FRIEND GONE QANON

 The first time I heard about QAnon I was riding shotgun in my best friend's car. We were taking a drive to the Massachusetts border to check on a property that would soon be put up for sale. "Did you know that Hillary Clinton is involved in some really evil stuff? They use a pizzaria as a front, but in the basement Hillary, and others are using children as sex slaves, and they push child porn out into the internet. A lot of people are part of this underground society - Senators, Jews, Hollywood, they've all bought in, but you can trace it all back to the Clintons. QAnon is an eye-opening source of information, they're bravery is incredible. If you're not afraid to read the truth, check them out. Google QAnon, Q-A-N-O-N." It wasn't the first time I noticed my friend was veering to a place I deemed unsettling. A couple years before we had met up at a diner near her tony apartment in the city. Her son was back from military school and had showed up in uniform and somewhere between the tuna melts and rice pudding he jumped up from the table and did a goose step clearly for my benefit. My friend had said something about "the Jews" and right on cue he sprung into action with his well-rehearsed hate choreography then plopped himself down with a self-satisfied smirk. My friend's level of admonishment was slight as if her son had burped, or dropped his salad fork. They paid for my sandwich as some sort of consolation but on my long subway ride home to Brooklyn I couldn't shake the event. I called her when I arrived home and probed about her son's disturbing display and her underwhelming response. "Oh, my, GOD - he's a CHILD, Claudia!, I'm sorry you're upset but really, I can't believe we're still talking about this!" It was the first time I had spoken a word, in the moment I was stunned as the 15 year old spun tableside with his F'd up display. "Well, it's incredibly offensive, and you might have a word with him because he doesn't seem to get it. And P.S., He's not a child." She shrugged it off, I could tell from her demeanor and doubted she would circle back with "the child". "Anyway, it's no big deal he's sorry I love you, I'll talk to you later," she rushed me off the phone. I had listened to her ramblings and buy-ins to all sorts of fringe culture, I mistook her interests as a yearning to belong, a quest for knowledge beyond the media's "trusted" sources. And that day in the car I shook my head, inside my head, looking out the window waiting for the conversation to circle back to which farmstand we would stop at on the way home. The truth is I wasn't ready to say goodbye to one of my best friends. A friend that had been always been loyal, extremely generous, caring, and had always been a better friend to me than I had been to her - she was the closest thing I had to a sister. But the year went by, I was seeing post after post on social media - the tenor was ratcheting up. The hate for the girls in the pink pussy hats, those stupid b*tches ordering crocheted hats from Etsy, uploading march selfies on Instagram, her anger made me uncomfortable. Still, I was doubting myself. Where did I stand exactly. Things had gotten so confusing, where did the truth lie? Should I be angrier with the establishment, are the libs fronting? Am I missing the truth? I'd always had so much love and respect for my friend, her intellect, her intelligence, she had never steered me wrong. But one day it became clear that she had jumped the shark a long time ago. I blew up on one of her posts, and an angry death match ensued, some of her friends jumped in to have her back. I unfriended and blocked her and in 30 seconds - undid a 30 year friendship. She called me moments later, I had run from my building trying to get some air - she was clearly blindsided, I'd never uttered a word around her devolving revelations, "what the f*ck is going on with you??" she implored. I started screaming into the phone, I had no idea what I was saying, I couldn't find the words so I hung up mid-sentence - we haven't spoken since. And now that Q is in the forefront, and the source of such horror, disgrace, and death, I remember that scenic drive through New England on that beautiful Fall day. For me it bookmarked a a horrific turning point for our country, a stunning reveal of our violent and ugly underbelly, and the inception of a heart-wrenching loss of an irreplaceable friend.

