Nurse the Hate: The Girls In The Jeep

There is no greater sense of self-confidence, no matter how misplaced, than a Jeep Wrangler filled with upper class 18-19-year-old girls.  Matching Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, perfect teeth, outfits from the same retailer, soft hair blowing in the breeze.  They have the world by the balls, at least as far as they know.  The excitement of knowing anything can happen in their three-mile radius planet with one text message fuels manic chatter and consistent phone scrolling in their mighty suburban chariot.  I idle next to them in sharp contrast.

 

I am next to them in the turning lane.  I am an otherwise invisible middle-aged man.  I am an extra provided for background to the riveting drama of the girls lives next to me, no different than a tree or a cyclist.  I am not filled with excitement.  I am filled with anxiety and the constant stress of the unknown from the endless pandemic.  The heavy gray cloud of doom looms above.  I sit in front of a computer all day hoping to find someone that wants to buy something.  Most people don’t.  They are like me, not going anywhere or doing anything.  The traffic light changes.  The girls drive off smiling and laughing, leaving a bad pop song and the slight smell of expensive boutique shampoo. 

 

I drive on, merging onto the highway.  A massive pickup truck speeds up to prevent me from seamlessly joining traffic.  He has three lanes open but decides to jam me up for no apparent reason.  I accelerate and zip in front of him easily.  He flips me off and flashes his lights despite suffering no visible injury.  I drive a fast car.  In the last two months I have noticed aggressive driving directed towards me as if people are taking out their aggression on one of the only things available, drivers they feel need to be knocked down a peg.  I keep my head on a swivel and accelerate.  The enormous pickup takes this escape badly.  I receive more angry light flashes and middle fingers.  Shit.  I didn’t even do anything.  Fuses are very short.  Each week seems to get worse.  Things feel like they could blow at any moment.

 

In Ohio we are 28 weeks into relative quarantine.  I haven’t played music since March.  I haven’t been able to travel for my wine endeavors.  I can’t make money as the economy is on life support.  Each day seems like the last.  The complete failure of America to respond in a responsible way to the pandemic has stolen a year from us and counting.  I blame Trump directly, no matter how much blame can be spread around.  Trump is an incompetent fool.  He is a sociopathic con man that is capable of anything but is too stupid to have an agenda other than self-promotion.  As we huddle in the ashes, Trump seems like a sad clown, the man you goad at the bar to say something stupid so you can laugh at him.    

 

Social media documents a society that is fractured and angry.  The Trump True Believers have abandoned all decorum and now openly embrace racism and authoritarianism.  All people want to lash out.  Sunday I saw a guy with a long beard and a “Don’t Tread On Me” t-shirt walk maskless in a grocery store, practically begging for confrontation.  His eyes search for contact.  He prays for someone to call him out.  He looks unhinged, on his last rope.  I head home.  A local candidate stops by to tell me he’s for “law and order” with a wink, wildly misjudging my support of “keeping those troublemakers in line”.  He pauses, hoping I will give him a dog whistle so we can talk about “The Blacks” without that “PC crap” getting in the way.  I close the door on him.  Monsters now walk in the sunlight, no longer needing to hide their true nature.  This is 1968.  This is 1934.  This is 2020.

 

I sit in front of the computer.  I read the news.  It’s all bad.  There is no getting out of this.  There is no light at the end of the tunnel.  The band is going to write some new songs.  At least we will try.  It’s hard without meaningful stimulus.  The sun goes down.  The summer is starting to have that scent in the air of Fall, of wet leaves and earth.  This is Walden Pond with a 24-hour cable news cycle.  Winter had become Spring.  Spring became Summer.  Summer is turning into Fall.  A Jeep full of girls zips down the street.  They’re laughing and smiling.  They have it all.  I’m jealous.  I try to write a song.