The Sad, Giant Foam Finger of American Exceptionalism

I have forgotten who originated the expression be careful what you wish for—you just might get it. But its relevance to 2020 America is unmistakable.

This spring, we witnessed the outrage of those who (like their president), felt the Corona virus was a wildly-exaggerated hoax perpetuated by liberals and their media. They reacted in kind, crying “We don't need no stinking masks!”

They even accused the medical professionals trying to keep us safe and the pols who listened to them of tyranny.

So they opened their bars and their restaurants and their beaches in defiance of the fearful liberals who cautioned against this based on the advice of accredited experts like the Center for Disease Control.

All these months later, those oppressed Republican enclaves like Arizona, Florida and Texas are being subsumed by exploding COVID-19 infection rates.

But at least they didn't listen to liberals, right? That counts for something, right?

In the middle-school lunchroom that is the setting for so much of our political (for lack of a better word) debate, denial has become the flavor du jour of Republicans. Deny science. Deny facts. Deny, deny, deny. If it didn't spring from the mouth of Sir Lies-A-Lot, it is a baldfaced, well, lie.

And since Donald denied the seriousness of the pandemic and has refused to accept any responsibility whatsoever for it, COVID-19 has been handed an extended-stay visa with only the most feeble and occasional federal oversight.

Anybody have one of those giant foam fingers proclaiming we're number-one?

Despite their obnoxious posturing and my outraged reaction to it, I take no pleasure in the grim stories unfolding in Florida and Arizona and Texas.

Rather, I am deeply troubled, wondering how we could be so blinded and corrupted by our political biases not to see a common threat for what it was.

It has placed everything all of us know and love in grave danger.

Waiting on a Friend

Sometimes, everything is difficult. Even your friends.

It should have been a good thing when Lucky called Sunday night. It should have been an opportunity to catch up on each other’s lives. Share a laugh. Commiserate about work and aging parents. A pause in the rat race.

But Lucky is feeling the sting of late middle-age. And with it, the realization that whatever he hasn’t done will, at this point, likely remain that way. It has its talons deep into his flesh, especially in this, the age of diminished opportunities.

While marveling at his quarter-century with a single employer, I realize it was hiding more than anything. A college degree should have been a fresh start. But there was a fear in Lucky, a fear of leaving his comfort zone and trying something new.

Despite what we say on Facebook and on Twitter, change provokes anxiety in all of us. But in Lucky’s case, it was something more. It was paralyzing. And now his sense of life having passed him by has curdled into something ugly. Anger. Rage. Jealousy.

Sunday night, it careened into finger-pointing and accusations. He brought up a long-ago dinner he paid for, a dinner I had in no way, shape or form solicited. "It's on me" he said with a casual wave of his hand.

Now I know better. It was on me—for accepting it. It made me a parasite in Lucky's eyes.

It was a shot so cheap it deserved shelf-space at Wal-Mart.

Thankfully, there's another side to the story.

Understanding is an awesome responsibility. Sometimes, it asks us to tolerate the intolerable. In this case, knowing the depths of my friend’s discontent made it difficult to respond as I normally would.

But you can only do so much. You can only listen and try to empathize and offer the hoped-for solace of shared feelings and experiences.

It's not always enough.

Like my friend, I am in many ways embittered and sour. I struggle to subvert my anger and cynicism and jealousy at those around me who I perceive to have better, more-fulfilling lives. At those who, through no fault of their own, haven’t suffered the ravages of the Great Recession to the extent I have.

But Lucky left me something. Unintentional as it was, Lucky gave me a refresher course in what we become when the worst elements of our personality get the best of us. How we sound when the howling beast of regret takes center stage.

And how we so often (and so unwittingly) can subject those who care about us most to the worst we have to offer.

It was a cold, hard look in the mirror.

And that may be the greatest gift friendship has to offer.

Haunted

She was seventeen when we met. I was in my mid-twenties, and working at a convenience store until something better came along. She worked there part-time. Afternoons and Saturdays. Our paths would cross occasionally.

She was tall, with sandy-blonde hair and green eyes that tried to hide behind slightly-nerdy glasses. There was a whiff of not-quite-fitting-in at school. She called her mom ‘Wilma’ because of a certain coat she wore.

Conversation flowed like a river—easy and deep. Her company was elevating. And I fell hard. But however wildly my heart was beating, I was wracked with guilt.

The eight-year difference felt like twenty. I imagined outraged fathers—with shotguns. Many nights were spent talking to myself. “This isn’t the hot flash of lust. You really like her. And if you really like her…”

Only I never quite convinced myself it was okay. I couldn’t outrun the feeling that I was some vile, heinous cradle-robber.

Late one afternoon, I was checking in the week’s shipment of cigarettes. She asked me out. Did I want to visit a college campus she was thinking of attending? It was inexpensive, informal and a nice, long drive away.

I put the last carton of Winstons away and looked up. I was an encyclopedia of neuroses. The expression on my face said everything I couldn’t.

Later that day, she approached me from behind and tousled my hair. I looked up. Her flawless vanilla-caramel skin; her searching eyes. I was speechless. God how I wanted to kiss her.

I’d like to say I did, and that it was the beginning of a passionate, life-changing relationship. But I didn’t. I'm not sure I ever saw her again.

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In memories, we are ghosts. Forever frozen and endlessly looping. Remembering unrequited love makes possibility permanent, even as it remains out of reach. It is regret and longing lightly dusted with powdered sugar.

Cue the languid country and western song. Do I ever cross your mind?