November 4, 2021

That morning after . . .

1When the sun shone through his windshield that fall morning after the election, the first morning the sun had shone that week, the first morning frost had coated windshields that fall, once the first sun of the week had warmed away the first frost of the fall, he still couldn’t see clearly; the windshield hadn’t been washed — inside or out — for, he thought, probably five years.

Five years was a long time. And that particular five years preceding that first sun shining that week on the first morning that fall when frost coated windshields, had been extremely long, extraordinarily brutal, and especially difficult for him.

He thought.

But then: conditioned response instantaneous spasm of guilt. Who, he thought, was he to think he’d had an extremely long, extraordinarily brutal, and especially difficult five preceding years when so many others had been through far worse. If he wasn’t careful, the universe would do as his mother had always threatened when he had shed tears over things she thought unworthy of the weeping: she threatened to give him something to cry about.

Of course, his mother had died during those preceding five years when he had not washed his windshield inside or out, and through which that morning, even after the first sun of the week had warmed away the first frost of the fall, he still couldn’t see clearly.

In which event, by dying, she had indeed given him something to cry about. Which phrase, in his childhood he had thought to himself, “That should be ‘I’ll give you something about which to cry’, because you can’t end a sentence with a preposition.” Can’t, because Sister Anthony, of the School Sisters of Notre Dame, had told him so.

And more guilt. Because for a very long time he had been certain he knew more and knew better than did his mother. Of course, by then, that morning when he still had yet to wash his windshield, he’d long known that he had known neither more nor better than had his mother, she who had known he, for a very long time, had been certain he had known more and better, and yet she didn’t for one second, ever, hold that against him.

In fact, it turned out she had thought that, too. Her baseline belief was that almost everyone knew more and better than did she, a trait, he thought that morning of the first frost of the fall, she had passed on to him in the form of a fear that he was, always, somehow, less than, which fear he hid under a cover of aggressive know-it-all-ness, and dast anyone question or correct him he would react with an imperious raise of his left eyebrow and a retreat to a violent silence. He could not be wrong. Wrong was bad. Wrong was stupid. Wrong was less than.

And, of course, by that first frost of the fall morning, John Dryden’s 17th century edict about not ending sentences with a preposition had long been pooh-poohed, which, while still not having washed his windshield, inside or out, he thought was not a grammar change that was anything to cry about. Or over. And further, who was he to have ever thought he ought correct his mother?

Who was he? He who had gotten into his car and started to drive even though the sun shining through the windshield made it a haze of smears and swipes and spots and grime and dust and dreck through which he saw the world.

Sort of.

No excuse for the miasmatic patina he’d let grow, membranous, on his windshield. Through which, on that fall morning after the election, the first morning the sun had shone that week, the first morning frost had coated windshields that fall, once the first sun of the week had warmed away the first frost of the fall, he still couldn’t see clearly.

That was before taking into account his vision, which, in the preceding five years had continued to deteriorate. And for eighteen months of that half a decade, there had been a worldwide pandemic which meant even after he’d dropped his bifocals onto the pavement and scratched the right lens so there were dots and spots between him and the world, he couldn’t make an eye doctor appointment because he was locked down, quarantined.

And, anyway, he thought, things have been unclear to me for years. When he removed his glasses to shower or sleep, everything became an impressionist blur. He also took them off to hook up; he didn’t so much want not to see the other, but, somehow, he felt if the goings on were in dim lighting, the edges adumbrated for him, perhaps the vision of the other would be beclouded.

It was the twenty-two year old who used the classy sobriquet BWD — for the uninitiated that stands for Big White Dick — who made clear why it was best he obfuscate as much as possible when it came to tricking — for the uninitiated that stands for no strings attached sexual adventures — since he was not, was never, a first choice, but rather, he was he who was turned to after all the hes who were younger, more fit, more handsome, better situated to host, had said no. BWD, after having done the usual trade of pictures and settled on yes, told him to bring a blindfold.

So, he did, and as he got ready to enter and messaged BWD, “I’m here, I’ve got the blindfold. Should I put it on outside before I knock?” BWD replied, “Not you. Me. Don’t knock. Come in, go down the hall, last door on the right, I’ll be on the bed, face down, eyes closed, put it on me. I don’t want to see you.”

BWD was worthy of his nickname, and beautiful in the way men are before they’ve lived real choices; BWD was effortlessly tight of abs, ass, and neck, and thin, almost translucent, his limbs a glory of striations, delicately and meticulously applied like brushstrokes, and where his upper thigh ended and his ass began — and what an ass it was — there was no crease, no dimples, just smooth flesh, lightly furred with blonde, slightly curly hair.

He put the blindfold on BWD, and took all this in before removing his glasses so they’d not interfere in what was to be done. And he was thrilled that to BWD, he was just the pictures he’d sent — which were — ahem — a few years old and a few pounds lighter and, maybe, perhaps might have been, altered by a filter or two, or five, and, so that was the image BWD had of and would remember of him, as well as the things he did to BWD, which were — if he did say so himself — the work of a master.

When it ended, BWD said, “You can go. I’m gonna keep the blindfold for the next time.”

And so, go he had. And here had been next times. And then there had been a pandemic. And then it was that fall morning after the election, the first morning the sun had shone that week, the first morning frost had coated windshields that fall, and he was wondering what happened to BWD, and if he still had his blindfold. And he was driving in his car with the filthy windshield, the world slightly obscured by that, and, too, his lousy vision, and long overdue for a prescription change, not to mention scratched, eyeglasses, and then came rushing at him all the other things he had not seen clearly, like, all those years he assumed people were voting for fascists because they didn’t understand what they were voting for, when, in fact, it had turned out they knew exactly what they were voting for and somehow he’d missed seeing that approximately half the country thought he was less than because he loved hooking up with BWD (and many, many others), and believed in a woman’s right to choose so strongly he’d driven people to abortions, paid for abortions, and, too, had had as many, if not more, BBCs — for the uninitiated, figure it out — as BWDs, which certainly didn’t — he knew — qualify him as free of racism, but, whatever could be said about him — and there was plenty that could be said about him — he wasn’t a fascist. He’d never voted for a fascist, and he’d been warning since reagan that the gopzis were evil.

He’d sure as fuck seen that. And been right.

And that morning after the election, the first morning the sun had shone that week, the first morning frost had coated windshields that fall, when he’d driven there, where he was going, before he left, he got from the back of his car where he kept the supplies with which he cleaned other people’s houses, the vinegar-spray bottle, the flour-sack rags, and he washed his windshield. Inside and out.

And on the way back to where he was going, which was up a small mountain, the trees had begun to change, and the colors were stunning, and he and his mother, it had been one of their things together, the waiting for and watching the leaves change colors. And he missed her.

And he marveled at how clean the windshield was, or, rather, how filthy it had been.

There are, he thought, so many different kinds of blindfold.

And, he thought, maybe I will write about this. Maybe I will write about this morning when the sun shone through my windshield this fall morning after the election, the first morning the sun has shone this week, the first morning frost has coated windshields this fall, and how once the first sun of the week had warmed away the first frost of the fall, I still couldn’t see clearly; the windshield hadn’t been washed — inside or out — I’m thinking, for probably five years, and I will write about it because I need to figure out whether this feeling I am feeling — that I don’t want to see clearly, that I have had enough of seeing, that I have seen too much, that I don’t want to know — is real, or temporary, or curable, or even an illness?

And he missed his mom. And he missed his mom. And he said to her, though he didn’t believe even a little that she could hear him, “Mommy, you have to agree, this really is something to cry about.”

Right?

He did.

And so, here I am, going.