I was just rolling over in bed for the first time when my phone rang.

I despise when my phone rings early in the morning. Not only does it rob me of that first cup of coffee and those few peaceful moments when the world still seems at ease with itself, but at that hour it’s almost always bad news. You know that saying, “Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.” Its corollary should be, “There’s no such thing as a positive phone call before 7 a.m.”

I glanced at the screen. It read “The Ecru House”—the independent-living condo association where Uncle Trump lives. Perhaps this was good news. I know, that’s a terrible thing to think, but lately I’ve been waking up half-hoping to see the news that he’d passed peacefully during the night. Don’t get me wrong: I mourn any death. But he’s become such a burden that his release from the mortal coil wouldn’t exactly draw tears from me.

I answered with reluctant anticipation. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. It was Linda Landsman, the community association manager at Ecru House.

“Mr. Damroche, I’m sorry to call you so early,” she said, “but we’re having some serious issues with your Uncle Trump, and we need to talk to someone in the family.”

“I’m not sure why you’re calling me,” I replied. “Have you tried his children—Mike or John? They’re supposed to handle emergencies.”

“We’ve tried, but they don’t answer. Your cousin Mike did send us an offensive meme of someone wearing a sombrero, though.”

“Can’t this wait until they return your call?”

She sighed. “We’ve been trying for days. It’s almost as if they’re afraid of him. And the problems are getting out of hand. We hate to burden you, but could you come down and talk to us?”

I really didn’t want to. I had my Saturday planned, and a trip to Ecru House to discuss my uncle’s bad behavior was not on the agenda.

“Can you give me some examples of what’s going on?”

“Honestly, I don’t know where to start,” she said, exasperated. “Did your uncle tell you about the duck pond incident?”

“No.”

“He complained about some Canada Geese in the pond—said they were an invasive species taking resources from the Mallards. I explained they’ve been nesting here for thousands of years. He got angry, called me ugly names, and stormed off. The next day, a company called ICE Wildlife Management showed up, attacking the geese with German Shepherds and pyrotechnics. They started rounding up the rest to take to an ‘undisclosed location.’”

“Were you able to stop them?”

“Eventually, but it took some doing. Apparently, your uncle promised them a bonus if they finished quickly.”

“Okay, that’s awful, but it’s under control now, right?”

“If only. Has anyone told you what he did in the clubhouse?”

I hesitated. “No… what now?”

“He went around taping up copies of the Ten Commandments—thirty-point font—on every door. When staff told him that violated the condo rules about religious postings, he launched into a long, rambling monologue about how this is a Christian country, that we’re violating his free-speech rights. When we started taking the posters down, he stormed off. The next morning, we were served with a $100 million lawsuit.”

“What did your lawyers say?”

“They said it’s a nuisance suit and we’ll likely win—but it’ll cost time, energy, and money. The board might just settle to avoid the headache.”

“Wouldn’t that set a bad precedent?”

“No doubt, but they’re worried a drawn-out lawsuit will hurt property values.”

“Oh.”

“And that’s not even the latest incident.”

“Should I ask?”

“You shouldn’t—but in for a penny, in for a pound. Yesterday your uncle was golfing on the condo course. His group was painfully slow—multiple tee shots, endless mulligans, lining up every putt. Foursomes were stacked up behind him, missing their tee times. We sent a marshal to speed him up and asked him to let others play through. He refused. When a couple of players confronted him, he became so abusive that he was asked to leave the course.”

“That sounds awful.”

“I’m not done.”

“Shit.”

“Last night, several golfers from that group had their doorbells rung around midnight. When they opened the door, your uncle was standing there—dressed as the Grim Reaper, scythe and all—pointing at them with a bruised hand, saying, ‘I am the Reaper, and you will pay for your sins.’”

I was speechless. “I’ll come down and talk to him,” I said finally.

When I arrived that afternoon, my uncle greeted me in golf clothes three sizes too small, revealing far more of his girth than anyone needed to see, topped with a bright red baseball cap that read, “I’m Right About Everything.”

“Oh good, you’re here,” he said. “You have to see what I built.”

He led me to the dining room. On the white tablecloth sat a series of Lego buildings labeled with the names of Ecru House facilities. Surrounding them was a phalanx of toy soldiers, rifles aimed at the miniature condos.

“What is all this?” I asked.

“The people aren’t listening,” he said tersely. “It’s time to send in the troops.”

Pointing to a collection of toy soldiers in a pile off to the side I ask “What are those soldiers.”

“Oh they were the generals. They wouldn’t laugh at my jokes so I fired them.”

Flabbergasted I responded “Maybe instead of sending in the troops,” I suggested, “you should listen to what people are saying.”

He pointed to his hat. “No. There’s no conversation to be had. The time for talking is over. Now we act.”

“But have you actually tried talking?”

“Why bother? They’re too stupid and too crooked to understand the truth.”

“The staff ran a poll,” I said carefully, “and they say most residents are angry about what you’re doing. Don’t you think it makes sense to change course before things get ugly?”

He glared. “Only a very evil person would ask a question like that.”

A few minutes later, I was in Administrator Landsman’s office.

“Well?” she asked.

“Clearly he’s off his meds,” I said. “He was crazy before, but now he’s got a full-scale diorama on his dining table. Things are about to go from weird to ugly. Isn’t there anything you can do—call in a psych evaluation or something?”

“We can’t. Legally, only his sons, John and Mike, have that authority.”

“And they won’t do a thing. They won’t even answer the phone.”

“Yep.”

“Shit. We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Oh yeah.”