For years, I have carried around a half of a twenty dollar bill. The other half, presumably, remains in my friend's wallet, its frayed edges an exact match for mine. It was a Solomonic solution to a friendly argument over the lunch check. We promised ourselves -- and each other -- that we would use it one day, for our next lunch.
Every once in a while, the corner of the half twenty catches my eye, giving me that momentary feel good -- like when you find a small wad of cash in the pocket of a long dormant winter coat. I am momentarily deflated when I realize the worthlessness of my find. Worthless, that is, unless my friend and I happen to reconnect one day with the two halves and a role of tape, and are in a place where a reconstituted twenty dollar bill will be buy us the lunch we paid for in advance, so many years ago.
As time goes by, lunch seems less and less likely, but the promise behind the torn bill is somehow reassuring. Promises and good intentions are like that; hope, even false hope -- especially false hope, is comforting.
"Believe me," says Donald Trump, over and over, as he promises to fix all that is broken. No more terrorism. No more police shooting black men, and no more black men killing police, and no more black man killing each other. No more senseless killings of wonderful gay people. No more poverty, lots more jobs. No more helping other countries who take more than they give. No more death, destruction, terrorism, and weakness. "Believe me," he says. He alone will take all the shredded twenty dollar bills and put them together again. One big Humpty Dumpty, sitting on a brand new wall.
I believe that he believes it, and I would love to be hopeful. Even for a moment, like the moment right before I realize the twenty dollar bill in my wallet is not really what it seems. I would like to think that my children will always be safe, and that, one day, I won't wake up to another breaking news tragedy. But I'm a realist; I know my half of the twenty dollar bill will never be worth anything, and I know that one narcissistic man, no matter how personally successful and driven he might be, cannot put everything back together again.
Like Don Jr. and Eric and Tiffany and Ivanka, I always believed my father could fix everything that was broken. Even though he's been gone for many years, I still believe that he watches over me, and I even credit him when an occasional wrong becomes righted. That's what dads do. He sat on the floor and built buildings with Lincoln Logs with me, and, years later, with my children. No buildings ever bore his name in lights, no airplanes bore a "Seymour" logo. Yet I still believe he was the greatest man who ever lived, and I wouldn't hesitate to say that, out loud, to anyone who might listen. I would vote for him for President.
When my father died, my mother pulled an old, folded twenty dollar bill out of his wallet. He always kept it there, just in case. He knew, deep down, that no matter how hard he tried, he could not fix everything. And he never promised that he could, never played up fear and despair to give me false hope. He knew bad things could happen, but the best he could do -- and encourage us to do -- was to be careful and be prepared.
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