The big day arrived and the wraps were rock and rolled and ready to infiltrate the MAGA zombies and perhaps work some stealth healing magic within their withered souls.

Trump wasn’t going to eat the meal. No way he was going to eat that Rotary Club garbage with the masses. He hated these uncouth morons and their stupid outfits. He mocked them all the way to their bank accounts.

The catering crew drove multiple vehicles to Pumpkin Ridge. Protesters and supporters lined both sides of the road the last mile to the entrance. It was zoo where the zoo caged lunatics from the Right and Left and they ate each other’s young. Television crews caught it all and broadcast it back to the bowel movement of America.

The wraps were in the kitchen waiting for the designated lunch time, but things were going wrong the program and the fanatics were getting restless, bored and hungry. Corn nuts and bottle water weren’t cutting it.

The Pillow Guy wouldn’t shut the hell up about Italian lasers and pedophiles eating pizza. When it was the Republican candidate for governor’s turn to speak, she came across scared and appeared as if she might shit her skirt.

Some corn nuts started flying. The crowd tuned her out. They wanted the Great Satan himself and a steaming plate of fatted calf. They had paid a thousand dollars a head and had to watch a mime! They didn’t get his act, even the bit about Pence swinging from a noose in a tree.

Free Bird waited in the wings and munched on the wraps. Dani got a text from Brian: start serving the meal ASAP! She huddled with the crew one last time. She gave a fiery speech and then they broke the huddle with a resounding clap and went to work.

The wraps hit the tables and the MAGA meatheads were dumbstruck. What is this Portland commie/hippie/queer shit? They started texting and posting. They tried flagging someone in authority down to bitch and moan.

Free Bird opened with “Gimme Three Steps.”

Brian braced Dani. He screamed, “We had a contract! You won’t get paid!”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“We’ll sue.”

“Sue me. It will be great for business.”

Brian’s phone was blowing up with texts from Trump’s team. He texted back he was handling it. Maybe get Trump up on the podium to take the edge off?

Free Bird began playing “That Smell.”

The team texted back: No chance. He’s still eating a steak in the restaurant lounge with his toadies and has to take a dump.

Then something happened. The MAGA cretins started eating the wraps. They had no choice! And lo and behold, they didn’t taste all the bad. They might even help with constipation, excessive flatulence and erectile dysfunction.

Dani saw it happening. She saw hands bolt into the air demanding for more wraps! The groovy game was now afoot.

Free Bird was somewhere in the middle of a blistering “Free Bird” solo when the lead guitarist looked at the lead singer, then the backup singer, then other members of the band. They all locked eyes together and nodded. It was time. It was time to let go of playing redneck rock—right now! They hated playing these nut job gigs. The pay was shit. The audience full of flat earth morons. Classic rock was dead anyway. All rock was dead.

Yes, it was time. Time to play the only music still alive, the only music that still mattered, classic 70s Soul, music that reached into the hearts of its listeners and sought to bring out the best of humanity. They’d been rehearsing in secret for years. It was finally time to let the sunshine in and fly into the Fifth Dimension!

They ripped into Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground” and indeed, they were going to a higher ground and taking the audience with them.

Dani smiled. She got it. She kept shoveling wraps into the mouths of MAGA followers and taking surreptitious short videos of the scene with her phone.

“Higher Ground” ended. The band ripped into “Rocksteady” by Aretha. The bass was so chunky it threatened to bring down the roof.

There was involuntary movement at the tables. Then it became voluntary. The music was taking over. So was Doug fir dank.

Some of the MAGA minions started dancing. Others started looking around the room. This is what registered: Latinos working hard everywhere (why do we hate them?); an old Black custodian pushing a broom, but really dancing with it (why is he having so much fun?); Trump’s advance man making fun of a reporter because she’s in a wheelchair (why don’t I go kick his ass?); the mime channeling Michael Jackson’s dance moves off stage (he’s funny!). They saw those things and much more. They felt no hate, fear or resentment and it felt odd, but good, no great!

“Cloud Nine” by The Temptations was next, followed by “Sex Machine” by James Brown. Then Sly and the Family Stone’s anthem, “I Wanna Take You Higher.”

They were going higher.

