Over there across the room too many times to count was Trump.
My name was on The List at the Door at Studio 54.
One night I went to Elizabeth Taylor’s birthday party there – the night she rode into the room on a white stallion and you could practically hear the hoovering sucking noise of coke going up a hundred nostrils at once.
There was Trump – standing with Roy Cohn and Halston and Calvin Klein and it was all one big happy family.
Shirtless waiters in short-shorts were passing by with trays of the bubbly.
Trump was waving to this starlet – groping that one.
Roy Cohn was watching it all with his lizard eyes – scanning the room for somebody who was an easy touch – somebody who would be impressed with meeting Donald Trump – somebody the two of them could take on a ride for tens of thousands or maybe a cool mil the next day.
And everywhere was our generation.
We ran the list at the door.
We got you into the VIP area.
We dealt the coke.
We owned the night.