That Thursday Morning

Early that Thursday morning, Brian Newell’s pristine, cobalt blue Camry hybrid idled noiselessly at the red light on 17^th. Southbound on Bayshore, its upholstery’s “off gassing volatile compounds” gave its interior that cloying new car smell. On the intersection’s far side, a line of cars coiled endlessly into the future. Ezra Klein’s podcast, with the volume set to three, streamed from the car stereo. Brian found the barely audible rhythm of Ezra’s voice soothing as a monk’s chant. Since Donald Trump’s second inauguration, Brian sought moments of serenity amid the upheavals around him. He once believed knowing empowered him. Now, knowing scared the bejesus out of him. It was not knowing that allowed him to sleep at night. Not knowing allowed him to act as if things were almost normal. No more NPR. No more New York Times. Certainly, no more MSNBC. He found no solace from the other side. Fox News, cheerleading hatred and xenophobia. The Wall Street Journal masking a rising oligarchy in the pious language of late-stage capitalism. He tried not to trouble himself with words, or worse the ideas behind them. On more than one occasion, he dreamt of forgetting how to read.

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