A 40-foot apparition resembling Tom McCall materialized in the rafters and descended over the podium. He was smiling. He looked stoned.

Dani laughed when she saw it. Uncle Earl really knew how to cook!

Brian got word that Trump was almost ready. Free Bird was signaled to quit so Pillow Guy could warm up the crowd with conspiracies and dish up a servile introduction. The band didn’t quit. They launched into the Staple Singers, “I’ll Take You There.”

Dani and crew knew it was time to leave. They melted away into the kitchen. They fist bumped and high fived. They left everything behind. They exited to the parking lot, got in their vehicles, and drove away from Pumpkin Ridge, past the zoo. The sky was blue. A creek gurgled its way to ocean. The conifers stood green and tall. Maple and oak leaves were turning red, orange and purple. Pinot noir grapes were ready for harvest. Cannabis plants waved in the breeze.

Oregon never looked more beautiful.

As for the people still devouring the rainbow wraps and listening to soul music, waiting for Trump to appear…well, we can only hope for the best, and for the rest us, too. Doug fir dank would wear off by the time Trump ended his demented rant. But perhaps something good and clarifying they experienced that day would stick around. Perhaps one decent feeling about previously unknown people was all it took to begin change.

Hovering over the podium as Trump spoke, Tom McCall wept.

But not the tears you might think.

The event was three weeks away. Dani knew the first order of business was to call her beloved uncle Earl. He owned and operated a pot shop called the McCall Cannabis Company in a little town on the Southern Oregon Coast called Chetco. He knew more about cannabis than anyone alive in Oregon, and that was saying a lot.

Dani filled Uncle Earl in on the Trump gig and he cackled with delight at the prospect of Dani’s plan for the meal. It sure as shit wasn’t going to be PRIME RIB!

Earl suggested a cannabis edible hybrid of indica and sativa to maximize the invigorating, calming and contemplative pleasure of nature’s most wonderful plant. He’d grown it himself and named the strain Doug Fir Dank. He asked Dani the projected number of attendees. She told him. He whistled and said he’d be shipping her a load the size of a hay bale. Oh, and don’t worry about paying for it. Consider it my duty as an Oregonian who doesn’t hate modern Oregon like Republicans do.

Dani then told her dad of the scheme. He cracked a devious smile and gave her his blessing.

She gathered the staff and told them about the Trump event. They frowned. She showed them the menu. They booed. Then she told them about the change in menu and they laughed and applauded. This is my last gig, Dani told them. Then you take over. They all hugged and cried.

Dani’s plan was to substitute the Trump meal with her culinary invention she called Rainbow Wraps:

Ingredients:

Curry

sweet potato

carrots

purple cabbage

hummus

pickle

roasted red pepper

all wrapped up in a tortilla

Oh yeah, and a sliced up edible of Doug Fir Dank, too!

Dani was in the office reading some Lorca poetry at her desk when Brian entered and asked to see the owner of the company.

“I’m the owner,” she said. She didn’t get up.

Brian wasted no time. He introduced himself and his mission and wondered why the company hadn’t responded to the proposal.

Dani didn’t respond. She sized up Brian. There was nothing inside there except Trump and that meant there was really nothing at all. What to do with him?

A great notion entered Dani’s consciousness. It was like a dart the size of a javelin hitting the bullseye of her impish, and mischievous nature. She’d always loved live theater and farce was her favorite. She’d even acted in a few shows in high school and college and was considering auditioning for some community theater comedies.

A show! That was the ticket. They’d put on an unscripted show at the event like no other one seen before in the annals of Oregon Republican Party politics. And unbeknownst to them, the MAGA cro magnons would have the starring role!

One last catering event. Go out a legend like Tom McCall!

“We’ll do it,” said Dani. “For cash. Half up front.”

“You’re kidding,” said Brian. “We never do it that way.”

“Yeah, I know. You never pay. Happens all the time. But not with me.”

“Think of the publicity of this event for your company. That’s easily worth the expense.”

“Cash, up front. In one day.”

Brian was flummoxed. No in the Bible Belt acted this way. He excused himself from the office to confer with his superiors, the ones not under indictment.

