Chapter 4: “1957–1961: The Husky-Boy Years”
Have decided to take trumpet lessons, because experts agree that the trumpet is the instrument with the most sex appeal. Will let Dad know that he will need to hire a trumpet teacher.
. . . and so I shouted “Get off of my property” when they came onto the front yard to get their ball back and many of them refused, which made me very very angry. If they are going to play stickball in the street, which is fine with me and I’ve mentioned many times here in this journal — and it IS a JOURNAL and NOT a DIARY because, A) diaries are what girls write in and I’m not a girl and 2) it has a BOY on the cover and it’s actually called, and this isn’t me saying this it’s the manufacturer of the diary I MEAN THE JOURNAL who put these words on the cover, “A Big Boy’s All-American Journal” so that should be the end of that topic. Anyway. So. My point being that if you’re not going to invite me to play stickball with you because one time it looked like I was crying because I was out BUT THAT WASN’T POSSIBLE because I wasn’t out, I mean, why would I be so-called crying or whatever it was some of them said I was doing if I WASN’T OUT in the first place? Right? Crazy. Some people in the neighborhood are sad. It’s pathetic. And it’s not me saying this it’s their parents, who come to see my dad all the time to say, basically, how do we get our kids to be more like Donnie? Will Donnie please play with our kids more and maybe some of his EXCELLENCE will rub off on them? That’s the gist of what they say, anyway. Dad won’t tell me exactly what they’re saying to him when they come by to talk about me, but I’m basically totally certain it’s about how much they’d all rather have me as their son than any of the boys they DO have, who are all such dummies that they don’t even know that if they want their stupid ball back MAYBE THEY SHOULD INVITE ME TO PLAY!!!
The boys in my Cub Scout pack don’t realize that they have made a very powerful enemy.
Last year, as you may recall, I had decided that there were only two girls in my class that were possible candidates for the position of Mrs. Donald J. Trump. I will try to be a gentleman about this because I am a gentleman and I want to be nice and I am a nice person, but at this juncture, one year later, it’s becoming clear that one of them may not be chesty enough for the very important position in life that she will (maybe) be asked to fill. When I was in the library this afternoon after school because ONCE AGAIN I WAS NOT INCLUDED IN STICKBALL I snuck a look at the Encyclopedia Britannica and under “Female Anatomical Development” it basically said what I already knew, which is that this is the time in life when girls get pretty and I am very sorry to report that at least one of the girls who WAS in contention to become Mrs. Donald J. Trump is showing signs of just not getting there in the bosom department. Luckily for me I had not yet informed either of these girls about any of my thinking — Dad’s constant advice to me is “Shut up, Donnie. Just please shut up” — which is his short and economical way of teaching me that deal-making requires one to hold one’s cards close to one’s vest, which I do. Neither one of the possible future Mrs. Trumps, neither the flat one nor the pretty one, really gives me so much as the time of day but I am doing lots and lots of calisthenics every day and have ordered the Charles Atlas program utilizing DYNAMIC TENSION, which is the very best course anyone can buy anywhere, and is advertised in the pages of no less than the Little Lotta comic books, which experts agree are the best comic books around, and so pretty soon I should be able to stop buying my pants in the husky section and then we shall see which of the potential Mrs. Donald J. Trumps makes the grade, if at all. Neither one is very nice to me so maybe I should think about making a new selection.
Stupid trumpet. It’s a dumb instrument. My fingers aren’t even that fat so the idea that they’re too fat to play the trumpet is crazy. I am going to tell Dad to fire my trumpet teacher.