If you read two books simultaneously, you are bound for the switch-ups. Conflating the plot, themes of one book with another. Or worse, outright forgetting to process each as an individual. Tonight I learn the same is true for lives. I hear three knocks on my front door, followed by a low, troubled voice.
“Are you gonna open the door or are you gonna keep being a bitch?” The knocks continue, this time a slightly higher wavering voice follows.
“She's not opening the door, we might have to knock it down.” Louder thumps ensue.
For the past hours Bert and Ernie have been knocking on my door . It’s late, bordering on midnight. They remain persistent probably due to the countless false allegiances I've sworn to both of them. In deep shades of red and blue I’ve existed nver gaining the gall to tell them in which hue my heart truly lies.
I remain in bed motionless at the sound of their rumbles and curses. I find myself not in a state of fear or shock but rather impressed. Two beings alive and aligned in their want for my total decimation. Feelings of marvel and fascination are revealing themselves within me in a manner that borders the inappropriate.
And it’s not as if I am unaware of my situation, it's course for danger and absurdity. Nor that I think that there are currently two grown men at my door. It’s Bert and Ernie. They’re puppets, banging their felt bodies against the wood of my door, powered by larger hands. But rather that I have no choice but to be accustomed to events inconceivable in their contradiction. Im
not a stranger to violence or to puppets; in fact, during the day, I spend my time at some of our world’s greatest puppet shows. The most recent? A young Republicans convention.
“With all your liberal sympathies, it’s hard to see why you would choose this career path.” I was sharing a cigarette with a speaker behind the convention building. And it seemed as if he was misunderstanding me on purpose.
“You're not listening to me. I don't have “liberal sympathies,” I am a liberal. Leftist. There's a difference, I think.”
He laughed, and I could tell he was getting his fair bit of fun out of taunting me. “So again, I question why here? I’ve seen you zipping around this conference. You do media consulting. Right? For Mike?”
“I do.”
“And how’s that lining up?”
“Lining up? It’s lining up great actually. I thought his campaign was finished after that whole gay couple in the kids show debabcle, but in his recent approval poll it-”
The speaker was quick to interrupt me. “ I meant, how is that lining up with your worldview?” I bit my tongue as I was forced to reckon with the small amount of joy I garnered from talking about the campaign. A pause between the two of us lingered.
“Do you know what the DSA is?” I asked and then quickly interjected, “Democratic Socialists of America. Did you know I was a member? Yup, from 2017-2019. In fact, I think I'm still on the email list.”
“I take it your no longer a practicing?”
“Im so bisexual so the thing with the homophia it was really-”This time he interjected.
“Im sorry what point are you making here?”
“The point that im making here is that I obviously don't prefer this career path. I've done the work, and this” I motion to me, him, and the everything surrounding us “is just a job. Anyways, save me the guilt trip, you're the one who should feel bad.”
“Feel bad for who?”
“I don't know. Just bad in general. You go on that stage and you give life to positions of cruelty.”
“Well I’d argue I'm not giving life to anything people didn’t already believe. If so, I wouldn't have as much as a platform.”
“But there’s still, you know, propaganda. making the people believe in something they didn't prior.”
“Isn't that more your job?”
“Right. Sure.”
“Again I don’t want to be rude but why are you talking to me?”
I again motion to the world around us. My voice rose to a high ,unconvincing pitch as it was obvious neither of us was really sure why this conversation was occurring. “It’s…you know. A cigarette break.”
Bert and Ernie have yet to let up, and the bangs, though louder, are still continuous. A stubborn hour passes before they grasp that my door won't be bursting down via the power of their plush anytime soon. The voices continue a back-and-forth about the problem at hand.
“Yeah, no, this door is not coming down.”
“Well then, how the hell are we supposed to get in?”
“God, I don't know. Let me think.”
There exists a few seconds of mute in which both the voices and the bangings come to a halt. All that’s left for me to tune into is the heaviness of my breath. Strangely, I find myself more focused on Bert and Ernie’s ability to problem solve rather than my own safety. What will they do now, I wonder, until the voices continue.
First, the low voice “We can go around the back.”
Then the wavering “The back door?”
“Yes, quick, let’s go around the house, I bet it’s not locked.”
In May of 2018, I walked across the severely underused football field of American University to receive my bachelor's in political science. The degree was laminated, serious, and for a few moments, my heart was allowed to feel tinges of accomplishment. But in the years that followed I’ve found myself playing a game in which I try to find new and adequate uses for it. Cleaning up coffee spills, dabbing off sweat, taping over my face as an eye mask.
I think it’s that last method, my use of the paper as a veil between wake and rest, that gave rise to this. These puppets and their bone to pick. I know why they’re here, just as I know why, when I look in the mirror, I can only see doubles. The want to weave between two pockets of being.
When Bert and Ernie finally enter, it is with a rush of preparation. I peek over the diploma laying over my eyes to get a glimpse of whats’s to come. The familiar puppets just as they are seen on tv but with arched angered brows and floating limbs guiding their movements. I quickly pull my blanket over myself so as not to face them head on. My motion was speedy but ultimately futile. Even though I couldn't see their beings in my rooms, it would be impossible not to feel them. Throwing themselves into me just as they did with my door, I feel soft toppings with a firm knuckled core banging across my body. The hits are painful and I know when this is over I’ll have to face my body covered with bruises,scratches generalized marks of past violences. But despite this, I try to best to take the hits without a reaction. Biting my tongue to stop any shrieks from escaping my mouth. Instead, I keep my face covered and lie motionless, ready to wait however long it may be for my puppet-based punishments to end.
I know it’s morning when the attacks have stopped and the rising sun starts to obtrude the space between my eyelids. I wake alone in my bed and fate wavers within the futility of my actions. The lack of hand inside of me illustrates every move upheld by choice.I keep my body without motion until I reach over to my desk and grab my phone. Eyes open. Two messages materialize.
Gmail
JOIN US NEXT WEEK FOR A SIT-IN AGAINST THE FASCIST REPUBLICAN COMMITTEE
Imessage
Sorry, but can you come into work early today?