28/11/2017
Ever Since Trump became president my right hand has been trying to kill me. It goes for my throat at the most inopportune moments. On the subway, at the movies, in the shower at the YMCA, and right in the middle of client presentations. If it wasn't for my left hand — which is pretty weak, after all — prying my right hand away as I gasp for air, I'm not sure where I'd be.
The wrist, fingers, and thumb are all in on it, requiring far more collusion than, say, a Dr. Stangelove N**i arm salute. That gesture might have buoyed a few deranged stragglers at a Charlottesville bus depot, but it also left me denying my right hand everyday venues. Trust me, it'll never take the wheel!
A big thumbs up for my left hand, though, as weak as it is, for coming to terms with the inevitable. A US Presidency is four years, and while the left takes some solace in a dogged special prosecutor, the right may be too far gone to appreciate even-handedness, deciding instead to go straight for the jugular! And while I've come to terms with the mild migraines that greet me every day since the election, and marvel at my left hand gladly volunteering to take over mundane tasks, I'm hardly equipped to do battle with ol' righty on the kitchen floor, my face mashed into the kibble most mornings.
Soon, I barred righty from my technology and became adept at manipulating my smartphone like a true lefty. Admittedly, the southpaw was awkward, but at least I knew its digits always had my best interests at hand, navigating me to legitimate news sites and steering clear of the bloviators on the right. So I held my e-reader in my left hand, keeping righty dangerously idle, drumming its fingers on a nearby surface, plotting my demise.
Then, one afternoon, I dozed off. When I awoke, I realized that righty had taken over, using my credit card to charge extravagant rings, even though I hate men's rings, and booking $25,000 flights on private jets to visit right-wing relatives, when traveling commercial would have been just as unwelcome. So I bought an oven mitt to stifle the menace. But after a near-death smothering in my sleep, I quickly jettisoned the idea.
Then, one day, I found myself on 72nd Street and Broadway, with "Trump in 2020" leaflets and no idea how I got them! (I suspect kleptomania but would self-incriminate if I tried to prove it.) So there I was, without the help of lefty, jerking the leaflets with my right hand in front of passersby as though attempting to hand off the entire stack! Talk about embarrassing. If someone had taken them, then where would my stupid right hand be?
Anyway, thinking back on it now, I remember what triggered the insurrection. As I watched Trump on TV, grinning and swaying during a traditional male-only Saudi sword dance before a state dinner in his honor, I knew he didn't have the slightest idea of what he was doing, or why, when my hand sprung up and attacked me, knocking me backward in my chair!
At that moment, for some strange reason, I suspected we were all getting just what we deserved. Anyway, righty refused to shake on it.
Rob Gruen is media consultant and unproduced playwright who lives in New York with his wife and apartment renovation.
