It was Sunday. I was strolling across the Brooklyn Bridge. A woman tapped me on the shoulder. She looked just like her photo in my high school history book: soulful eyes, prominent nose, long, high-collared dress, a cameo in the center. Emma Lazarus.
“Young man, I’m lost,” Emma said. Which way is the Statue of Liberty?” She scanned the Manhattan skyline. “Things have changed a lot since the nineteenth century.”
“I’d be honored to show you, Ms. Lazarus,” I said. “I’m headed in that direction.”
“Thanks. You’re a mensch.”
“I love your poem ‘The New Colossus.’ It’s epic.”
“The poem!” Emma shook her head. “That’s why I’m back. It must be removed from the statue.” She patted her large black handbag. “I have a hammer and chisel.”
“But why?”
“Hypocrisy!” Emma said. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Who believes that anymore?”
“A lot of us.”
“Not what’s-his-name. The zealot who owns all those glitzy buildings. The man with the bad comb over.”
“Donald Trump.”
“Yes, Trump. A peacock. A bully. An embarrassment. Build a wall. Ban all Muslims. If he’s elected president, America will be set back one hundred years.”
Just then we saw Donald Trump barging toward us, scowling. He juggled gold coins and Trump brand steaks.
“Emma,” he said, “Ivanka told me you were in town. Nice to see you, but the statue is off limits.”
Emma wagged her index finger under his nose. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You stoke fear. You churn hate. You blame scapegoats!
“I’m fantastic. I’m terrific.” Trump preened. “I’m going to make America great again!”
“Your mother was a Scottish immigrant,” Emma said. “Your son-in-law’s grandparents were Holocaust survivors. Millions of refugees need shelter. Have you no compassion?”
“Bleeding heart Emma,” Trump said. “Bleeding heart Emma.”
“You exaggerate. You twist the truth. You tell lies.”
“I tell it like it is. That’s why people vote for me.” Trump coughed. “That’s why people love me.” He coughed some more. “Mexicans are bringing drugs and crime here. They’re rapists!” He coughed up phlegm and began to turn red. “When The World Trade Center. . . came down, I watched thousands of Arabs. . . cheer in New Jersey!” He turned redder. He gasped. But he still spat out syllables. “Tens of thousands of refugees. . . have cell phones with. . .ISIS flags on them. . . .” Trump grabbed his throat as if something were lodged there. Then he keeled over. Silent at last. He lay on the pavement, comb over askew, balding pate revealed.
“Wow,” I said. “He’s dead. Choked on his own words.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“Oh, well.” Emma shrugged. “No need to visit the statue.”
“How about a nosh at Zabar’s?”
Emma took my arm. We walked toward Manhattan. On the skyline, the sun sparkled.