In the fall of 1986 I stood at the door of the Milk Bar with Big Bernard.

The 7th Avenue nightclub was popular with he downtown set, so we were surprised to see a full stretch limo stop on Leroy Street.

A tall blonde man got out of the luxury car.

Bernard whispered, “Donald Trump. You think he tips.”

“We’ll soon find out.” I eyed his bodyguards.

Ex-cops and I said, “Sorry, it’s a private party tonight.”

“You know who this is?” asked the taller ex-cop. He looked 20th Precinct.

“Yeah, some white boy with a shitty wig job,” I said voce sotte.

Donald Trump was shit in my eyes as were all the rich of New York.”

“What’s your name?” demanded Donald.

“Fuck you.” I had no trouble saying this, since he was known as a pedophile for young blondes.

“You ain’t coming in.”

“I could buy this place ten times over.”

“Maybe tomorrow, but not tonight.” I pushed him aside, as three blonde models approached the entrance.

“He’s not coming in, is he?”

Donald smiled with dentist-perfected teeth.

Mine were starting to yellowing and I said, “Not now.”

“Good.” I waved the three models past Bernard.

Donald tried to duke me a c-note.

I chucked the bill on the street.

“LikeI said, not tonight.”

He was man enough to walk away. His bodyguard glared at me. I had fucked a little of their night. The limo disappeared down Leroy Street. Bernard bent over for the $100 bill. I beat him to it.

“Huh?”

“50/50.”

“Yeah, man.”

I went downstairs to change the bill. I offered the three models drinks. They were happy to be here and I was happy to have told Donald to ‘fuck off’.

Especially with his c-note in my pocket.

He was a piece of shit.

And money would never change that.