#like of course i get preached at while watching louis take his first baby step towards accepting his gayness

[harbingerofsoup]

y’all need to hear my experience a couple weeks ago watching the first episode of iwtv because holy fuck did the universe deliver

there i was, super stereotypical butch minding my own business in my university’s (a private liberal arts college of all places) library with iwtv playing in the background while i do my hw

literally right as a threesome starts playing on my screen in front of god and everyone this woman approaches me and asks me if im a christian so i pause the gay vampire show about terrible people doing terrible and gay things to be like uhhh no

and this fucking go getter tells me i should go to her church and gives me a pamphlet like??? bestie i think perhaps it’s too late for me

[takemedancingmaine]

Healing

“Most people go to the beach for spring break.” There was a pause. “And I schlepped to Chicago.”

“You didn't have to come.” I made a face as she handed me her duffel bag and together we made our way back out of the airport to the train station.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“Good to know I’m your last resort,” I scoffed.

“Well,” she said as we struggled down the stairs under the weight of her bags, “Andy’s traveling all week for tennis, and I didn’t really want to go to Miami. I figured that if I came here that I’d at least get some enjoyment out of tormenting you for a whole week.” 

“Don’t you have homework to do?” I asked.

“I’m on a break, Ruby,” she said as if I was unaware.

“I know how breaks work, Mehar,” I said. “Back in my day, we always had work to do over break.”

“Okay, Ms. Back-In-Your-Day.” I turned toward her in time to watch her roll her eyes while she mocked me. “You’re twenty-six, not eighty.”

“The point still stands,” I argued as we made it to the platform and got onto the train near the back of the carriage so there could be room for her bags. 

“I do have work,” she finally admitted. “I’m just not worrying about it. I took all of my midterms, all of my professors that I’m working with for research purposes gave me the week off completely, and I just have to do some ethnographic research and type it up before class on Tuesday, which I’ll do when I’m back in my Monday classes.”

I laughed and shook my head. “You’re absurd.” 

“Of course I am,” she said with a flip of her hair. “But you love me anyway.”

“Of course I do.” I leaned over and wrapped my arms around my sister and held her close. 

“I guess I love you too,” she said with her face squished against my shoulder, her words sounding slurred as a result.

“I’ll take that,” I shrugged. “Tell me about you and Andy, by the way.”

“He’s good. We’re good.”

I pulled back and looked down at my sister, my face skeptical. 

“Mehar Amaya Singh. You once kept me the phone for three and a half hours detailing every gory detail of your second night of spring break last year, including a very, very graphic story about you and that one guy in the pool, and then shower, and then the-”

“I get it,” she cut me off. “And damn, that was a good time.” Her smirk made me shove her and she laughed. “It’s just Andy is different. I don’t know how he’s different, and I don’t know if anything will happen because of it, but he’s different. So I’m rolling with it. Speaking of boys… how’s Louis?”

I felt the bile rise in my throat as I not-so-fake gagged at her question. 

“Don’t even joke about that,” I said, voice low. 

“I’m talking about for me, not you, you psycho,” she giggled. 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I knew she was baiting me. I knew she was. 

“That’s equally as bad,” I finally worked out.

“Have you seen those baby blues?” She asked. “I mean, come on, Ruby. I know he’s married to his work, but I’m not blind.” My mind flashed another pair of blue eyes before I forced the thought from my mind and people watched as we pulled into a stop. 

“Are you done trying to make me uncomfortable?” I asked, keeping my face blasé. 

“I’m your little sister, it’s my job to make you feel uncomfortable, or are you forgetting the story of last year’s spring break? Because I can easily start to retell-”

“How about you tell me about your research,” I begged for her to talk about literally anything else. 

“What do you want to know?” She asked.

“Tell me everything,” I prodded.

“Okay!” 

With Mehar, it was that simple. All one had to do was get her to focus on something else, and because she genuinely liked her research, talking about it was as easy as literally asking her to change the subject.

Mehar had told me about her research over the phone a month ago, but watching her as she talked about it, seeing her get animated and seeing the light in her eyes was something else. I was inspired by how much my sister loved what she did. It reminded me of when I watched Louis bake or when Cleo told me all of her good stories about teaching. They genuinely wouldn’t be in their field of work if they didn’t love it. It’s like when I watch market trends and play around with my personal stocks; I love the science behind the numbers and the patterns that emerge. I love the volatility of it all. 

