Rules of Resistance

by I. M. Hunt-Logan

  His gaze comes back to the present moment and back to me. “You know?”

  I ask, “So did it make you feel like Donald Trump was one of the guys? Like a regular guy?”

  “I didn’t really think about it,” says Darryl. “Don’t get me wrong, I think the guy is rough around the edges. But I think he’s got the country’s best interests at heart.”

  “So the Access Hollywood stuff, the pussy grabbing, didn’t affect your vote?” I persist, thinking I’m gonna have to drop this before Darryl gets suspicious.

  He shrugs. “Well, like I said, I didn’t think about it that much. I mean, I thought there was more important stuff at stake.”

  I kind of see his point.

  It still doesn’t seem right to get back into our respective cars and go our own ways, so I’m happy when Darryl suggests we head over to the Branding Iron to tie one on. I guess this is the Central Valley’s answer to that staple of Silicon Valley weekends: grinding out a century on your bike before heading to Zott’s on Alpine to chug a couple beers.

  The charge is low on the Tesla, and there’s only one charging station in this entire town. There are three times as many stations on the route between the house and my old office in Menlo Park. I guess the Central Valley thinks that if they ignore global warming, global warming will somehow return the favor.

  I hitch a ride with Darryl. It’s a beautiful day, and it’s nice to be up high in the cab of Darryl’s truck, with its wide-open views. We drive with the windows down, the air sweet as it blows through the cab. Good thing, since I’m not the freshest.

  “Anniversary’s coming up. Gotta think of something special to get Kathy this year, something big.”

  “Is it a big anniversary?”

  “Our eleventh.”

  “Oh. Well that’s not nothing.”

  A wistful smile plays over Darryl’s face, and RAPAC’s usually monosyllabic assistant treasurer gets chatty. Darryl played football in high school—wide receiver for the Modesto Catholic Raiders. He was a low-wattage star on a team that went 8–4 his senior year, putting up ludicrously lopsided wins against schools like Archbishop Riordan (68–7) and Weston Ranch (70–12).

  Which is relevant because Darryl and Kathy met in their junior year, following a Raiders win over Manteca High School (31–14). During the game, Darryl received two passes and ran each of them in for a touchdown. It was the highlight of a football career ended by a knee injury late in his senior year. Kathy, who attended Manteca High, was at the game. When Darryl and a few teammates ended up at Kathy’s parents’ diner later that evening, she recognized him. Kathy was pitching in during the dinner rush and waited on their table. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. But it wasn’t just that—she was vivacious, sassy. All the guys hit on Kathy, but it was Darryl who went home with her number, written on one of the diner’s paper napkins. Darryl spent a good deal of his senior year coaxing his dad’s old pickup over the roughly eighteen miles and twenty minutes one way from Modesto to Manteca up 99 to court and eventually win Kathy Sizemore.

  Darryl pulls into a spot in front of the Branding Iron and turns the key. The big V8 engine grumbles into silence.

  “You married?”

  “Uh, no. Not opposed to it. I mean, the idea sounds good in theory. The opportunity just hasn’t presented.” Taken off guard, I ramble a bit.

  “No worries, Iz. I wasn’t asking for myself. Charlene inquired. Says she’s sworn off married men.”

  Darryl opens the truck door and slides out, but not before I catch the shit-eating grin on his face.

  18

  Enough

  Saturday, September 8th, 59 days until the midterms

  I let myself into the apartment and am hit with a wave of garlic, lemongrass, and basil. Imogen is sprawled on the couch, typing away madly on her laptop. Evidently, she’s brought home takeout.

  “Thai?” I ask.

  “Hey,” she says without looking up. “Yeah, lots. Help yourself.”

  “Thai Village?”

  “Nope, they suck. I hit Thailand Restaurant on 10th on the way home.”

  The containers are arrayed on the black granite counter next to the sink. Looks like greatest hits: a yellow curry, a beef salad with basil and chilis, spring rolls with shrimp. She’s even left out a plate, silverware, and a napkin for me.

