7:30 p.m.
Dead silence. Darkness except for a single light bulb shining dimly over my early '60s model Royal typewriter, paper nestled blankly inside. I'm sitting here at the kitchen table, a glass of Jim Beam and Coke to my side. Jim Beam - distilled in Clermont, Kentucky by seven generations of the Beam family, ceasing for a brief moment during Prohibition as if stopping to pee at a pit stop. Wife and kids are gone. At her mother's, I guess. Loneliness is palpable at such moments when I feel like Don Draper in the last episode of season 3 from Madmen, sitting solo on a stairstep, children's noise only a dream, Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, it's All Right" rolling over the closing credits.
5:32 a.m.
I walked into my job at the paper company at 8 a.m., the morning after the mid-term elections. "Well, what do you think, Matt?" I said to my supervisor, resignation in my voice. He turned his chair away from the computer in his cluttered office. "I think they can all go fuck themselves," he said, then proceeded into a long diatribe as Matt is prone to do.
"I'm gonna move my family out of Kansas so my kids can get an education," Matt said. Pictures of smiling boys, ages 3 and 4, dotted the wall behind his desk. His Iowa Hawkeyes jacket laid on plastic-cushioned chair beside the trash can.
"All they saw was the R." Scorn filled his face as if written with a permanent marker. Matt's wavy hair is receding. He wears humongous Dwight Schrute glasses. His head is considerably smaller than Dwight Schrute's, babyish fat hanging over his cheeks so that when his mouth is closed - that familiar horizontal line - his sense of righteous indignation is accentuated by characteristic jowls. How many times have I seen that look?
"Just because a guy went to a strip club 16 years ago."
"Do you really think it carried that much weight," I asked.
"Yes, I do because it's all they fucking care about."
Election night jitters
Maria and I sat on the couch, eating leftover meatloaf as we'd been doing all week. Gabby was at the far end of the couch, playing with Pinterest and Max was in his room, playing wii. We don't have cable, the antenna is for shit and therefore we were spared all the campaign commercials, Netflix, Hulu and those kinds of things being our resources. All our news was coming from our phones.
"Davis is winning!" I posted on Suzanne's facebook wall. I've known Suzanne since 7th grade.
"You're kidding," she answered back.
"No, that's what they're showing. Of course, I won't be convinced until it's confirmed. I'll believe it when I see it."
I was smart to be cautious, to keep my enthusiasm in check.
When Maria told me, sadly, that Brownback had moved ahead, there was no going back. Just a short time later she said, "Davis is about to give his concession speech." Gabby was disappointed, having internalized her parents' distaste for Pastor Brownback.
"It'll be okay, Jeff," Maria said, her hand warmly over mine.
"Yeah."
"It's not like they have your salvation in their pockets or something."
Kentucky bourbon
News reporting Mitch McConell had clearly won Kentucky. A day later a right-wing friend of mine whom I've known since 7th grade would post on fb: "Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConell. I like the sound of that." And a bunch of jerks would robotically press "like."
Driving down the highway. Morning. NPR in my car.
"I'd enjoy having some Kentucky bourbon with Mitch McConell," Pres. Obama said.
Me, I'd have to be shitfaced beyond recognition. But Barrack Obama has more class, more social graces than I do. Besides, he can say it, knowing it'll never happen. He was being conciliatory and still the right-wing whackos would be littering social media. "Unbelievable!!!" "Arrogant socialist." "Half-breed Muslim communist." "Narcist (sic)" "How can a dictator be humble?"
No, I wouldn't want to drink with that turtle head. McConell - little head emergent as vacation-esque ground hogging.
I say bye to Maria in the morning. "Thanks little girl." Life will still go on, believe me. And I can still pray before I walk into the old building for another work day. I mean - yeah, I do pray, not to this repressive, Republican god they created (Maria says I don't fit in much with church people), but to someone like your dad, you know, oh and I never prayed to God about the damn election. I figure He's above all that fray.
just - wasn't there some pop song in the '60s - Burt Bacharach or something? God Give Me Strength