Watching my sister talk about the work she’s been doing with her professors, working on cases and research studies to gain experience and to learn the processes was inspiring. My sister had always had her life planned out, and she seemed content with that plan, happy to have it all sorted to not have to worry about. This was different though. She’d thrown all of her former plans to the wind and she was happier now than I had ever seen her. I found myself focusing on not getting overly emotional about her personal growth on the train.

I started thinking about what Tala had told me all those weeks ago, about how it wasn’t my job to protect my sister or others around me and listening to my sister talk about how well she was doing, Tala’s message sunk into my mind a little bit deeper. Mehar didn’t need me to protect her. She needed a sister, and I realized that by listening to her and supporting her I was doing just that, being her sister. I had a feeling that after everything the two of us had been through in the past few months, that Mehar’s visit would be restorative to not just our relationship with each other, but to our perspectives and life views in general.

That night for dinner, after Mehar took over most of my room with her things for her five day-trip, the two of us shared a bottle of white wine and painted our nails while trading stories of our worst and best undergraduate professors. Moggy was in her glory, she had two people to beg for attention from and with a face like hers, neither of us could resist. 

“You’re going to have Mehar here all week to keep you company while I’m at work,” I squished my cat’s face in my hand. “Sweet girl,” I fluffed her fur as she purred and brushed up against my leg. 

“She’s going to be spoiled, and then I’ll take her, along with those booties, back to St. Louis with me,” Mehar chimed. 

“Stand down,” I warned, jokingly. 

“Maybe.” She gave me a suspicious look that I didn’t trust.

I glanced at the clock. It was getting dangerously close to ten o’clock and if I was going to wake up and run tomorrow I would have to be in bed soon.

“Are you coming to work with me tomorrow?” I asked as I stood up and started cleaning up our mess of cookies and ice cream. 

“Yeah,” she said, helping me make my living room less of a disaster by picking up pillows and blankets from where they’d been thrown. “I might stop by that Foursided store though, check out any knick-knacks I could get to decorate my apartment with and disappoint mom a little bit by not condemning the city.” 

“How’d she take you coming to visit?” I asked as he moved to go put the dishes in the dishwasher and the ice cream back in the freezer. 

“She did what she always does.” My sister shrugged. “She told me to bring my mace, remembered I couldn’t take it on the plane, and then made me promise to buy some as soon as I got here. She called me like ten times this last week just to remind me to bring coats: raincoats, my winter coat, a regular coat, a light jacket, a sweatshirt, you name it, she told me to bring it. It was that and telling me about the crime rates in certain parts of the city.” 

“Did she do that thing where she asks if I’m near where it happened?”

“Every time.”

“It might be helpful if she actually came and visited, or if she actually knew where I lived and what it was really like here.”

“You know she’ll never visit,” Mehar sighed, following me into the bathroom where we washed our faces together, elbows bumping just like they always did in our shared bathroom growing up. 

“I do think she’s biased because she searches for the crimes that happen and doesn’t realize that because she searches for it that’s all she sees,” Mehar said after drying her face off.

“You’re preaching to the choir,” I told her. “I’ve been trying to get her to understand that for years, but it’s no good.”

“She's going to have a field day when I tell her I'm leaving.” Mehar used the toothpaste and handed it off to me.

“Have you decided how to do that yet?” I asked before I started to brush my teeth. 

My little sister just burst into hysterical laughter. Her giggles were so contagious that as we brushed our teeth we could barely keep ourselves from drooling everywhere.

“How did you tell them?” She asked once we’d finished and made our way to my bedroom, shutting lights off on the way. 

“My situation was a little different,” I told my sister. “I never told them I was staying. They were mad I was leaving, but I never intentionally had them thinking I would ever remain in St. Louis.”

“That’s what’s going to kill them,” Mehar said, climbing under the covers beside me. “They’ve had this idea that I’d be there always and Ruby, now that I’ve seen what I want to do, I can’t stay in St. Louis. If I want to learn and progress I need to push myself. I don’t think I can do that if I’m only a twenty-minute car ride from them.”

