Disconnected

    I could tell I was never going to fit in with them as I walked by. I worried them, and I was a threat because of it. I could see the hate in their eyes for anyone who believed differently from what they did. They yelled as I walked by; taunting me, calling me names and questioning my character. How could anyone not find greatness in what they saw? Clearly, there was something wrong with me, in their eyes, because I couldn't grasp the feeling they all carried. They all desperately wanted something they could place their hopes into. Something that could lead them to better days ahead. They showed their convictions in many forms; hats, shirts, signs, banners, flags. And all of this madness started from the words that came from presidential candidate Ronald Drum's mouth.
    Ronald Drum had an aggressive reputation in the media. He was the son of a billionaire, inherited millions, started businesses, went bankrupt several times, but somehow always managed to live a lavish lifestyle. He was already in the press a lot before he ran for president, because had his own television show. In the show he taught young entrepreneurs how to be successful. With all of his fame, he still had zero political experience, but every bit of attitude. Stories often came out about outlandish, uneducated, inexperienced and mildly racist comments that he made. People questioned whether he could effectively run the country or not. That part was uncertain. But he certainly had a presence that was always felt. 
    I had never paid too much attention to politics. For me, it never mattered who was in control of the country. I had my own life to live, and rarely was it affected by the president. You couldn't help but to take notice of the 2016 election, though. With social media and technology, the world had never been so accessible. Everything was at the tip of your finger, even the things you didn't care about. The upcoming election was everywhere. That day, it happened to be in the city center downtown. There was a local rally for Ronald Drum, even though he wasn't making an appearance himself. A couple hundred people showed up to offer their support, and condemn anyone who didn't. Unfortunately, I felt their wrath as I was walking through the streets of downtown to meet my friend for some drinks.
    There was a buzz in the air that was drawing from the crowd at the city center that night. You could feel it in the cool breeze of the early April winds. The sky was graying as the shy rays of the sun sunk behind the bunched up clouds. I didn't feel compelled at all to confront the prejudices of the Drum supporters. I didn't feel anything, actually. I simply didn't care enough to. It was a long day at work, and I was ready to enjoy the night off with some beer.
    I walked into Common Place Coffee Shop to meet up with my friend Anthony. The mellow orange and red walls immediately set the mood for the shop. It was silent as a grave. There were people occupying every small table and couch, hypnotized by the glow from their phone and laptop screens. They all seemed to be the same person, but in different bodies to me. Thick rimmed glasses, sweaters, scarfs and facial hair on all the men. The women dressed about the same(minus the facial hair). I saw Anthony off in a corner table by himself, and made my way through the small sea of interchangeable ghosts to where he was seated.
    Anthony was an outlier almost everywhere he went. He wore an over-sized brown fedora to cover his head that had a short brown ponytail and a scruffy beard to match. His jeans, almost always, had holes in them, and his rolled up long sleeve flannel shirts draped from his skinny upper-body. He was never afraid to be himself, no matter how weird or unaccepted it was. He dared to live, dared to laugh at common sense and dared to be one of my best friends.
    I took a seat at his table as he put down the newspaper that he had been reading, and took a sip from his styrofoam coffee cup.
    "When I said we should go out for some drinks tonight, I meant ones that have alcohol in them," I said as I leaned back in the wooden chair.
    "You reek of cigarettes," Anthony greeted me. "No one in here smokes. It's very noticeable."
    "Good. Maybe if we're lucky, they'll kick us out. You know this isn't my scene, anyways. Why'd you change the plans to meet here?"
    "Because you were taking too long to get downtown. I didn't want to wait forever. So, I made some new plans until you got down here."
    "I would've been down here on time, but that Ronald Drum rally has traffic all clogged up. They aren't nice people either. They heckled me as I walked by. God forbid I don't give a s**t about what Ronald Drum is up to."
    "Did they really?!" Anthony leaned over the table, enthralled by my short story.
