Darryl regards Corey coolly and says, “I voted for Trump because I believe he’ll bring back real jobs, like mining jobs. And because he promised to fix Social Security.”
I can feel the tension in my shoulders ease. Darryl’s not going to let me down. Maybe it’s more Social Security than jobs, but it’s economics, not racism. He’s exactly what I thought he was: a decent, hard-working guy just looking for a little help getting by.
Corey is less happy with Darryl’s answer. “Mining jobs!?! What a load of shit. There are only 50,000 mining jobs in the entire country. Not a single one of them is in California, by the way. And you know what? Even if they were in California, they wouldn’t be for you. Because being a welder in no way qualifies you for a mining job. Because the Little Woman wouldn’t want you getting black lung, and you’re clearly too pussy-whipped to do anything Kathy doesn’t want you to do.”
“Mining jobs were just an example,” says Darryl, attempting to stay on the issues track, trying not to rise to the pussy-whipped bait. “Getting out of bad trade agreements will bring back manufacturing jobs.”
“You witless twat! Trade agreements create at least as many jobs as they destroy by opening up foreign markets to American goods. You are such a little shit. You’re pretending you held your nose about the pussy grabbing bragging. You’re pretending you voted for the Great DJT in spite of the pussy grabbing! You know what your problem is, Darryl? You’ve fallen under the influence of the coastal elites. Elites are false prophets, peddling a false god. Political correctness is a poisonous fairytale. Political correctness is Heaven’s Gate, it’s Children of God, it’s Jim Jones and the Peoples Temple on a truly horrific national scale.
“You know what the greatest creation of the coastal elites is? A suffix: ‘ism.’ I.S.M. They tack that little three-letter suffix on the end of a word, and something that is utterly non-controversial, that is universally accepted, morphs into something that is beyond the pale. It transforms a truism into pure evil.
“Take ‘sex’—not the happy act, but as a categorizer. Pretty much everybody can agree that nuts and a dick make a human male, and pussy and tits let you know a human is female. And everybody agrees that these two animals, the male and the female, are different in important ways, not limited to the fact that the male is the sperm donor and the female gets knocked up.
“But the elites added their little suffix to sex and made sexism. Now we all have to act like these two things, man and woman—that are pretty much defined by their difference, defined by being mutually exclusive—now we all have to act like there’s nothing different between them! Like you’re a sexist if you think a man might be better at hand-to-hand combat than a woman. What the fuck?! And do not get me started about the ‘gender binary’ bullshit.”
I take a swig of beer, glancing at Darryl over the rim. One of the things about talking to Corey is that he’s a genius at setting up straw men, and I’m wondering if Darryl can handle this. I’m sorely tempted to wade in and have to remind myself to be careful. It would be very easy to out myself as the card-carrying liberal that I am. Not to mention the fact that I’d genuinely like to hear Darryl’s answer.
“Yeah. You know, Corey, I think that’s a straw man,” says Darryl.
It’s all I can do not to cheer him on, so I duck my head into my drink instead.
Darryl continues. “Having a dick versus a pussy matters recreationally. But professionally? Except in the couple of cases I’m sure you’re gonna cherry-pick, not so much. Like Kathy’s a great physician’s assistant. She keeps getting promoted. But she probably could have been a doctor. Now, I don’t think Kathy would have liked the added pressure. I think a lot of times women don’t choose the high-pressure jobs, but that’s different from them not being able to do them.”
“Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, Isaiah Whitman,” snaps Corey.
Since I’ve been outed anyway, I decide to pile on. “The question isn’t whether there are physical, physiological differences between men and women. The question is whether men and women, and boys and girls, should have different access to things like education and jobs whose performance does not depend on those physiological differences. Ensure a level playing field, equal access, and you don’t have to worry about sexism.”
“Jesus Christ, Iz!” Corey is nearly shouting, and the bartender, sadly not Charlene today, narrows his gaze at our end of the bar, assessing the situation. “Have you still not figured out that the more you use your SAT words, the less credible you are? ‘Physiological differences’!? Are you too much of a pussy to say ‘dick’ and ‘pussy’?”