“Can I tell you something?” I asked as I turned the light out.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about how they’re going to feel, or what they’re going to try to say to make you guilty. They’re both very good at playing the guilt card. But it’s your life, Mehar. You can't make sacrifices or concern yourself with others if you're doing what's going to make you happy or strong or fulfilled.”

My sister was quiet in the darkness for a long time. I thought she had fallen asleep, until she spoke again, quiet this time.

“Did you learn that in therapy?”

I shook my head, even though she couldn't see it. “Tala told me.”

“Who?”

“Brian's sister.”

“Oh.” I'd told her enough in the last few months to where she knew who Brian and his sister were. Tala has been instrumental in me taking my first steps toward focusing on myself at a deeper level, and in my going to therapy. And Brian was consistently non-judgemental and steadily by my side through it all, helping me punch out and fight through my frustrations and anger in a safe, controlled way.

“Think about it though,” I prompted Mehar, my vice soft.

“I will,” she promised.

“Alright,” I heard him say, “what about this?” 

There was a pause, a moan, and then, “Oh, my god.”

“Good, right?” He sounded rather pleased.

“That was amazing.”

“What about this one?”

I knew what they were doing, but still, the taunting sunk under my skin and I had to laugh. 

“Please stop!” I begged.

“Hey, I need someone I trust to taste the new recipes and you said you were busy today,” Louis called and I watched him pop into view in my door frame, leaning against it casually. His smirk gave him away though.

“I'm not busy enough to block out your hilariously disgusting attempt to get a rise out of me.”

“It worked, didn't it?” He asked, eyes still light with humor. “Now, c’mon, you skipped lunch and it’s almost four. At least try this bake to get something in your belly.”

“Mehar says it's good?” I asked, loud enough for her to hear me out in the kitchen by the workbenches.

“So good!” She called out in response.

Louis looked pleased.

“Fine,” I said. I clicked out of the market projections over to the spreadsheets I'd been editing and saved it before pushing back from my desk and following Louis into the kitchen where Mehar was waiting sitting beside a platter of what appeared to be hot cross buns.

“They’re chai with apricot and cranberry,” he said excitedly as I picked one up, studying the texture and smelling it before looking at him.

“Chai?”

“It's in the batter for the dough.” He nodded.

I took a bite, and just as always, Louis’ face took on a rather serious expression as he watched me, his nerves churning beneath the surface visible to me. It was his signature grumpy face.

I pondered the taste for a moment longer, keeping him on his toes a beloved pastime of mine. It was absolutely delicious. It wasn't just that I'm partial to chai, but the combination of the spices with the sweetness of the fruit balanced each other out perfectly.

“Why haven’t you made this before?” I asked. “I’m in love with these.”

“Really?” he asked. I nodded. “What about the dough, though? Did I let them prove too long? The chai kind of affects the rate. I sort of guessed by how much it rose.” 

I shook my head.

“I think it’s amazing,” I told him. “They’re light and fluffy and just the right amount of rigidity to the outer layer.”

“I was thinking of teaching all the staff and rolling it out next Wednesday. After bread day,” Louis said. He was watching me and Mehar as we nibbled on the bake. It was one of my favorite things he'd ever made. I wasn't sure whether or not to tell him this though.

“That's pretty quick,” I said, but I knew they could be a big seller.

Louis shrugged, not worried at all about the quick rollout. “Baby Singh, what do you think of getting your hands dirty and helping me with the next batch?”

“I’d love that,” she hopped off her stool and headed over to where the extra aprons were, tying one around her waist. She then tied her hair up on her way back over to us. 

“What about you, Rubes?” Louis lifted an eyebrow, trying to entice me. “D’you want to help out?” he asked.

“Louis,” I sighed. “I have work to do.” 

“It’s three forty-eight.” He peered at his watch. “What do you have left to do?” 

“I have to finish the spreadsheets with Bucktown’s morning sales and then I have to-”

“So it’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” he gave me a smug look. “C’mon, help me and your sister bake. We need you.” 

“You’re amazing,” Mehar nudged me. 

I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Fine.” I shook my head and then pulled my hair up and strolled over to get an apron. “Wash your hands, Meh,” I called over my shoulder as I came up to a sink and started washing up. Mehar came up beside me and washed up as well. 

“It seems like nothing has changed,” Mehar said quietly to me as we washed. “He’s not been weird around you since you broke up with his best friend?” 

