But in the scuffle I get a glimpse of your T-shirt, “Trump Pence 2020”. There is screaming, a fray and I feel the energy as a shock of heat before I turn and this is when I see you, or rather barely see you, because you’re crouched, and mobbed by middle-aged women striking you and yelling as you scuttle away. Another friend, whose silvery blonde hair is newly buzzcut, baring her head, holds up a pizza box on which she’s sharpied “Eat Pizza Punch Nazis” I look up at this exhortation and then down to the nape of her neck, which bears the word “Love” tattooed in large and elegant black cursive. She couldn’t help herself, she adds, and I know. There’s a roar of good energy and heads lift up to follow and find the source: a man and a woman, inside on one of the lower floors of the tower, holding up pink signs to the glass that say, “Hate has no home here.” We’re barricaded in on 56th and 5th and one friend, as regal a person as I know, texts from an also-barricaded block away to confess she just screamed “you’re a cunt” at a Trump supporter. In front of the garbage trucks and the tower the police are wide-stanced with guns, facing us.

You can make compost out of garbage, you can pick through it and recycle things. Garbage, for example, is an epithet too good for him. Because for all the unconscionable things we could-and do-hate that man in his fucking gold-plated tower for, this lesser crime is among them: that, in being awful beyond compare, he’s essentially killed off metaphor and simile. The metaphors, in being so cheap and egregiousness, are effectively dead at this point. The tower is surrounded by garbage trucks.

Trump tower pizza