His boss was livid at Brian’s ineptitude. But this event was crucial. They had to stick it hard to the Beaver State and elect a Republican Governor. She’d win and then waste no time trying to roll back abortion, gay marriage, cannabis, magic mushrooms, public access to beaches and limitations on clearcutting. She would govern as the anti-thesis of everything Tom McCall represented.

Brian returned to the office and said, “How much to cater the event?”

“Thirty thousand dollars,” said Dani.

“What? That’s absurd!”

“Well you can order 200 buckets of KFC if you want. They come with mashed potatoes, gravy and cole slaw. Perfect for your crowd.”

Brian extricated a check book from his jacket.

“Forget a check,” said Dani. “Cash only. I already said that and I’m tired of repeating it.”

Brian stood there. He was authorized to pay cash in emergencies, like hush money to strippers and “campaign contributions” to bumpkin election officials to rig favorable results, but did this qualify?

“Okay, but the menu is non negotiable. We serve it at every function.”

“Let’s see it.”

He handed it over. She read it and smiled.

“Can I add some shrimp to the jello salad?” said Dani.

“Sure, whatever,” said Brian.

This was going to be so much fun. One big farce with Donald Trump and jello salad to boot!

Oh, and something else, too.

Yoast SEO

Karl Straub founded the Tom McCall Catering Service in the early 80s. He used to run it out of his small restaurant, The Oregon Diner, but got tired of the daily grind of serving three meals a day. The catering business was more lucrative anyway, so he shuttered the diner and soon became the preeminent caterer for Republican shindigs in the Portland area.

The catering service was named after Karl’s hero, former two-term (1967-75) Republican Governor Tom McCall.

McCall was a legend in Oregon, the greatest governor in state history. During his remarkable tenure in office, the Legislature enacted the Beach Bill, the Bottle Bill, the Bicycle Bill, land use planning, decriminalization of marijuana. McCall signed all of these into law and in due course, turned Oregon into one of the most desirable places to live in the nation. McCall even had the state sponsor a free rock festival called Vortex I to forestall violence in Portland between American Legionnaires and protesters against the Vietnam War. It was the only event of its kind in American history and earned the nickname of “Governor’s Pot Party.”

Karl had worked on McCall’s last campaign, in 1978, when the legend tried to unseat a milquetoast incumbent Republican Governor in a primary and lost. Had McCall run as independent he would would have won a third term.

His daughter Dani was his only child. Karl’s beloved wife died of cancer when Dani was in junior high. Dani and her father bonded over that horrible experience and she worked in the catering business all through high school and college. She became fluent in Spanish by immersing herself in the language of the entirely all Latino crew and learned to love their distinct culture.

Dani graduated from Portland State University with an honors degree in political science and had no idea what to do with it. She was smart, savvy, independent, straight, more than a little wild, perpetually single, a cannabis aficionado (never touched alcohol), and loved worked alongside her dad.

She was not a Republican. She loathed Republicans and their bilious ilk even though she had grown up with the stories of Tom McCall and his visionary leadership. Dani and her dad had always had minor political differences, but Karl was a kind and decent man and when Trump won the nomination, he left the party for good. The Republican Party of Oregon that he knew and loved was dead and never coming back. He had to let it go. Karl just thanked the heavens that Trump hadn’t destroyed his relationship with Dani. He knew a lot of families that couldn’t say the same.

Dani had taken over the business about the time Trump became President with Karl’s blessing and changed just about everything: healthier, locally-sourced food and drink, higher wages, improved benefits, and last but not least, no kook reactionary clients, which naturally ruled out anything related to Republicans at every level of governing, from dogcatcher to the Oregon Legislature.

Karl was in agreement with Dani with every change and slowly retreated from company affairs. It was to Dani’s utter astonishment and overwhelming joy when he announced he was marrying one of the elderly Latino workers, whose husband had recently passed away. She was happy for her father as he headed into retirement and this somehow liberated her from the idea of running the catering business forever.

Dani wanted to open a tiny cantina/restaurant and help organize the Latino laborers in the area. She wanted to host open mics, art shows, campaign events and feature nothing but Oregon foods, drinks and hallucinogenics.

She shared her plan with Karl and he was supportive. Dani knew the catering business could still be profitable and she discussed turning it into a cooperative with the employees, enabling them to buy it. They loved the idea and a timeline was struck. Just a few more gigs and then move on.