“You don’t have to phrase it like that,” I sighed. “But also, it’s been over a month. I know it was hard for him at first.” I looked over my shoulder and watched Louis as he shuffled around, reorganizing himself to make another bake with us. “He was pretty stressed. Plus, we still use the group chat with all of us in it, because we’re trying to make sure that we keep everything as normal and together as possible.”

“Wait,” Mehar stopped me. “You’re all still in the same group text? And you have been… for over a month?” 

I nodded. 

“Ruby. You have to be kidding me,” Mehar groaned. “How are you supposed to get better if you’re not distancing from him?” 

“I am moving on,” I insisted. “He and I don’t interact with each other, and it’s not like I constantly pine for him whenever I see his name pop up. It’s just easier for everyone else to not have to be in two separate groups.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Mehar, not now,” I urged her. “Please.”

“So yes,” she said. “You can’t fool anyone, Ruby. Not even yourself.” Together, we dried our hands and headed back over to Louis where we were each given our tasks. We were each handed a bowl and measuring cups.

“Alright, three batches,” Louis told us. “It’s going to be great.”

“Oh my god,” Mehar said. “We’re going to have so many of these.” 

“We’re not all making the same thing,” Louis said, mischief in his eyes. “I’ll make another batch of the same, Baby Singh, you’re making shortbread that we’re going to dip in chocolate and pistachios, and Rubes, you’re in charge of some brandy snaps.”

“I’m making what?” I asked. 

“You heard me,” he nudged me.

“Louis, you know this is going to take like three hours, right?” I asked.

“I’m ordering us some Thai food for dinner and we’re going to make a night of it. Baby Singh is also in charge of the tunes. Do you want old school or new school?” 

“70’s and 80’s rock,” she insisted. The two of us shared a look, and smiled. Whenever music came up, we immediately thought of our Dad. Our mom was always the cultural music, but my dad was the American music, so we bonded over that. The first song that came on was an Eagles song, which of course reminded me of Niall and how music was one of the first things we bonded over.

Louis must’ve known, because as soon as the song started he gave me a look. I just held his gaze, watching his expression to make sure it didn’t go from our mutual understanding to pity. It didn’t change, he just started humming along and began in on his bake. 

“So is there like… a recipe I should be following?” Mehar asked, looking around all confused. 

I laughed. “He keeps them on laminated sheets in binders,” I nodded toward the shelf in the corner. “Grab the one that’s labelled biscuits. My brandy snaps and your shortbread will both be in there.”

“And he’s just going to do it by memory?” She asked. “I knew he was good, but I didn’t realize he was that good.”

“I’m a master,” he winked at her. She blushed and ducked her head, flipping through the binder to find her recipe and mine.

“T’cha,” I rolled my eyes. “He’s alright. He’s no master,” I told her.

“Alright?” He asks. “Alright?!” His voice was rising, his fake disbelief so prevalent in his tone. “I’m sorry, who was it that started a very successful bakery and expanded it into three locations all in the span of five years? Not to mention the fact that I’m stunningly handsome and raised the money to start the business while I was still in undergrad. On top of graduating with honors and-”

“For the love of-”

“Give it a rest already,” Mehar laughed. 

“Oh come on, I’m a little impressive,” Louis insisted.

“Get back to work,” I instructed them both. 

“Aye Aye, Captain,” Louis saluted and the three of us went back to work, music playing in the background as we went back to work. It only took five minutes before Louis was teasing both of us, but it was fine. It was light and fun and I just kept thinking of how good it was to have Louis still there as my friend, to have my sister and earning her trust back, and just enjoy where I was.

I felt lighter than I had in years, and it was remarkably surreal to feel like this. 

“Hey!” 

I smiled as my sister’s face lit up my phone. 

“What’s up?” I asked as Andy came into frame. It looked like they were outside, there was a lot of green behind them. 

“So, I know you’re doing a beach volleyball day, but I just wanted to show you what I’m doing right now.”

It had been three months since Mehar told me about Andy, which means it’s been just over two months of my being single and three months of her not being single. It was a massive turn of the tables. Well, it wasn’t so much a turn of the tables, seeing as it had been a while before Niall that I’d had a boyfriend. But it seemed way more plausible for me to have a boyfriend than for her to have a boyfriend. 

