That used to be the happiest phrase in my lexicon. It means that summer jobs were no longer there, that college football was back, that the worst of the heat was behind us, that I would soon be in a familiar environment where I could at least do well at what I did, even if I was exhibiting a distinct failure to thrive a lot of the time.
Slowly, all those things got whittled away. The job never ends now. College football has been ruined to the point where it takes far more off the table than ever it brought. I now live where 90 degrees in late October is not only possible but largely expected in a changing climate, and what I do – even if I do it well – now happens in some sort of weird limbo where calling attention to myself only brings the possibility of harm, but making an effort will either go completely unnoticed or be appropriated elsewhere without recognition or acknowledgement.
Which would all be enough by itself, but things have changed. For the third straight cycle, the end of summer means the beginning of the long slow slog of dread until the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, as we wait to find how how many Americans are stupid enough to vote for the end of democracy and whether it’s enough for a rigged system to let them win without getting the most votes. And the sad thing is, I don’t feel as bad as I did the last two times, although that’s less a measure of hope and more a measure of the efficacy of Zoloft. At some level there is still the fear that even if the most votes go to the people against racist dumbfuckery, it won’t be enough to overcome the structural obstacles, which have been made higher than ever now with the seizure of courts and state administrative bodies. And this time, we know that it’s not enough to win at the ballot box, because the other side feels entitled to win every time in perpetuity no matter what.
It’s hard, knowing that even if you prevail, things are about as good as they’re ever going to get. Sure, maybe sixteen years down the line if we all keep grinding, I’ll find myself safely retired with enough money to survive in a country that has rejected the Confederacy as an appropriate model for government and society. But it requires a lot of things to keep going right. As with any terminal disease, you have to win every day. The enemy only has to win once. We only have to be stabbed in the back by one more property tax adjustment, only have to have one more random health issue step backward out of the fourth dimension, only have to have one bean counter decide my job is superfluous to requirement and leave me looking for 5-day-a-week in-person contract help desk work for a fraction of the salary. I don’t dwell on it, any more than I dwelled on the prospect of nuclear annilhation from childhood on, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.
Instead, succor comes from the little things. Retreat to the woods or the cabins or wherever to eat terrible junk food and day-drink among familiar faces for three days. Put on stormy video or tiki room music (or both!) and light a candle to create that “I’m not really here” ambiance before disappearing into a good book for three or four hours on a Sunday night. Cuddle on the couch watching the latest streaming thing. Or just make the effort to walk out and pick up dinner makings on the way back from a cup of coffee or an overpriced lemonade popping boba thing or even a quick pint at the local spot. Or, in an extreme moment, get in the electrified car and drive over to Pacifica for breakfast at Taco Bell, looking out over the fog and the waves and the dawn patrol surfers, and marvel at how you got here from there, all those theres ago.
Year 18 is in the books, with the hope that if I take care of the days, the years will somehow take care of themselves.