    "Yeah, they did. I'm already tired of this election. It splits people up. It's impossible to bring it up without offending someone."
    "Drum supporters have that reputation of hate, though. They're just not as educated as everyone who likes Tanner. They're a bunch of sheep, following someone else  because they can't think for themselves."
    "Let me guess who you're voting for."
    "It's no secret. Of course I'm going with Ernest Tanner. Did you see what happened to him yesterday?"
    "No, I didn't. You know I don't follow any of this."
    "Here," Anthony set his newspaper down in front of me. "Check out that story and tell me that guy doesn't have some sort of higher power working around him."
    The front of the newspaper had a picture of presidential candidate, Ernest Tanner, giving a speech about global warming and environmental dangers. During the speech, a leaf fell from a tree and landed right on his shoulder, staying in place as everyone cheered in the crowd. His supporters had a way of taking his word as gospel. Ernest Tanner was, in many ways, the opposite of Ronald Drum. He was soft-spoken, came from the working class, had political experience, marched in civil rights protests and did his best to connect with the people. He was often overshadowed by the personality of Ronald Drum, though. The Ernest Tanner supporters carried their beliefs in a different way from the Drum supporters, but they shared the same feeling. The feeling of strong convictions and disbelief to other point of views. The Tanner supporters, generally, discounted anything Drum related, because it wasn't up to their standards. They laughed at the notion, talking down from their intellectual thrones to any belief but their own. Whereas the Drum supporters, often, lashed out in rage and outcry at other point of views. They both felt the same, but expressed it in different ways.
    "He sure seems to be in tune with nature. Are you ready to get out of here?"
    "That doesn't phase you at all does it?" Anthony asked while staring at me with his arms crossed. I could feel his disbelief for my disinterest.
    "Not really. Lets get out of here," I insisted.
    We walked through the front door of the coffee shop, and took our usual place on the sidewalks that we always walked down. Between the Drum rally and the Tanner article that Anthony had showed me, it was hard not to be aware of the political climate that was in the air. No matter what side they were on, people wore looks of hope on their faces, and saw better futures in their eyes. For how big the country is, it was strange to think that towns like ours were what really mattered for polling numbers in the election. Towns with small communities, towns where the same brick buildings stood for generations, towns where the street lights never grew brighter, towns where you memorized the cracks on the sidewalk, towns that were ordinary in every way. Big cities had an allure to them that we didn't carry, but little towns, like ours -in the forgotten heartland of the country- were the ones who really spoke for the voice of the everyday person.
    We walked two blocks to Little Henry's Pub. It was one of our regular spots to meet up, laugh, drink and blow money. The steps lead down from the side walk to the front door. The inside had low hanging lights from the short ceiling. There were arcade games in the corner, next to the jukebox and a pool table in the center of the room that always had the sound of pool balls clattering off of each other. And everything else had a wood finish; wooden counter, wooden walls, wooden floors and wooden booths. Not much had changed in Little Henry's Pub over the years. Every crack in the wall and stain on the floor held a memory in it to someone.
    We got a pitcher of beer and sat in a booth, off to the side. It was around eight at night, and the pub usually didn't get crowded until later, but it had a good number of people in it. Just about everywhere you looked, there was someone standing or sitting. Then after I saw a few shirts saying the same thing, it dawned on me. Part of the Ronald Drum crowd had filtered in from the city center.
    I looked at Anthony, who was surveying the crowd throughout the bar. His eyes were focused on a small group wearing Drum shirts.
    "Don't stare too hard. You might strain your eyes or something," I said before finishing off the last of the beer from my cup.
    "I just don't get it," Anthony returned his focus to our table. "How could someone actually think Ronald Drum is a good fit for president? The guy is a complete joke. Do they not have any political education, or do they just like him because of that stupid TV show he had?"
    "I have no idea. You're asking the wrong person."