“Dick, dick, dick. Pussy, pussy, pussy,” I say. I’m only on my second beer, but Corey really gets under my skin. “Physiological differences. Po-Tay-Toe, Po-Tah-Toe. Quit trying to divert attention from the fact that Darryl just scored two points off of you.”
Darryl and I slap a lazy high five, as much to demonstrate our solidarity as to rub salt in the wound of our victory over Corey Strutsky.
“Fuck you, Iz. It’s exactly that kind of kumbaya bullshit that’s keeping us from realizing our objectives. There are differences: differences between men and women, differences between white, black, and yellow people. Sexism? Racism? Bullshit! Playing by the coastal elites’ rules is like playing a man down. We have to stop running from the truth—we have to embrace it!”
I stare at Corey. His face is flushed; the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip is visible in the dimly lit bar. He’s on his second martini, and it appears to be hitting him pretty hard. In the past, he characterized racism and sexism as tools whose veiled use could motivate the Republican base, an unsavory means to an end. Now he seems to be suggesting something different. Now he’s saying, not only is there nothing wrong with white male supremacy, it’s something to be embraced.
Jesus H. Christ.
Corey thinks he’s such an iconoclast, such an independent thinker. What a fucking asshole. To think that to take the suffix off racism can somehow sanitize it? It’s so pedestrian, this desire to be above the rules, including the rules of morality. Half the guys in Silicon Valley suffer from this kind of narcissism. And the other half aspire to it.
“You are fucking hopeless, Isaiah Whitman,” he says, turning back to Darryl. “What about you, Darryl? Are you gonna drink the Kool-Aid?
Darryl signals to the bartender. “Two more Kool-Aids,” he says.
“Fuckin’ pussies,” says Corey, thumping down off his barstool, a hand raised in a single-fingered salute as he weaves his way towards the door.
I spin on my stool to watch him go, thinking, ‘That’s right, Corey, you racist, misogynist shit. We won, you lost, and you need to get on out of our bar.’
I cannot wait to tell Imogen how Darryl passed this test with flying colors. He voted for Trump despite. Her unwillingness to recognize this is starting to look pretty fucking biased.
39
Schism
Friday, October 19th, 18 days until the midterms
I wake with epic dry mouth. I can’t tell if my head aches yet. I haven’t moved a muscle, and frankly, I’m afraid to move a muscle. Through slitted, gummed-up eyes, I confirm I made it back to the apartment, although I have no recollection of having done so. In fact, I have no recollection past Darryl slamming an open hand on the top of the bar and yelling, “Shots.”
In my experience, that never ends well.
It’s not until I wince my way through tooth-brushing and a couple glasses of ice water that I remember why Darryl was exulting: our victory over Corey. Which reminds me that I need to exult in my victory over Imogen.
I text Imogen and ask her to meet me at Dewdrops on J Street for dinner.
…
Modesto has a few good casual dining options—think high-achieving brew pub without table service, which I like just fine. But sometimes you want a tablecloth. Dewdrop is Modesto’s idea of date-night dining. Folks from New York or San Francisco might not recognize it as such, but the prici
ng isn’t New York or San Francisco pricing either.
“Dinner out? Does this mean you’re ready to come out of the closet and acknowledge me as your sister?”
The arrival of the waiter with a bottle of bubbles relieves me of the need to address Imogen’s paranoia. And it keeps me from pointing out that the natural conclusion people draw when encountering a man and woman of the same age dining together is that they are a couple. The only person I’d rather not encounter at Dewdrops is Charlene.
“Champagne. At Dewdrops,” Imogen comments while the waiter fills our glasses. Her eyes take a quick tour of the hematite-colored glass tiles around the bar, the exposed brick and red leather of the dining area. She surveys Modesto’s well-to-do—the men in their pressed button-downs and plaid, the women with their frosted hair—before returning to me. “Fancy for Modesto. Why so fancy?”
She is scooched back in her seat, turned slightly away, one leg crossed over the other, hands clasped in her lap, still and watchful. Her glass of bubbles sits untouched on the tablecloth.
