“Trump: High Life Hero”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-19)

Good intentions. Guaranteed to cause mischief.

A recent project in the Icehouse involved clearing a file drawer to make room for documents from my late father’s estate, and long-term care for my mother. Such projects typically involve more time and effort than planned. But this most recent task yielded a greater challenge than simply fitting more stuff into a fixed space. While sorting through the drawer, I discovered literature from a sales meeting about videophones, ten years ago.

The pitchman-in-chief was Donald Trump.

In 2009 I was an unemployed retail manager and journalist. In between jobs, in the midst of an ill-advised second marriage, facing surgery on my right knee, and teetering toward bankruptcy. Hope was a dim star, visible only with much effort. But then, a neighbor bragged of connecting with an ‘incredible opportunity.’ One he would share with others in our neighborhood at a party, one week into the future.

He was an unremarkable fellow, but resourceful out of necessity. Reluctance slowed my response. I felt a certain amount of skepticism because such invitations in the past had always heralded offers of assembling bicycles for profit, selling life insurance, or hawking Amway products. But my personal level of desperation was high. So, I decided to visit and learn.

Any sort of venture, even one with risky details, seemed welcome. And I desperately needed a paycheck.

My neighbor lived across the street, so participating meant no greater sacrifice than walking down the driveway and through his yard. I could hear music, catcalls, and conversation even before he opened the front door. Inside, the dining room table was loaded with salty snacks from Walmart, and bottles of Miller High Life beer. A large television screen sat waiting in the middle of his living room. He raised a toast to the group as I took a seat.

“Who wants to own their own business?” he asked, lifting his bottle of yellow gold. “Who wants money? Lots and lots of money?”

The room atmosphere exploded. Our neighborhood was one where the offering of a second-hand couch for free, or a used car for $500, constituted lottery winnings. An easy crowd for get-rich-quick schemes. I stayed quiet and sipped my beverage.

“Check out this video,” my neighbor directed. “You’ll recognize the man providing this opportunity. He knows a lot about making money. And he cares a lot about sharing it with people like us, all over America!”

The TV screen came to life with Donald Trump, his comb-over hair alive in a dramatic swoosh of color. He bragged of recognizing great opportunities and great people. Then, the message turned toward ACN. A company he promised would give people from ‘all walks of life’ a chance to succeed. Central to this boast was a wired, digital videophone. After the presentation ended, my neighbor gestured to a side table, where one had been set up for display. 

“This is the future!” he cheered. “Who likes money?”

Once again, the room resounded with noise and enthusiasm. Plus, affinity for free High Life beer.

Had it been 1999, the thought of a plugged-in videophone might have held a certain amount of genuine appeal. But in 2009, friends were buzzing about the iPhone 3G and the ease of using Skype on their computers. So the Iris 3000 videophone looked like an 8-track player in the iPod age. Still, everyone else seemed to be impressed.

I finished my drink as literature was passed around the room.

“Everyone here can be a business owner,” my neighbor bragged. “You know and I know that working will never get you real money. You have to be an owner to make real money. Mr. Trump knows how to make money! Real deal money!”

He proceeded to outline how each of us could set up our ‘business’ and buy phone service for ourselves. Then, sell to others who would be under us, in succession, on the team. It struck me as being a typical pyramid arrangement. More gently characterized as multi-level marketing. Everything was predicated on selling. You selling to them who sell to others who sell to their friends who sell to… everyone else. 

The literature featured legitimate business logos, including those of Verizon, Sprint, and AT & T. Like fresh bait for a fish about to bite the hook. 

A woman from down the street asked how much each of us could make. My neighbor nearly jumped in the air. “It is unlimited!” he shouted. “Make as much money as you can sell memberships for ACN!”

An old fellow from the cul-de-sac asked if buying service for our families was a deal-within-a-deal. “Of course!” my neighbor yelped. “Save as much as you want! Earn as much as you want!”

Finally, I was the only guest who had not made a comment. My neighbor reached for a cold bottle and looked in my direction. “What do you think of all this, Rod?”

I bowed my head, reluctantly. “Does anyone here know that Trump has declared bankruptcy at least four times during his career?”

The room went silent. Suddenly, it was very cold. Colder than the beer in my hand.

“That means shit!” my neighbor snorted. “Business people do that all the time.”

“They do?” I wondered out loud. “Hmmm… so, is Donald an owner of ACN or just a paid spokesman? Is this just a stunt for ‘The Apprentice’ that will disappear by next season?”

My neighbor became flustered. “Trump is a billionaire! A bill-ion-aire! He knows more about money than anybody in this room!”

I swirled the last drops of gold champagne around in my bottle. “Guaranteed that he’s serving something better than High Life at his parties. He has all of us to pay the bills.”

No one else raised their hand to comment.

“Thanks, Rod,” my neighbor scowled. Suddenly, I had become invisible. With music again in the air and the celebration amped-up by another case of Miller High Life, I decided to leave. No one walked me to the door. Outside, there was snow on the ground. Yet it felt much warmer than in my neighbor’s home.

I was ready for my own family, living room, and a more satisfying refreshment - Labatt Blue from Canada.

Postscript: My neighbor was able to afford a better residence, and left our street in the following year. Had he earned enough selling the Iris 3000 to take this leap? No one could be sure. But I never heard any mention of ACN, again.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Trump ACN video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2CXNE7Lm7y4

ACN Iris 3000: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iris_3000_Videophone

New York Times story: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/29/nyregion/trump-acn-lawsuit.html