Former President Donald Trump was coming to Portland. Yes, Portland! Socialist Little Beirut, the wilted Rose City of sprawling homeless encampments, kickball leagues, rampant crime, cop haters, gender reassignment house calls, strip club cooperatives, fast food unions, and cannabis-toking, pinot noir-sipping, electric car-driving, recycling, naked bike-riding, soccer-loving liberals who ate $22 organic, blackened-beet, arugula hamburgers and didn’t have a problem with Antifa thugs vandalizing the beloved downtown elk statue.

Yes, Trump was on his way to the Oregon for a party fundraiser at the Pumpkin Ridge Country Club, a stop on the Saudi Golf Tour. On paper Trump was appearing to raise money for the Republican Party nominee for Governor in a tight three-way race featuring three female candidates. Her opponents were a gun loving independent who loved clearcutting every inch of Oregon’s forests and a Portland Democrat who probably hadn’t spent a single night in a campground.

In a rare three-way contest, the national GOP brain trust (yes, there is one) saw an incredible opportunity to win a governorship in the bluest of states and humiliate the Left Coast.

So the GOP sent Trump a big fat check and told him to take his show on the road and rile up commie land. He could even get in a quick round of golf on a championship course and nail the nominee or one of the stripper caddies (hired by the local mega church) in a utility closet.

Sure, technically a fundraiser for the nominee, but really a typical shakedown as part of Trump’s ongoing hustle of some of the dumbest Americans in American history. He got paid to deliver a canned hate speech, took a 20 percent of the gate, ten percent of donations to the candidate, a hundred percent haul of the merchandise, and charged PT Barnum suckers (including the nominee!) $1000 a pop for a photograph with their demi-god.

The juiciest part of the shakedown was the steep price Trump’s catering company MCGA, (Make Catering Great Again) charged the national GOP to cater the event. There was no such company. It was a front. Trump’s money machine contracted with a local catering company to do the job and then stiffed them, like he always did to the working class.

It was a short and sweet gig. Fly into Hillsboro Airport outside of Portland and whip up a crowd of nuts on the tarmac; a limo ride west to Pumpkin Ridge with the route publicized in advance so all holy hell breaks loose along the way; in the parking lot of the country club, private security goons crack a few Marxist heads; in the bloody aftermath Trump’s poll numbers skyrocket in the American heartland, which wasn’t the heartland at all. More like the bowel movement.

What a show they had planned for the fundraiser!

The lineup:

Juggler

Right Wing Mime

Free Bird (Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band)

Pillow Guy

Republican candidate for Governor

Herr Trump

Right before Trump came on, the band would play a set and the caterer would serve a rubber chicken circuit lunch. The menu:

Freedom Prime Rib

Patriot mashed potatoes and gravy

God’s green bean casserole

Slices of Wonder Bread

Dessert: red, white and blue jello parfait with shredded carrots.

It was a standard catering gig to feed hungry fascists bad food but when MCGA emailed a proposal to Portland-area caterers, not one company big enough to handle the expected rabid crowd responded. The Trump contract was an industry joke nationwide. You took the job, you never got paid. Ever. Some frothing fools in the Red states signed up anyway, for the privilege of serving their God and mammon. But, Oregon caterers, at least the ones in Portland, weren’t so stupid and slavish. Roseburg and Klamath Falls, yes, but not Portland.

A month before the event, Trump finally flew out an advance man to arrange a deal. He was a young pasty evangelical named Brian who apparently skipped the part about the Sermon on the Mount. Before traveling to Oregon, he conducted a little research and found one company had served Republicans for decades, including campaign rallies, conventions, election night parties and fundraisers—the Tom McCall Catering Service—a venerable, respected, family-owned business with a base of operations in Hillsboro, a mere half mile from Pumpkin Ridge.

The advance man was confused why this outfit didn’t pick up the contract. He didn’t bother to notice the company had stopped catering Republican events altogether after the election of Trump in 2016.

Brian decided he’d pay the Tom McCall Catering Service a visit and win them over with his personal charisma the super suckers in the Bible Belt gobbled up like roast beef in a dog dish.