In order for the banks to keep tabs on him, Donald had to meet with them every Friday to report on his expenditures as well as progress he’d made selling assets such as the yacht. In May 1990, there was no denying how dire the situation was. As much as Donald complained to Robert that the banks were “killing” him, the truth was that he was beholden to them in a way he had never been to his father: he had never been on a leash before, let alone a short one, and it chafed. He was legally obligated to pay the banks back, and if he didn’t, there would be consequences. At least there should have been.
Despite the restrictions, Donald continued spending cash he didn’t have, including $250,000 for Marla’s engagement ring and $10 million to Ivana as part of their divorce settlement. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that he couldn’t spend whatever he wanted no matter what the circumstances. The banks admonished him for betraying their agreement, but they never took any action against him, which just reinforced his belief that he could do whatever he wanted, as he almost always had.
In a way, you can’t really blame Donald. In Atlantic City, he had become unmoored from his need for his father’s approval or permission. He no longer needed to talk himself up; his exaggerated assessment of himself was simultaneously fueled and validated by banks that were throwing hundreds of millions of dollars at him and a media that lavished him with attention and unwarranted praise. The two combined rendered him blind to how dire his situation was. My grandfather’s myths about Donald were now being reinforced by the world at large.
Regardless of who was disseminating them, however, they were still myths. Donald was, in essence, still Fred’s construct. Now he belonged to the banks and the media. He was both enabled by and dependent upon them, just as he had been upon Fred. He had a streak of superficial charm, even charisma, that sucked certain people in. When his ability to charm hit a wall, he deployed another “business strategy”: throwing tantrums during which he threatened to bankrupt or otherwise ruin anybody who failed to let him have what he wanted. Either way, he won.
Donald was successful because he was a success. That was a premise that ignored one fundamental reality: he had not achieved and could not achieve what he was being credited with. Despite that, his ego, now unleashed, had to be fed continually, not just by his family but by all who encountered it.
New York’s elite would never accept him as anything but the court jester from Queens, but they also validated his pretensions and grandiose self-image by inviting him to their parties and allowing him to frequent their haunts (such as Le Club). The more New Yorkers wanted spectacle, the more willing the media were to provide it—even at the expense of more important and substantive stories. Why bore them with hard-to-follow articles about his convoluted bank transactions? The distractions and sleights of hand benefited Donald enormously while giving him exactly what he wanted: the ongoing adulation of media that focused on his salacious divorce and alleged sexual prowess. If the media could deny reality, so could he.
By some miracle, I had gotten into Tufts University after boarding school, and despite dropping out the second semester of my freshman year, I graduated in 1989. A year later, just before my grandfather’s modest purchase of $3.15 million worth of casino chips, I entered the graduate program in English and comparative literature at Columbia University.
Two months after the semester started, my apartment was burgled. All of my electronics, including my typewriter, which was essential for school, were taken. When I called Irwin to see if I could get an advance on my allowance, he refused. My grandfather thought I should get a job, he told me.
The next time I visited my grandmother at the House, I explained the situation to her, and she offered to write me a check. “It’s okay, Gam. I only have to wait a couple of weeks.”
“Mary,” she said, “never reject a gift of money.” She wrote me the check, and I was able to buy a typewriter later that week.
I soon got an angry call from Irwin. “Did you ask your grandmother for money?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I told her I got robbed, and she helped me out.”
While going through the canceled checks of all of his personal and business accounts, as well as my grandmother’s, as he did at the end of every month, my grandfather had discovered the check my grandmother had written to me, and he was furious.
“You need to be careful,” Irwin warned me. “Your grandfather often speaks of disowning you.”
I got another call from Irwin a few weeks later. My grandfather was angry with me again, this time because he didn’t like the signature with which I endorsed my checks.
“Irwin, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not. He hates the fact that it’s illegible.”
“It’s a signature.”
He paused and softened his tone. “Change it. Mary, you’ve got to play the game. Your grandfather thinks you’re being selfish, and there may be nothing left by the time you turn thirty.” But I never understood what he meant by “the game”—it was my family, not a bureaucracy.
“I don’t see what I’m doing wrong. I’m getting a master’s degree at an Ivy League university.”
“He doesn’t care.”
“Does Donald know about this?”
“Yes.”
“He’s my trustee. What does he have to say?”
“Donald?” Irwin laughed dismissively. “Nothing.”
My grandfather