  “Imogen, you are my favorite sister.”

  “Only sister, idiot,” she says affectionately.

  I mound up a plate and grab a soda from the fridge. I take a seat next to her and proceed to inhale the food.

  “I had a chat with Darryl,” I say between bites. “He took me to the firing range.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she says, still typing. Then she stops and turns to look at me. “Wait. What?”

  I chew, swallow, and say, “He took me to the firing range.”

  “You mean like a place to shoot guns? Firearms?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ve had an apartment in Modesto for a month and already you’re abandoning gun control? Who cares about Sandy Hook or Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School? Let the children die?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Imogen. I still support reasonable gun control. Going to the firing range and letting off a little steam is not inconsistent with reasonable gun control.”

  “Reasonable gun control is repeal of the Second Amendment,” she says. “What’s next for you kids? Maybe go have some fun harassing women seeking health care at the Planned Parenthood on McHenry?”

  Is she trying to be irritating? Because it’s hard to imagine how she could get any more irritating.

  “You have a genius for making the perfect the enemy of the good. I misspoke, okay? I should have said ‘realistic gun control.’ Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, Darryl’s wedding anniversary is coming up.”

  “Which one is Darryl? The welder?”

  I’ve finished the food; I lean back and suppress a burp. “Yeah, the welder.”

  “Oh. Okay. And?”

  “Trump’s sexism, his misogyny, were beside the point. Darryl didn’t really think about the Access Hollywood tape. It didn’t affect his vote.”

  “He ‘didn’t think about it’? That’s not good enough. The first sin, more often than not, is choosing not to see. If Trump’s assaulting women didn’t affect his vote, that, all by itself, is a problem.”

  Imogen wants everyone to be as apoplectic as she is about each and every lefty issue. It’s not enough that someone doesn’t subscribe to pussy grabbing; they have to take to the streets to protest pussy grabbing. If she’s waiting for backlash to pussy grabbing comments to swing an election, she’s going to be waiting a long time.

  “Why do you find it so hard to think anything good about this guy?”

  “Because your pet Republican voted for an out-and-proud serial sexual assaulter and racist. Even if the racism and sexism weren’t the drivers of his vote, he got himself to an okay place with the racism and sexism. That is some pretty ugly shit. Now you want my kumbaya because he bothered to remember his wedding anniversary?

  “God, this is depressing,” she says. “Wanna watch some Sopranos?”

  I get up and turn on the electric kettle for tea. I find a couple of clean mugs and tea bags. Waiting for the water to boil, I watch Imogen mess with her laptop, loading up The Sopranos. Her connection must be slow; she’s swearing at the computer under her breath.

  Imogen has gotten more hardline since her departure from Kaplan and Stone. Actually, it was over the course of the sexual harassment lawsuit. If I suggested any possibility that her actions had contributed to the situation, she’d freak out. By the time Kaplan and Stone settled, she’d lost any ability to hear any perspective but her own.

  19

  Pit Stop

  Sunday, September 16th, 51 days until the midterms

  Imogen says driving all the way from the Bay Area, getting so close to Yosemite and Stanislaus National Forest, and not going hiking is cra
zy. I think she’s trying to get us past the because/despite dispute. We get up early Sunday and drive out past Murphys to hike the Arnold Rim Trail. It’s an out-and-back, a little under eight miles that features 1,400 feet of elevation gain and a waterfall.

  We’ve both been spending too much time at our desks. We lean into the switchbacks that take steep turns upward. We are panting and sweating by the time we make it to Top-of-the-World, a literal and figurative high point of the hike. The spot is marked by a little wooden plaque tacked to a wizened old oak that shades conveniently placed boulders. We perch on the boulders, fuel up on quesadillas Mo packed for lunch, and enjoy the lovely views across the valley the south fork of the Stanislaus River has carved all the way to the pine-covered, snow-capped peaks beyond.

  “I’m glad you decided not to go native,” Imogen says, apropos of nothing.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t go to Walmart and buy some plaid shirts and try to blend in in Modesto. You can be a bit of a chameleon.”