It turned out that they were actually calling themselves a couple now. It was surreal. For my entire life I’d never known my sister to have a boyfriend.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked as I hiked my bag up higher on my shoulder and steadied myself as I rode the train. She switched the camera so I no longer saw her and Andy, but was facing a tennis court, a basket of bright orange tennis balls and two rackets leaned up against the net. 

“Wait.” I felt my brain moving at a snail's pace. “I’m sorry,” I said as I tried to work through what was happening. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re playing tennis?” 

“That’s exactly what she’s telling you,” Andy said as Mehar switched the camera back around and I could see them. “She’s about to embark on her first experience with organized sports.” 

“It’s like I don’t even know you,” I told my sister as I stepped off the train at the platform and started heading down the stairs. “You’re outside in the sun for reasons other than sunbathing, and you’re willingly participating in sports.”

“I wouldn’t say willingly,” Andy laughed.

“I’m trying new things!” Mehar complained over both of us. “It’s a spring awakening,” she insisted. “I’m trying to grow as a person, and if that includes sports, I don’t know. It might. I’ve never tried before.”

“Andy,” I said, the awe clearly present in my voice, “you must be a wizard or something. Do you secretly have my sister under a spell or is she just completely losing her mind?” 

“That would indicate that there was anything there to lose in the first place,” Andy said, ducking from my sister’s attempts to swat at him for his comment.

Through my laughter I asked Andy to take some videos to send me before their session was over. 

“I’ll send some along,” he promised. 

“And good luck, Mehar,” I waved to my sister. “I love you. Have fun!”

“I’ll do what I can to have fun,” she insisted. “I love you too! Enjoy your first beach day of the year.” 

“I’ll try,” I insisted with a wave before we both clicked off to end the call.

The streets were busy. The end of April was volatile weather wise in Chicago, and the current weather meant that everyone would be outside trying to enjoy it.

It could either snow and be dreary and cold, or it could be seventy-five and sunny. It sometimes went back and forth, too. One day and then the next could be polar opposites. Today, it was sixty-five and sunny. It was supposed to go back to cold and windy and cloudy sometime early next week, but for the time being it was remarkably pleasant. I was going to soak in as much as I could. 

Cleo, Tala, and Brian were joining me to play beach volleyball. It would be way too cold to go in the water, and I had no doubt that if we were just idle on the beach the light breeze would be too cold, but if we were goofing around it would be fine. Brian had a volleyball net and ball from one of his friends at Northwestern, and I was bringing snacks. Cleo was bringing a speaker and Tala was bringing beverages. From what I’d seen of her and from what Brian had told me, we were to expect mixed drinks and blonde beers. 

The rest of the crew was unavailable. Clea had just squeaked out of the chaperoning duties for the school carnival that was going on that had ensnared Harry, Ana, and Liam. Apparently because she’d volunteered for a school dance back in December and was already signed up for judging the science fair in two weeks, she wasn’t required to be there today. Which left Louis, who was out in the suburbs with his family at a soccer tournament for one of his sisters who was still in high school. I had asked for updates, and trophy photos when his sister’s team won. I had a lot of faith that they would win. He’d already sent me a photo of his entire family dressed in the team’s attire, ready to cheer on one of their own. It was precious. 

“Cute tank top!” I heard someone call, and when I whipped my head around I noticed it was Cleo. She was carrying a black box that looked like a mini cooler: it was her speaker. I thought she meant she was bringing her small speaker, but I guess she wasn't playing around today.

“Nice,” I said, pointing to it as she came to a stop in front of me.

“The small one wasn't charged.” She shrugged. “It's my fault. I forgot to plug it in after last weekend’s potluck.”

“Well, we’ll just blast some music and be in our own little bubble. There's people out, but not too many. I'm sure we’ll be fine.”

“So I've met Brian, but what's his sister like?”

“Tala is… vibrant.” I couldn't think of another word off the top of my head. “She's loud and funny and very passionate about self-care.”

“I like her already,” Cleo nodded.

“Oh.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a small baggie with lemon poppyseed cookies. “Courtesy of Louis.”

“What a gem,” she sighed in content as she grabbed the bag from my hand and pulled one out to eat. “What else did you bring?”