“Does it have to be anything but the fact that I’m feeling good?” I ask, taking a swallow. A little yeasty for my taste, but it’s hardly my first drink of the evening; my palate may already be shot.
“You look like you’re feeling good,” she says. “The words self-satisfied, complacent, smug, you get the idea, come to mind. What gives?”
“I’ve begun to think that cynicism is your go-to emotion, Imogen. That you are a profoundly untrusting person.”
I say it with a smile, I mean it as a long-winded alternative to ‘lighten up.’ She tips her head to the side, like she’s picked up the faint sound of an approaching threat and is listening to confirm its direction and speed.
“I am a woman of color, Isaiah. Do you imagine life has taught me to trust in the benevolence of others? The goodwill of people like the Whitmans?”
My adoptive parents, the Whitmans, are an old fight. They didn’t take to Imogen, and she thinks her brown skin was the cause. We have litigated it a million times over the years, and I have no intention of re-litigating it tonight. Tonight is for my victory lap.
“Why spoil a nice bottle of Veuve Clicquot fighting an old fight? I’m here with good news. I have definitively determined the reasons for Darryl’s vote for Trump. He got into a fight with Corey, and Darryl stuck to his guns. He voted for Trump because he thinks Trump will fix Social Security.”
“Of course he’d say that. Were you expecting him to say, ‘I voted for Trump because he bragged about grabbing pussy’?”
I lean in across the table, trying to close the distance. She remains scooched back in her seat.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing, Imogen: that’s almost exactly what Corey asked. Corey said, ‘Admit it, you were excited by the Access Hollywood tape.’ And Darryl was repulsed.”
Okay, maybe ‘repulsed’ is a bit of an overstatement. But we definitely exchanged a what’s-with-this-guy look.
“Corey kept pushing. He went on about how elites create ‘isms’ and turn uncontroversial things into things that are beyond the pale, like turning ‘sex’ into ‘sexism.’ He was daring Darryl to cop to being on board with Trump’s treatment of women. I mean, he said we were ‘pussies’ for not getting on board.”
“Oh, well. If Darryl let Corey call him a ‘pussy’ without decking the guy, that’s a clear and certain indication of feminist tendencies on Darryl’s part.”
I wave that away.
“You’re not listening. It was more than that. Darryl defended women pursuing any jobs they want. Darryl said Kathy was a great physician’s assistant, but that she could have been a physician, if she wanted. She just wouldn’t have enjoyed the stress.”
Imogen has a look on her face like she smells something really nasty. Now she leans in, speaking low and fierce.
“Kathy heads her department at Stanislaus Memorial. She supervises something like sixty people. You think that job’s not stressful? What a crock of shit. You know what Darryl was saying? He’s saying the reason women don’t have top jobs isn’t because they have shit access to top jobs. No, it’s because they avoid the top jobs. It’s not because they have all kinds of hurdles in their way, no fault on any man’s part there. Bull. Fucking. Shit.”
Imogen has her forearms on the table now, leaning halfway across it, forcing me to lean back.
“You know why Kathy isn’t an MD? Kathy isn’t an MD because her high school counselor and her calculus teacher and even her own parents steered her away from pre-med and into nursing. And Darryl knows this because he was there at the time, telling her how much better it would be for her to stay local, better than her going off to UCLA. And later, after the nursing degree, when she wanted to go for the MD? He said they couldn’t afford it.”
“Okay, this is not about Darryl and Kathy’s troubled marriage. It’s about the Obama-Obama-Trump voter. Why is it so hard for you to believe that Darryl, or anyone else for that matter, voted for Trump for innocent reasons? Have you considered maybe the problem is you? Your bias?”
“What!?”
“Yeah, Imogen, your bias. You want everything to be about race and gender. That’s your get-out-of-jail-free card. You don’t want to look at the tribulations of rural whites, so you accuse them of racism and sexism. Then who gives a shit about their problems? When things went sideways for you at Kaplan and Stone, you sure as shit didn’t want to think about the fact that you can be difficult as hell, a colossal bitch, in fact. Way easier to blame it on race and gender.”
