THAT TIME YOU SAT NEXT TO DONALD TRUMP AT THE GARDEN

It’s 1998. November. You’re at Madison Square Garden watching the WTA Championships with your tennis buddy, Deke. He’s a Monica Seles fan—those savage, two-fisted groundstrokes. You like Martina Hingis—crafty, creative, a gleeful cat-and-mouser.

Right now, Seles is beating 17-year-old Anna Kournikova, whose serve has completely crumbled. The crowd is sizable for a first-round match, thanks to Kournikova’s largely male following. She’s the most searched athlete on the internet, and sportswriters regularly refer to her as a “sex-kitten,” “vixen,” or “Lolita.”

As you watch her play, you have to admit she’s striking. Her hair is braided into a long, golden ponytail, and she knows how to wear an Adidas crop top. Though you’re only five years older than Kournikova, you feel pervy for appraising her looks instead of her backhand.

After Seles wins, you head down a long corridor to an award ceremony you’ve been invited to.

“Kournikova hits with a ton of pace,” says Deke. “But she’s got nice touch, too.”

“Yeah. If she can cut down on the errors, she might be a top five player.”

You enter a room with a lectern and a few rows of folding chairs. A teenager with beaded hair is leaning against the wall, looking bored. Serena Williams. She didn’t qualify for the tournament, but came to support her dad, Richard, who’s receiving a “Tennis Father of the Year” trophy.

The presenter, Donald Trump (in characteristic business attire), is announced to desultory applause. He opens with a joke, but your mind is already wandering back to the Carnegie Deli on 7th Avenue, where you and Deke had lunch.

First a platter of pickles and gefilte fish, then a sandwich called the Woody Allen—a tower of pastrami and corned beef teetering between slices of rye bread. Deke took half of his back to the hotel, where he plans to finish it off in a post-tennis, late-night debauch.

Richard Williams accepts his award, and everyone retires to the club room to talk tennis and drink free Heineken. Trump sits on the bar chair next to you, with a suited goon standing guard. No one’s looking at him.

“Hey, Donald,” you say.

“Yeah, yeah, hi,” he says, scanning for single ladies. He spots one, and sends the goon to collect her. When she declines, Trump is annoyed, but not really surprised. The goon points out another young woman, and Trump gives him the thumbs up.

“The Donald’s on the prowl,” says Deke. “Kournikova better look out.”

The woman—nervous, wobbling a bit on high heels—is delivered to Trump. He assaults her with smiling patter, then cups her elbow and draws her closer.

“Let’s go. I’ve got half a Woody Allen waiting for me,” says Deke.

Outside, Deke is a man on a meat mission. He crosses streets without looking. Horns blare. Drivers shout. He’s barreling along the sidewalk when a guy in a top hat grabs his arm. “What’s the big hurry?” he says, twirling a shiny cane. “We gotta lotta nice girls in here.”

Deke fumbles for the cover charge, and the guy shoves him through the door into a strip club. You keep walking, straight back to the hotel. In the room, you open the mini-fridge and remove the crumpled Carnegie Deli bag. A small, barely audible voice from the back of your Heineken-soaked brain is telling you not to do it, but a much more compelling voice, deep down in your gut, is groaning: “Feed me. Feed me that Woody Allen.”

You place the sandwich on your bed and hastily unwrap it. As you chew, chunks of corned beef and globs of pastrami fat drop onto your lap. In the mirror, you see a pair of feverish eyes, a gaping mouth smeared with grease and mustard. You glut yourself until all that remains is a scattering of rye seeds on the quilt.

Shame sets in immediately. You’ve violated your friend’s sandwich, and, more egregiously, his trust.

Deke returns, drunk and broke, frustrated by all the naked flesh he saw but could not have. He opens the fridge, looking for the one thing that will salvage the night. After a moment of silence, his head drops. No rage. No tantrum. Only numb resignation.

“I’m truly sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t resist.”

The refrigerator hums. He slams it shut.

The tournament continues. Monica Seles loses to Steffi Graf who loses to Lindsay Davenport who loses to Martina Hingis in the final. To celebrate, you drink more Heineken. The sandwich incident is not spoken of again.

Six years later, you watch Anna Kournikova on an episode of Donald Trump’s The Apprentice. Trump offers her up as a reward to a team of male contestants, who get to join her for some tennis at Arthur Ashe Stadium. One of the men manages to stop drooling long enough to ask her out on a date. She agrees, but only if he can return one of her serves. If he can’t, there will be a punishment. Kournikova fans the guy five times in a row, then makes him run around the bleachers in his underwear while she blasts him with tennis balls. This is a great ending, you think, but it would be even better if Trump were the one getting blasted.

In 2016, the Carnegie Deli closes. You can never buy Deke that Woody Allen you owe him, but you make an effort in Pittsburgh, at Primanti Brothers, where they have a sandwich called the New Yorker—half pastrami, half corned beef. When Deke orders, you tell the bartender to put it on your bill. This does not result in forgiveness. You both know that no amount of cured meat can make up for the unpardonable wrong you committed in 1998.

Dan Morey is a freelance writer in Pennsylvania. He’s worked as a book critic, nightlife columnist, travel correspondent, and outdoor journalist. His creative nonfiction has appeared in Pinky Thinker Press, Oracle Fine Arts Review, DASH Literary Journal, and elsewhere. He's been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize. Find him at danmorey.weebly.com.