“Carrots, snap peas, apples, plantain chips-”

“Ruby, what are we supposed to eat?” Cleo gave me a look.

“I stopped by Jewel on the way and bought barbecue chips and goldfish, too. I even picked up some of those peanut butter filled pretzels and if you're nice, I'll give you some.”

“I'll be on my best behavior,” she promised, her eyes wide. She loved the pretzels. Over her shoulder I noticed Brian and Tala searching us out.

“Over here!” I called out, and Brian immediately found us, guiding Tala over as well. 

“Okay,” Brian said, setting down his backpack, “who’s going to help me set up the net?” 

None of the rest of us volunteered, we just stood around silent, not looking at each other and trying not to laugh. 

“Don’t everybody volunteer at once,” he said. “Ruby, you seem able-bodied enough.”

“Ha!” Cleo and Tala high-fived. “Have fun, Rubes,” Tala smirked and set her cooler bag down, quickly getting to work on making drinks for all of us as Brian and I walked over to set up the net so we could start playing. 

“You haven’t called for an extra session in a while,” Brian noted. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been okay,” I said. “I don’t want to jinx it, but it’s been a month since my last nightmare. I think therapy is really helping. I still go twice a week, but starting next week, it’ll only be once a week and then we’ll see how that goes.”

“Holy shirt, you’ve not had the nightmare for a month?” Brian stopped what he was doing and turned to stare at me. 

“Mehar was worried that when she came to visit she would see me have it at least once, but ever since she came I haven’t had it. I don’t know how, and I’m still a little worried it might come back out of the blue, but I feel really good. I’ve been feeling really good lately.”

“Ruby,” Brian breathed out in relief. “I’m so happy for you.” 

He came over and wrapped me up in a hug and just held me for a second. 

“Hey!” Tala called and Brian and I stepped apart. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was touchy-feely time. I’m doing work over here and you’re just hugging like it’s free love Woodstock?” She raised her hands to show off the aluminum cups in her hands that she was mixing drinks in. Cleo, beside her, already had her own cup that she was sipping from, a content look on her face.

Brian and I just laughed and started to get back to work on the net, ignoring the jabs from the peanut gallery the whole time until we were all set up and started playing. Cleo and Tala had bonded over drinks, so they were a team, which meant Brian and I ended up being on a team.

By late afternoon we were exhausted, sweaty, drunk, and starving. We were also covered in quite a bit of sand. 

“You’re all welcome to come back to mine and I’ll make us home-made mac and cheese,” Brian offered as we packed up and started walking back toward the train.

“Sold!” Cleo’s excitement was palpable. 

“I’m in,” I said.

“Well, the whole pot of mac and cheese will be eaten by me,” Tala smirked. “What are you guys planning on eating?” 

“Tala,” Brian rolled his eyes. “Remember what we talked about? You have to share.” He looked at me and Cleo, “She’s been having issues with sharing since, well… since she was born.” 

“Oh come on,” Tala rolled her eyes. “I”m the one who has issues with sharing? You’re the one who broke out in tears when mom forced you to share your Batman legos with me when you were seven.” 

“That was one time!” Brian complained. 

“It was multiple times,” Tala insisted. “It went on for a while.” 

Cleo and I were laughing, trying to keep ourselves composed long enough to maintain our place on the sidewalk, but it was a real struggle.

“Oh, well, excuse me for trying to make sure you didn’t lose any of the pieces of the set. Which, by the way, you did.” 

“Sorry that Batman’s grappling hook was lost, but the whole set wasn’t ruined because you lost a single piece.”

“Well, it was, so…” he trailed off, clearly trying hard not to laugh.

“Oh for the love of-”

“Alright,” Cleo inserted herself, her cheeks red from laughing.. I was impressed she had composed herself long enough to speak. “Let’s just say for argument’s sake that it wasn’t ruined, but that we’re all sometimes bad at sharing. I mean, Ruby never lets Mehar borrow her shoes.” 

“That’s because she wasn’t going to borrow them, she was going to steal them,” I rolled my eyes. “There’s a difference.” 

“I’ll just make enough mac and cheese that even though some of us are sharing impaired, there will be enough for everyone to have.”

“I can live with that,” Tala nodded.

“Good deal,” Cleo nodded along with her in agreement.

“I’m game,” I added. 