Imogen’s face is pale, almost bluish under the brown, the warm reds leached from her usually sepia skin. She is rigid with shock, edging into fury.
The waiter arrives at the edge of our frozen tableau with the Caesar salad setup. It’s supposed to be retro-cool, the making of the Caesar salad table-side. In silence, we watch the waiter crack an egg, separate the egg yolk from the white, and tip the yolk out into a wooden bowl. With agonizing care, he measures out a small spoonful of dry mustard and sprinkles it atop the egg. He looks over his work top and selects an ostentatiously large pepper grinder, and grinds pepper into the bowl, counting the grinds under his breath. Again with the salt.
When the waiter picks up an oversized whisk, Imogen evidently decides the inexpert whish of the whisk provides sufficient cover to continue the conversation. Either that, or she just can’t contain herself any longer.
“People say a lot of things that aren’t true, or aren’t the complete truth, Isaiah,” she stage-whispers at me. “That Darryl thought he was gonna get a mining job in Modesto sure sounds like an incomplete truth to me. But you know what? Even if I take Darryl at his word, that he believed Trump about jobs and Social Security, the question remains, why did he believe him? Trump says Mexicans are rapists and brags about grabbing women by the pussy. But Darryl says he doesn’t believe Trump is racist or misogynist. So why does he believe Trump on Social Security?”
Our waiter’s eyes ping-pong back and forth between Imogen and his clumsy attempt to create a Caesar salad, alive with excitement and alarm. I make a shushing gesture at her, which does absolutely nothing at all to deter her.
“You know what, Iz? I don’t think this is even about Darryl. This is about you. You and your fucked-up vote for Jill Stein. You just ‘weren’t that excited about Hillary’? Fuck you, Iz. What you weren’t that excited about was a woman president.”
“That’s ridiculous. I voted for a woman,” I hiss back.
“You voted for a woman that no one on the planet believed had a chance in hell of winning. She was your cover. The cover for your misogyny. You think I’m the one who doesn’t care about Darryl? You’re the one using him—he’s your pet Republican, your case study. The issue here is you, Isaiah, your vote. Why didn’t you vote for Clinton?”
The waiter clears his throat, his serving spoons poised above romaine hearts slimy with egg. “Are you splitting the Caesar?”
Imogen ignores him. “And fuck you, Iz. I’m not saying
I’m not a bitch. But do you really think there is any amount of bitchiness on earth that justifies sexual assault? Do you really think Kaplan and Stone would have given me a $500,000 payout if they had done nothing wrong?”
She rises, tossing her napkin onto her plate. “He’s dining alone,” she says to the waiter as she sweeps to the entrance, taking every eye in the room with her.
Sometime later, the waiter is at my elbow, a balloon glass of something sepia-colored in his hand.
“Women,” he says. Evidently a philosopher waiter. He slides the glass of what smells like brandy in front of me, saying, “On the house,” and gives me a small pat of brotherhood on the shoulder.
40
Fire
Sunday, October 21st, 16 days until the midterms
Corey and I arrive at the office Sunday morning to find Darryl repeating, “Can you hold please,” into the phone.
Yesterday, around midday, I posted Dangerous World 2.0 on the RAPAC website and sent out a new round of press releases. This version has a photo of Tamir Rice, the twelve-year-old African American child shot by police, mixed in with the terrorists, and Timothy Loehmann, the policeman who shot Tamir, mixed in with the photos of policemen and servicemen.
I stayed late last night, got takeout, and ate at my desk. I was nervous about Dangerous World 2.0. I was also avoiding Imogen. The atmosphere at the apartment is arctic.
I know I’m playing with fire. I know it isn’t as simple as ‘folks won’t recognize Tamir Rice.’ White Republican voters might not recognize Tamir, but someone, and in particular someone from the press, will recognize him. And that someone will start a conversation. The question is, where will that conversation go?
It took all of twenty hours for the shit to hit the fan.
Now Darryl’s repeating, “Can you hold please,” as he places callers on hold. He beat us to the office by ten minutes and has already taken five messages; there are another twenty on the voicemail.
Rules of Resistance Page 15
