It’s Election Day, and I’m going out tonight. I take the T Downtown, buying an extra pass for the ride home. Then, I take the 91 to Lawrenceville. I promised QBurgh an article and could use the money, so I’ve got my notebook and my camera with me. I’m thinking I’ll do some first-person journalism of whatever happens tonight—just an account of me and my friends and whatever happens.
I texted Chris earlier. He’s not coming out. He’s avoiding the news all day, then taking a Benadryl at 10:00 PM to fall asleep. He’ll see the results in the morning. He’s been trying to use his platform as a drag queen to get out the vote. A lot of drag performers have. But he won’t be engaging anymore today beyond a post with an “I voted” sticker.
I texted Troy, too, to see if he was coming out. Boo, he’s going to P-town. Too bad. But I’m sure I’ll run into some friendly faces tonight because it’s Blue Moon, my favorite bar.
When I get to Lawrenceville, it’s 6 o’clock and already dark. I stop by Mia’s, a transfemme friend of mine.
Mia bought a bottle of gin to ease what ails ya–indeed, what ails all of our community, the uncertain future of our packs and chosen families. I must confess, I partook in the gin. Yes, the reportage to follow will be through the foggy lens of alcohol. Maybe that will make it simpler. A simplified brain. A simplified story. This story is, after all, just a story about people and my night out. Simple enough.
Mia had a job interview today and I’m hoping she can find a job close by so she doesn’t have to take the bus. That’s where she gets most of the “faggots” and t-slurs and awkward people asking awkward questions about her gender. She’s tough, though. She’ll make it through.
We listen to the Cowboy Bebop soundtrack on vinyl and decompress. No news, no computers, no phones, just friends. She’s part of my chosen family and it’s always nice to see her. We just shoot the shit and crack off-color jokes. We drink beer and gin for about two hours. It’s a lovely time.
After a few drinks, I’m feeling full of liquid courage and optimism about Kamala, and I leave to go to the bar. Kat’s bartending and she says anyone with an “I voted” sticker can get Bud Lights for a dollar. Sold.
Kitty, who usually bounces and checks IDs, is just having a drink on her night off. In a word, she’s anxious. She says it about ten times – ”I’m anxious. Anxious. Anxious. Anxious. Anxious.”–then indicates the TV with the news on. Yeah, me too, Kitty. I say I’m optimistic though. I’ve been counting the campaign lawn signs in my neighborhood and it’s about 70/30 Harris. I figure my neighborhood’s a pretty good representation of Pennsylvania. This bodes well and we’re a swing state. Kitty goes back to play some pool and I follow. She’s trying to distract herself. But there’s a TV back there too.
I play a game with her, then bow out gracefully. She’s on the table hustling most of the night. I post up on one of the seats in the back by the pool table and stay there most of the night. While she’s playing, mostly I’m talking to Ian. Ian thinks we could all use a drink tonight. I tend to agree. And while Kitty’s playing game after game I’m sneaking out for cigarettes off and on. I met a few interesting characters, pictured below.
When I’m not talking to anyone, which is rare at the Blue Moon, I’m thinking this dark thought. I keep having this dark thought, but I don’t tell anyone. The dark interiors of my brain are screaming out that to someone who hated us tonight would be the perfect night for an active shooter. Another Pulse shooting or something like that. I try to put out the thought like stubbing out a cigarette. It fades to the back of my mind.
I voted as hard as I could. I filled out that bubble for Kamala with the force of a shotgun blast. I talked to friends and family and tried to change minds. I voted as hard as I could, and so did the rest of us. Let’s just hope it was hard enough to change the course of democracy.
I get back in to talk to Kitty at one point, around 10:30 PM, to talk about the article. On the TV, the colors on the map are all turning to red. Kitty’s emotional. My optimism is getting shaky in the knees, but I try to reassure her. Kitty can remember the first time Trump won. She had a bit of a mental breakdown and was envisioning a picture of a fascist dictatorship, the likes of WWII Germany. She mentioned her mental health wasn’t well, and she considered these things hallucinations or premonitions. I call them dark thoughts. She already had a dim view of humanity at that time back when Trump won his first presidency. Americans defied expectations and the polls and voted for that sack of expletives. And she’s left wondering, on the eve of this election, if this is going to be a replay of 2016. She’s wondering if she’s going to be able to hold onto her sanity knowing her fellow Americans have elected a lunatic. She just doesn’t understand how people are missing all that Trump is saying here–all the horrible things, all the vile and bile. The world is crazy. This isn’t normal. And that insanity is casting a pall over all our fragile mental health.
She let me have a quote, “I’m happy to go on record saying this man is a fascist,” meaning Trump. I don’t know if it’s libel to print that or not, but fascism and WWII Germany is the subject of conversation with a lot of us tonight. A drunk told me he won’t be first in line for the camps, because he’s going to be first in line to buy a ticket to Mexico if Trump wins. This is a common sentiment among liberals and queer folx. Canada, Mexico, Europe–anywhere but here. I personally can’t afford to live anywhere else and that scares me. No exit plan.
