The truth

THE SIGHS WERE LOUD. A simultaneous exhale so prolonged it raised CO2 levels by ten percent. The exhale of a nation that had been holding its breath for four years, now relaxing its lungs to release a collective sigh of relief, of joy, victory, a ringing ahhhhh that spread across sixty percent of the land, from sea to shining sea.

First CNN had announced it, then the New York Times. Soon there was a consensus amongst every major news outlet. Except one, but Leda and her friends never watched that one. As far as they were concerned, that one didn’t exist.

It was official! The election had been called. The horrible, hateful, evil, narcissistic, grossly incompetent president had been ousted! Safety had come for the immigrants, the religious minorities, the dark-skinned people, the air and water, the plants and animals, all the vulnerable beings of this nation, at long last. 

Leda and her friends had been on the front lines. Maddie had traveled to Nevada and Pennsylvania to register voters, made phone calls and sent text messages late into the night, had taken off work for a week to drive poor and elderly people to the polls. Alisha had been a fundraising powerhouse, setting up collection drives in the financial district, on the tech company campuses, holding weekly vegan bake sales outside the marijuana dispensary. Leda was getting out the youth vote, registering college voters three times a week for the last six months.

The three of them shared a celebratory pitcher of cider in the anarchist bar, watched the new president give their speech. Even the anarchists were celebrating, mosh-pit dancing around the bar in their black denim and chains. It was startling to see given that they didn’t believe in democracy or happiness.

“I can’t believe it,” Alisha said.

“I know,” Maddie said. “Who would have thought we’d have an Indigenous president.”

“Or a two-spirit one,” Leda said. “It seemed like such a long shot.”

My first act in office will be to return all stolen refugee children to their families, and to grant automatic asylum and citizenship to any family that has faced the horrors of separation, the new president said. Then we will grant citizenship to all Dreamers and release all prisoners convicted of non-violent drug offenses. All of these people will be employed, if they desire, in the massive reforestation efforts…

“It’s like we’ve been in some kind of alternate universe for the last four years,” Alisha said. “Like we’ve finally come back to reality.”

“How could anyone have thought any of that was okay?” Leda asked.

“Some people liked it,” Maddie said. “They looked around at the hatred, the racism, the destruction of the environment, and they thought: this is going great.”

“I’ll never understand those people,” Leda said. “It’s like they were living in a different version of reality.”

The waitress brought a second pitcher of cider, topped off their pint glasses.

Alisha raised her glass in the air.

“To this version of reality,” she said. “To the truth.”

They clicked their glasses together, Maddie, Alisha and Leda—happy, exhausted warriors for freedom and justice.

“To the truth,” they said.

Leda sighed. For the first time in four years, she could relax.

* * *

“This is war,” said the man on the other news station, the one Leda and her friends and the anarchists never watched.

We will begin immediate, scientific investigations into the epidemic of violence plaguing our communities, the new president said.

“Listen to that, um—,” the news man said. “I still don’t know, is it a he, a she? Whatever it is, it wants to take away your guns.”

Two hundred miles from Leda and her friends, two women with painstakingly curled hair sat at a table drinking shots of whiskey. Neither of them usually drank whiskey or shots, so they were both pretty drunk. Everyone in the bar was drunk. The new president’s speech, with commentary from the angry news man, was playing on the television.

“I just can’t stop thinking about the babies,” the blonde woman said. Her voice sounded like she’d been crying.

“I know,” the redheaded woman said. “It’s like no one cares.”

A headline ran under the president’s speech: Will our president passively accept the results of this coup?

“It has to be a coup,” the blonde woman said. She pronounced it like coop. “No one I know voted for—that—thing. It.”

“I think it’s a she,” said the redheaded woman. “I don’t see a bump where its dick would be.”

A young man with close-shaved hair and a white polo shirt plunked his beer down on their table, then sat down.

“Don’t worry, ladies,” the man said. “We’re working on this. We won’t let them steal our country. This is our country, and we plan to protect our women and children.”

The women looked at him like he was offering a tray of smelly cheese.

“We don’t need protecting,” the blonde woman said. “But thank you.”

“So you don’t believe in gender differences?” the man said. “Maybe you’re one of—” He tilted his head towards the television, where the new president was waving their arms proudly above their head. “—those”?

“Don’t be a dumbass,” the blonde woman said.

“Wait until the new dictatorship makes you a mandatory sex slave under Sharia law,” the man said. “Then we’ll see who’s a dumbass.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” the redhead said.

The man met her gaze. His eyes were a cool, icy blue.

“It’s already happening. Dearborn, Cedar Rapids. Forced marriages, Taliban running the streets. Police won’t even go in there.”

He squinted at the red-haired woman.

“Nice white lady like you,” he said. “You’d better pray they don’t give you to a Hispanic.” 

He took his beer and left.

“There’s not going to be Sharia law, right?” the redhead asked.

The blonde shook her head. “I don’t think so. But just in case, maybe it’s time to get a gun. While you still can.”

The redhead started crying.

“It’s going to be scary,” the blonde said. “But things will end up on our side. There are more of us than them, and plus, we have the most important thing on our side. Something they’ll never have.”

She lifted her shot glass, studied the centimeter of cloudy brown liquid left in it.

“The truth,” she said.

The redhead sighed and rubbed her hand across her forehead. Then, as though it took a great deal of bravery and physical effort, she lifted her glass to meet her friend’s glass.

“To the truth,” she said.

The two women clinked their glasses together, then finished the last sips of whiskey inside them. It was bitter, unpleasant, more of a man’s drink, but it made them feel strong for the fight ahead.

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