I have a Republican friend. In Minneapolis, not many can say that.
There may be more Republicans than just Glen. I don’t know. They are hidden. Around here, it is a given you hate Trump’s guts. At parties, in bars, on the light rail, in offices and at sporting events, insults are thrown about freely. No one thinks twice. We’re all together in this.
Glen is not afraid, but prefers anonymity. I don’t blame him. Trump-Pence signs were vandalized in 2016. Owners wised up quick, and took them down. Personally, I’ve never seen a Make America Great hat, except on national TV.
The recent Trump rally in Minneapolis was marred by a single incident. Suburbanites and outstaters, escorted by cops, arrived and left through the skyway. Counter-protesters jeered from the street.
A group caught a single man who left out a side door, beating him.
He wore a MAGA hat. Big mistake, in this town.
Glen has a business to run. His sign and banner shop seems profitable enough, but Glen wears the aura of failure. He works too hard. “No one stays,” he tells me. “By day three, they call in sick. Or their grandmother dies. In two weeks, they vanish for good.”
“What do they do?”
“Answer the phone.” Glen spoons wonton soup. He’s the kind of guy who wears a napkin under his chin. “Write orders. Enter product numbers. Run the vinyl printer. Fold and box stock. Call UPS. When they don’t show, I have to fill in.”
We ate lunch at Hong Kong Buffet. The food is staggeringly good. Fresh vegetables, cooked perfectly. $8.95. Soda, coffee, tea, no charge. A whole family cooks and serves, seven days a week.
“At least,” Glen says. “I’m getting a tax break, thanks to Trump.” He points chop sticks. “So’s that guy.” A man in an apron carries a stainless pan of broccoli chicken. He places it under heat lamps, stirs vigorously, raps the spoon twice, and disappears.
“He’s getting a tax break? They didn’t tell me that.”
“They didn’t tell you a lot of things.” Like a lot of Republicans, Glen has some wacky ideas. He doesn’t like taxes. Do what you want, he says, with the big shots. But leave the little guy alone. People who work for a living. Hourly earners shouldn’t be taxed at all.
“What about the deficit?” I said. “Already Trump’s tax cut has…”
He cuts me off. “Increased revenue.”
“It has?”
“That’s something else they don’t tell you. By cutting taxes, the government gets more revenue.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Glen starts with his thumb. Then holds up fingers. “Cuts mean spending. Spending means profit. Profit means revenue.”
I had never thought of it like that.
“You never owned a business.” He dials his phone. “Drat,” he says.
“What?”
“I gotta go. Abby isn’t answering.” He grabs his jacket, says goodbye, and runs out the door, leaving his fortune cookie. I cracked it open. “Someday,” it says. “You will be wealthy.”
Someday. What a beautiful word.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com