    "You're right," Anthony shifted his vision back to the Drum supporters. "I should ask them. Who knows, maybe I can even educate them as to how dumb their candidate really is."
    "Jesus Christ. I just wanted to come out and enjoy the night. Now you're trying to turn it into a political debate? Unbelievable."
    "Relax. It'll be fine."
    "I'm staying right here."
    "Suit yourself," Anthony said as he stood up from the table and walked over to the Ronald Drum supporters.
    I sunk down where I sat, and tried to distance myself from Anthony. I never enjoyed any kind of confrontation, let alone one over something I genuinely didn't care about. I watched the golden liquid and foam cascade from the pitcher into my plastic cup and took a sip. I looked over to Anthony to see how long it would take for him to anger the Drum supporters. There was a buzz of conversation from the small crowd echoing throughout the room, but I could still make out  parts of Anthony's conversation.
    Anthony's counterpart looked to be in his mid-thirties. He wore a white shirt that was tucked into his jeans, tightly constricting his belly that poured over the waistline of his jeans. He had a brown mustache on his face, with a red hat that read "Drum Is The One," covering his head.
    "You actually support his views on immigration?" Anthony asked with his arms crossed.
    "You're god damn right I do," the man answered. "We don't need people coming in this country and f*****g it up. Not everything is all willy nilly like Ernest Tanner wants you to believe it is."
    "I just don't understand how you could say that. People deserve to have the best chance at life. If they think coming here to do it can do that for them, then why wouldn't we accept them?"
    "Because they're not all good people, buddy. They're coming over here to sell drugs and rape our women. We need to keep this country pure, not dirty it up."
    "Wow. Do you even hear what you just said?! That's so racist! How can you support that idea?"
    "Because I support America."
    "Have you even considered..."
    I tuned their conversation out, and reached in my pocket until I felt the tip of my pack of cigarettes. Their conversation was useless. It was already over before it began. They were in a tug of war, but the only thing they were pulling was their own beliefs. Nothing either one of them said would persuade the other to change their thoughts. Their minds were made up. People have a way of wanting the world to adjust to their own way of thinking. Rarely do they accept that certain aspects just cannot be changed.
    I rested a cigarette in between my lips as I made my way through the front door and up the steps leading to the sidewalk. It was dark out now, and the yellow glow of the street lamps replaced the fading sunlight. There was a cool breeze in the air. I lit the end of my cigarette and inhaled deep. I blew away every thought of the election in my head when I exhaled. As the smoke trailed out from my lips, I caught my friend Craig walking on the other end of the street and we waved to each other. I had known Craig for years. We often saw each other in passing just about everywhere. When you're so ingrained in something, like we were in local life, you notice every small detail. Not much slips by without you noticing. In fact, not much changed over my years of living in town at all. It was hard to believe that whoever won the election would change my way of life. For more than half of my life, I had lived in the same town. Throughout the years living of living there, I saw the same things; the same old town, the same buildings, the same people, the same opportunities and the same feelings of urgency that were brought up in previous elections. But yet, there we were, living the same life as always. Everyday was politics as usual.

   
   

Reviews

[barleygirl]

Very interesting commentary on the 2016 election. Your writing, so far as I've experienced in a few readings, is well-stated, well-organized, & chock full of unique observations on many aspects of life. I think it's rare for anyone to write about politics without having a distinct point of view. In this piece, I really get the sense that the narrator doesn't care very much about the outcome (comes across as believable). I feel that being devoid of an opinion makes for better writing becuz (as you've done here) it's possible to present more than one viewpoint with both high points & low points. Also, you are very good at drawing a character portrait in just a short piece like this, using observations & actions, showing instead of telling. Even your critical commentaries do not come across as scathing & judgmental, but rather just as observations.

[Timothy Ryan]

Your reviews are great. Can't thank you enough for taking the time to read my stuff. It's encouraging me to wanna put even greater of an effort into my work. You're the best.