It’s the autumn of 1996. I’ve been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 1974, and at this point the editor is Tina Brown. She and I have a clear working understanding. I’ve just spent four years writing a book that was supposed to have taken me a year and a half, during which I haven’t been available to write many pieces for the magazine. So our understanding is that in Tina’s office, in her desk, there is a special drawer. In that drawer is a jar. In that jar are my testicles.

One morning my phone rings.

Tina: “Trump! Donald Trump! I’ve just had breakfast with him at the Plaza. You’re going to write a profile of him. You’re absolutely going to love him. He’s totally full of shit, you’ll love him! I’ve told him he’ll love you. You’re doing it!”