  I consider taking offense, but she continues. “Me too. I feel the pressure to conform, to fit in—in dress, in behavior. It’s like a kind of big-planet gravity, like we’re walking on Jupiter and are ten times heavier and can barely lift our feet.”

  She balls up the plastic wrap from our quesadillas and tucks it into her pack to discard when we next encounter a garbage bin.

  “Do you think it happens to other people or that it’s because we got poor after Dad ditched, because we got evicted, because we ended up in foster care, and other fun and exciting shit-storms?” she asks. “Like no matter how well camouflaged we get, we’ll always be waiting to be discovered and evicted from the elites?”

  Who else in the world could ever see and understand me this way? What on earth do people without a twin do? I’m very sad for them. Happy for me, sad for them.

  I say, “Yeah, you know, I don’t fit off-the-rack. My arms are too long—I’m practically an ape. I have to get my shirts tailored.”

  For all her talk of vulnerability, she’s inscrutable, even regal, behind her movie-star sunglasses as her head pivots slowly until her gaze rests on me. I manage to keep a straight face for a beat before we burst out laughing, the sound bouncing back to us from across the valley.

  By the time we make it back to the car, we’ve drained our water bottles, we’re sweaty, and we’re more tired than we should be. But when we climb back into the car, we’re both happy we got a decent hike in and the tension between us has eased.

  Happy, that is, until we hit traffic on the 120. Traffic on the 120? It can only be an accident. I get a little too clever, switching lanes to gain a few yards here and there, and I miss the turnoff to Route 108 towards Modesto.

  Imogen is not happy. “Jesus, Iz. I gotta pee.”

  I get off on Valley Home Road to turn around, and Imogen starts yelling, “Bar, bar, pull over, Iz.”

  I pull over to the side of the road beside what looks to be a Quonset hut with a couple wood sheds tacked on, all of it painted a grayish white a very long time ago. The wood sheds are listing, and the paint is peeling. If Imogen’s sharp eyes hadn’t caught the sign boasting forty beers on tap, I would have thought it was an empty ruin. A yellow sign with a black eight ball announces the establishment as Lively’s Bar and Grill, Oakdale, CA.

  “You want to eat here?”

  “Christ, no, but they’ve got to have a bathroom.”

  If I didn’t have to pee so badly, I wouldn’t even want to take a leak here. I line up the car next to an RV trailer abandoned in the roadside dust. Imogen doesn’t wait for me to turn the car off; she barely waits for the car to stop before she’s out and speed walking towards the door. What is it with women and peeing? By the time I make it into the bar, she’s already made it to the back of the room and is disappearing through an archway to the right, presumably into the restroom.

  The inside of the place is as rundown as the outside, but with a certain local charm, with signs advertising catfish dinners every Friday and declaring that Lively’s is ‘Family Friendly.’ I head towards the back of the room, hoping Lively’s has more than a single unisex.

  The bar, with its row of forty beer taps, runs down the left-hand side of the room, and I make it about halfway down when a guy carrying a pool cue steps into my path.

  He drawls, “Your girlfriend’s pretty tan. In fact, I think she’s the tannest person I’ve ever seen in Lively’s.”

  He’s a type, almost a caricature of a redneck: baseball hat, flannel shirt over a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt. He’s barrel-chested, over two hundred pounds, not all of it fat. Dear God: it’s Fat/Muscle Man, from the Central Valley Patriots.

  I look around. There’s no one behind the bar; the bartender must have stepped away for a moment. It’s 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon, and the bar is empty except for a group of three white guys who look like a matched set with Fat/Muscle Man.

  “Some folks might not consider it that patriotic to keep company with such a tan . . . specimen. Maybe you Bay Area Patriots have a different view of things.”

  “Lotta sunshine in California,” I say, by way of explanation, as I move to my right, to go around Fat/Muscle Man.