The four of us were a group of misfits, people who under normal circumstances wouldn’t have ever met or hung out, but had ended up together anyway. Cleo was bonding with these people who’d happened into my life because of something bad. 

On the train ride North, I was weighing all of what had happened to me and I had to tell myself that despite all of the bad that had happened, I was grateful for what I’d learned about myself and for the people I’d met along my path of healing. I would never have met Brian or Tala, I probably wouldn’t have bonded so deeply with Niall or experienced the rest of my friendships on a new level. Even my sister’s personal growth, which she claimed was inspired by me, was another thing I was grateful for. I couldn’t imagine her on any other path now. 

If this thing, if my getting mugged, was a way of helping me to grow as a person and was going to help others around me, then I was absolutely okay with it. I had learned that regretting things was not helping anyone, so despite it all, I wasn’t looking back with melancholia nor was I looking back wishing I could change something. Instead, I was just looking forward.

[raitchparker]

Monday, January 23, 2017

History will address the tidal wave of anxiety that the country grappled with in the last couple of weeks far better than I can here. It happened on Friday. President Tangerine Baggy Eyes was sworn in and we, for the most part, watched. Historically few of us attended in person, which was a small relief, but it was also cold comfort. It felt as much a psychic blow as traumatizing as 9/11, to me at any rate. We are all seated, like anxious jackrabbits, waiting for the backhand of his horrid decisions now. 

On Saturday, though, we took it to the streets. I joined about 20,000 people in St. Louis, not three miles from my house, in front of our old Union Station. I went alone. I spoke to many, and befriended a lovely (black) woman from Belleville, IL. I would take her to be about my age (she has a grown daughter and grandchildren and a baby face that defies her age). It was, she said, her first protest. She joined a conversation I was having with two women, and we stuck together for most of the march.

She was far from the first protester I saw there that day. In the 90s and in the anti-war marches I participated in during the Iraq War, there were moments where I felt like I was part of a mostly-silenced clique of lefties. You’d see many of the same faces. Anarchists would battle with Greens. The movement in the 90s fractured because, let’s face it, there was a lot that needed tending to. 

I stopped going towards the middle of the first decade of the 00s because, well, the news did, too. I continued to do what I could (albeit, not nearly enough) with money, with letters, with phone calls. I started to feel like showing up in person had become the stuff of a South Park joke. My friend Steve who lives in L.A. said that he got rid of his weekend apartment  in Malibu because, in his words, he wasn’t really getting out of town. “It was the same assholes,” he said, preferring instead to hide away in calmer, far less 1% Palm Springs.

While I wouldn’t call any leftie an asshole, that is how I grew to feel about the progressive protests I mostly went to. The same people, the same faces, the same chants, preaching to each other in the absence of an effective, engaged media who gave us no attention. We were nothing more than large swaths of the converted. 

That was not the case on Saturday. I walked, for a while, next to a woman in her 80s who had also come on her own, on public transportation. Her granddaughter was in DC, and so, she said, she had her daughter look up information for her on the Internet (something this woman joked about not understanding how to use) and there she was. A young man, either just north or south of 30, admitted it was his first protest.

“Not your last, I hope,” I said. He nodded. How could it be.

Hope lives in small, dark corners always. I would argue that Occupy lit a spark that for a time, gave way to a steady blaze. I’ve felt those embers, still there, ever hot, since. Those embers gave way to Bernie, to Black Lives Matter, to the Women’s March. You can blow out a flame, Peter Gabriel sings, but you can’t blow out a fire. 

Of course it’s not so simple as that and we all have to accept that we are going to lose things. We don’t know what yet but, at very least, we’ve probably already lost much of our nation’s dignity (precarious as that was). I’m doing what I can not to look too far into the inky black midnight of the future. There is no point of speculation. There will be enough daily horrors to occupy all of us. 

My favorite sign from Saturday’s protest in St. Louis.

Herbert and I are existing on the fumes of the exhilaration of owning a new home. As I type this, a lovely man from the Container Store is performing a grass roots revolution in our closet that will add some dozens of square feet of shelving and racks. These are small things, and we are privileged to have them. Cass and I ferreted out a reasonably priced sectional sofa at Macy’s which I plan on ordering this week. 