I see Kitty looking up at the television. There’s a shine in her eyes. I ask her if I can take a picture. She lets me. I just say keep looking at the TV. She says her eyes hurt, but it’s not that. Tears are welling in her eyes. Click.
I sneak out for another cigarette. I get a text from Kitty while I’m out there. It’s included in its entirety here: “The Midwest suffers from a terrible affliction. It’s called sweeping uncomfortable truths under the rug, but it used to be called Christianity. The true tragedy of America is that we had good intentions, and the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Welcome to hell.”
I don’t know if I can wholesale agree with that. Christians can be good people. And they can be bad, as well, using the tools of their beliefs to dismantle the human rights of others. My father’s a Christian and he’s a good man. I think if he were here right now, he’d probably say, “Evil triumphs when good men do nothing.” What a night.
A man comes out the door dressed in a bright, feminine blue blouse with sparkles and white pants. He glitters with blue, which can only be an allusion to the color of Democrats, the color so sorely lacking on the map. I recall him from a Grindr encounter. He’s been joking around all night and chiming with laughs that ring out and punctuate all his conversations. He’s leaving. And it’s like the glittering blue hope of the Democrats left with him. Laughter leaves with him.
It’s a slow exodus. Most people are leaving. A little later, Cindy is outside, and she says she’s leaving. She says, “See you later, a lot later.” She says, “Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanuka, Have a good Kwanzaa, Happy Birthday, and goodbye.” She’s going home to rest for a long time.
On my way back in to the bar from the cigarette, I notice Troy is there, the friend I texted earlier. He brought his whole crew. Sweet. He’s chipper with an infectious good energy. That’s what I need right now. The crew let me take a picture. It’s out of focus. My bad. Blame it on the dollar Bud Lights.
Troy said that the live commentary of the election of P-Town was causing a lot of anxiety. Drag queens were trying to crack wise at live projections of the election, and it was, as he said, causing a lot of anxiety. Well, don’t get too close to me, Troy. I’m anxious, too. He just felt more comfortable at Blue Moon. He goes into the back and starts playing pool, mostly with Kitty but with some other partners too.
As they’re fighting it out on the pool table, America’s fighting it out for human decency. And the whole time, the map gets redder and redder. They’re starting to show projections for swing states. I’m worried. My confidence is shaken. I get a text from Mia. “Oof, the results don’t look good.” I know, scary, I reply. “Terrifying,” Mia says. Around 1 AM, Troy says that we still have hope but it’s waning. He’s trying to comfort me. All I can keep saying is that I’m scared, I’m scared. And then, about a minute later looks at the TV and contradicts himself, saying basically, we’re screwed.
It’s too late for the bus. I order an Uber and say goodbyes, and it’s emotional, you know. Nobody knows what to do. There are hugs and well wishes. When I pitched this article, I said it’d be a sort of “this is us, this is our lives with an uncertain future” kinda thing. I feel like they’re nailing the coffin shut on the future. I thought we won’t know the official results for a couple of days, but I’m scared. The writing is on the wall, and the red on the map is burned on my corneas, haunting everything I see with a faint, pink afterimage.
I walk through the front of the bar in slow motion, sadness setting in. The crowd has thinned. Only a few people are left on barstools. The depression is setting in. The only people left are the ones who weren’t smart enough to go home and lick their wounds and sleep through the worst of it. Only the sad, scared, and angry are left here–and we’ve just taken a blow to the breadbasket, the solar plexus, the wind knocked out of us. They scarcely talk and scarcely breathe.
I walk out the door, sit on the bench, and light my last cigarette of the night. It feels like I’m waiting forever, just sitting in this feeling. There aren’t any smokers left out here. I’m alone. The alone-ness. Loneliness … a leaf falls. It’s just me, and the loss is palpable, tactile, visual. I look out on Pittsburgh and it’s like the world has changed and is visibly grayer. A black and white ‘50s TV show of itself. Leave It to Beaver. They wanted their ‘50s American values back, and it’s leeching the color from the world, the skies, and myself. It’s like the bright, leafy colors of Fall–the luminous shades of red and yellow and sandy brown–have dimmed to gray Winter over a matter of hours. All the colors have been de-saturated and turned to grayscale. The American flag is in black and white. The Pride Flag is just a triangle with lackluster gray bars. The world has changed visibly, palpably, and tactilely. I don’t know if I or anyone else in this story has a place in it anymore.
I’m reminded of a poem by the queer poet Frank O’Hara. Something I read in his collection, ‘Meditations in An Emergency.’ Well, in this quiet moment, I sure am meditating on this emergency. I feel not myself and feel a great sense of loss and grief. I think that’s what O’Hara was feeling when he wrote: “Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern. The country is gray, and brown, and white, and trees. Snows and skies of laughter always diminishing. Less funny. Not just darker, not just gray. It may be the coldest day of the year. What does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.”
An orange SUV pulls up–my ride. I get into the Uber and tell the driver the whole sob story. She hasn’t heard the reporting in a couple of hours. I just say it looks bleak, gray. Then she says something kind of wise: “I just keep telling people who get in the car tonight, whatever happens tonight, the world will go on tomorrow.”
Never underestimate an Uber driver.
