his touch.

“You never bore me, sir.”

Trump smirks. “Good to know. So…you got kids? A daughter maybe?”

Something come to him. “Wait…what’s that accent?”

They lock eyes in the mirror as Mr. Samuels lunges forward and wraps a muscled forearm around Trump’s neck.

“I did have a daughter.”

© Sherry McGuinn, 2026. All Rights Reserved.