The movers lost a few things. The shelves to our insanely heavy steel Sapien-ripoff bookcases are gone. There are pianos that weigh less than those shelves. My heart goes out to the household where those carefully wrapped, bubble rapped, multi-hundred pound bundles ended up. I’m also down an absurdly expensive Italian designed stepladder for which I had a dumb amount of affection. I’d bought it right after I moved into my loft in L.A. Flush with cash and short on storage room (I had none) everything had to do double duty as art and function. I hope whoever is now in possession of my (I won’t say how much because it’s just too white of me) ladder appreciates that it is a glorious piece of design. You know. For a step stool.

The family has been in and out helping us when and where they can. Deb and Curt Parker disinfected the kitchen the day we moved in. There are surgical theaters that have more germs than our kitchen cabinets did after that afternoon. Deb cheerfully cut shelf liner, eviscerated the contents of any box labeled “kitchen,” and within 3 hours, the place was newly inhabitable. 

Cass was here the moment I realized the shelves were gone. I don’t like those bookcases that much anymore. They were ideal for the skinny hallway in which they used to sit and, frankly, they looked silly here. However, the moment I realized that we couldn’t unpack our boxes of books, I let out a long, and sorrowful, “fuck,” and stood defiantly in our unpacked basement. 

Cass was there, arm around my shoulders. “Smoke a bowl,” she said. “It’s all going to be okay.” The empty and now useless spines of the bookcases are standing as a signal of utter Western greed and futility in our basement now, a reminder that I should have followed my instincts and sold them or given them away when we were still in L.A. 

So, we need new shelves. Herbert and I made the obligatory IKEA run yesterday which resulted in our taking home the things that always somehow vanish or need to be replaced in a house move: lampshades (hey, can we work on a design that maybe doesn’t guarantee utter disintegration of a lampshade in less than a decade?), bathroom rugs, dish towels, oven mitts, hooks, “Do we need a spice rack? What did we do with our spices in L.A.? Were they in a drawer? Why did we have the fucking spices in a drawer?”, and a new garbage can for the kitchen and, yes, an idea for the shelves which we plan on buying soon.

He was scarfing down the rest of the air in his nearly empty tank by the end. They should have marriage counselors staffed throughout IKEA stores. I mean, we made it through okay, by the skin of our teeth, mostly because our needs there were simple. I overheard so many “Well, I’m just answering your question” arguments about shower curtains and bed frames. IKEA is where fractured relationships go to die.

We are in love with our new castle. It’s lovelier than anything I deserve. Our neighborhood is quiet and, outside from the NRA sticker festooned Jeep Cherokee that keeps taking its half out of the middle in our narrow parking garage (I had to leave a note; I hate leaving notes, especially in Trump’s America), our neighbors also seem quiet and lovely. 

Then, there’s this: Herbert is going to start taking a new drug soon. The paperwork is long and demanding, and the saintly nurses at Barnes are taking care of that. This medication without insurance copays would cost us $96,000 a year. With copays: $3,000 per quarter, or about $12k annually. There is a copay program for which Herbert thinks he will qualify. In other countries, this medication, at most, costs between $100-$200 per month. 

The Senate had a moment last week where Americans could have started to purchase drugs from Canadian pharmacies. It was good, hardworking Sanders who put it up. These are the Democrats who voted it down:

Bennet (D-CO) Booker (D-NJ) Cantwell (D-WA) Carper (D-DE) Casey (D-PA) Coons (D-DE) Donnelly (D-IN) Heinrich (D-NM) Heitkamp (D-ND) Menendez (D-NJ) Murray (D-WA) Tester (D-MT) Warner (D-VA)

Even with insurance (our plan, in terms of copays, is excellent) if we were making more income, say if Herbert was working, I’d be spending over 10 grand a year on a medicine for which there is no generic. If we weren’t down to a single income, I have no idea what we’d do. If we don’t get approved for the copay, I still have no idea what we will do. I suppose, at that point, my only recourse is to be grateful for America’s Bankruptcy laws? 

I’ve been back to writing for money, which has taken a clear hit on my writing for sanity. Moving and Trump have been disruptive, but, like I did when we got a little settled at my dad’s house, I feel like some calm could be returning to our lives. The calm will calm, despite Herbert’s health, provided that I don’t have to sell the car to buy his drugs.