  He moves with me, staying in my path. I move left to pass through the gap that has opened between him and the bar. He brings his pool cue down so it rests on the bar, with the butt end lodged against his gut. He’s blocked the passage between the bar and the tables and chairs that line the right of the room. I picture myself limbo-ing under the pool cue, only to have Fat/Muscle Man drop the cue lower and lower.

  Instead I ask, “Do we have a problem?”

  I can’t tell if I put the right blend of menace and matter-of-fact-ness into the question. As in, ‘I’m still willing to work this out. But if you’re going to be unreasonable, well, I’m willing to go there too.’ I’m four or five inches taller than Fat/Muscle Man, which probably translates into half a foot more in reach. The fifty pounds he has on me is more than offset by his extra fifteen years. I took a few years of karate in high school, so maybe I have some muscle memory. But it’s just bluster. The pool cue eliminates any reach advantage, and the three friends waiting in the wings make this a losing proposition. If Imogen weren’t in the bathroom, I’d be easing towards the door.

  A door bangs at the back of the room as Fat/Muscle Man says, “I don’t know. Do we? I’m wondering if maybe folks from the North Valley and folks from the Bay Area don’t mean the same thing when they say Patriot.”

  Imogen emerges, waving her hands in the air. Droplets of water fly off them. The restroom must be out of paper towels. Her leggy strides carry her down the length of the room until she’s practically on top of Fat/Muscle Man as she processes what’s going on. Her eyes meet mine, and I see confusion morph to alarm. She still has her hands in the air; it’s like she’s surrendering.

  Her alarm has morphed again, this time to fury. Shit. If adrenaline wasn’t dumping into my bloodstream before, it is now.

  “Maybe we should ask your little brown friend what she thinks Patriot means. Maybe we should find out how friendly she is.”

  Still looking at me, Imogen lowers her hands, bringing the right one to rest on the pool cue. Fat/Muscle Man eyes her hand on the end of the pool cue and gives a little snort of disbelief.

  She turns her gaze on him. “Evidently, the North Valley definition of Patriot is a Racist Rapist. That about right?”

  Imogen is not even attempting any blend of reasonable and menace. Her voice doesn’t suggest reluctant willingness to go there. On the contrary, it says: Let’s do this. Now.

  Her hand is wrapped firmly around the cue, about a foot and a half from the end. The tendons stand out in her forearm; her knuckles are white. Fat/Muscle Man has a hundred pounds on Imogen, but his angle is all wrong. He has the cue wedged against his gut, and he’s grasping it underhanded about six inches from the end. Until he shifts his grip, this is an impasse.

  I step forward, to put
myself in range of a boot to Fat/Muscle Man’s left knee. With my weight behind the boot, I should be able to ensure he doesn’t walk without a cane again. I shift my weight for the kick just as a door bangs at the back of the bar again.

  This time a fifty-year-old white guy emerges. He’s not waving his hands and something tells me it’s not because there were paper towels in the men’s room. Before he’s halfway down the room, he has sized up the situation.

  “Goddammit, Clive! I’ve told you before, I don’t want any of your trouble here. Unless you want to be barred for life, take a step back, now!”

  Clive/Fat/Muscle Man takes a step back, crowding himself into the tangle of chairs and tables behind him, making them screech as they scrape across the floor, leaving the pool cue in Imogen’s possession. She swings it around to rest it gently along the top of the bar.

  “You two, get out of here.”

  We both look at him.

  “I said, get out of here. Lively’s reserves the right to refuse service,” he says, gesturing to the sign over the bar. “I’m refusing you service. Get out.”

  We get out.

  I make the tires squeal a little as I pull away and have to consciously make myself slow down to within ten miles of the speed limit. The adrenaline dump is making my fingers tingly, my vision freakily acute, and my head light.

  “I didn’t even get to pee.”

  “Oh, shit. I think we’re far enough away now. Do you want to pull over and just go by the side of the road? How about by those trees up there?”

  They’re a scraggly bunch, more shrubs than trees, and provide only the thinnest of cover. The adrenaline dump has made my body forget about peeing. But I pull over anyway and go about my business. It gives me a chance to let my heart rate get back under two hundred beats a minute.