THE WOKE WALK BACK

 The constant checking of my personal bias was becoming downright exhausting. I was seriously considering burning all my Harley Davidson T-shirts, they simply weren't meeting the moment. The vast collection I had amassed since I was a pre-teen had become an identifier of a small bigoted mind, a foul mouthed blow hard, those black HD tees - were pretty much akin to donning a red baseball cap. A few months after the election - a short, squirrelly man wearing white sneakers two sizes too big, limped across the street, shouting after me, "why you like Trump so much???" I was like, WTF in my head, he just pointed at the tee, I said, "ohhhh" 'n' set him straight. We both had a laugh and mentally high-five-ed over our mutual Trump Hate. A couple years later, now that things in the world, Brooklyn, had accelerant all over it, the orange and black T's weren't how I wanted to represent. But today, the clean t-shirt I found had Harley wings front n back. Agonizing between that and a crisp white Lacoste polo - I went with the more flattering of the two, opting for Bully-Chic vs Clam Bake Glam and headed out to the ATM. There were two machines, I took the open one, looked next to me and said, "hey, how you doin today," it was an NYPD officer. I forgot for a moment The Black Lives Matter movement, all the footage I had seen, how the NYPD Union endorsed Trump and wondered if my pleasantry was warranted. "But she's black, and a female," my brain said as I mentally patted myself on the back. She said in a serious tone, "you be careful out there," as she left. I was pretty sure she wasn't talking about the covid, but referring to the multiple shootings that had been going down around Brooklyn in the last few weeks. I told her to be careful, too and pondered what her experience must be like; being black, female, and a cop. And not necessarily in that order ZING, I surmised, patting myself on the back for my deeper dive. Maybe she liked my HD T-shirt, as the deconstructing of the moment continued, there was so much work to do. But the fact was, people had mistaken me for an off-duty cop on several occasions because of it. I walked into a bodega one night near Coney Island and heard two men speaking to each other excitedly in Spanish, "blah, blah, blah, ICE!! ICE!!" The guy behind the counter took one look at me and reassured them, "No ICE." But as they left they gave me the stink eye just for good measure. And now I was headed downtown. I was questioning my demeanor, my walk, my posture as well. Were my steps like some weird singular formation? My posture too militaristic? I tried to slump a bit, to look less aggressive but I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw an old, tired Jewish lady, and quickly corrected myself. Shoulders back, I headed into an Old Navy to swap out my HD Tee's with some non-redneck, two-for-12 specials. A security guard stood watch as I perused, I took notice and jested, "you think you can outrun me?" He looked me up and down and said, "I dunno, you look like you're in pretty good shape." I was flattered - the shoulders-back posture was already paying off. I was on a sassy roll and smiled, "come on, I think it's safe to say you've got the advantage..." But I was like, "DOH!!" in my head and it was very safe to say I had just said something under bias. Had I offended him with my implication of his athletic superiority based on his blackness and unusually long legs? GAH! I paid at the register and threw him a peace sign on the way out, wondering to myself, what does that even MEAN anymore. "Bye, Honey!" he shouted after me, I was so relieved that we were still friends that the possibly sexist/overly familiar term of endearment - failed to trigger the alarms in my head. Heading on home I passed an NYPD cruiser, two white male officers popped out with no place in particular to go. The young one's cute, I noticed, the other one's kinda looking like Twitchy Trigger Finger Poster Child, my thoughts went unchecked. The young one half checked me out, but both officers ultimately ignored me. They're on the job, I justified, because I was butt hurt the young one passed on saying "hi". But a thirty-something black man wearing Bermuda shorts with tiny embroidered lobsters on 'em approached the corner. The cops lit up, "hey, how ya doin!" but lobster pants ignored the cop's public service greeting. I kinda stood to the side for a while and noticed the PD officers said,"hey, how you doin" to every young black man who walked by. It's profiling, but is it profiling for good? I had the immediate realization I was in wayy over my head - best to shut down my stupid white girl thoughts, I was clearly in the midst of some twisted half-Karen moment. I was exhausted, my bias headspace was spent. Just then I saw a nice young man on a sherbet colored Vespa, I did a double take because it's not every day you see a black dude on a peach colored 150cc scooter with matching topcase. He shouted after me, "HEY! HEY!!" he was stopped at the light as I was crossing the street. I walked over to him and said, "hey, what's up." He was gleefully pointing at the Harley Davidson logo postered on my chest, "ya ride? that's super cool, Lady!" giving me the thumbs up. I gave him the affirmative biker nod as bikers tend to do - we bobble-headed together in silence until the light told him to go. On the way home I thought to myself, I could write a story about all this, but I knew it would end up being all kinds of wrong. A total minefield, I'd be wrong out of the gate, are you ready to piss off your friends? But in a moment of divine intervention a voice said "fuck it!" so I spent the next ten blocks second guessing myself, wondering where the hell I would even begin.

A PAY IT FORWARD CHRISTMAS TALE

So I get this email saying my package from Kohl's was delivered. Only, I hadn't ordered anything from Kohl's. So I trudge down to the lobby, and it's this giant box, I had ordered the hot kitchen gadget du jour three months before that went missing- the store sent out the replacement that week and I'd been enjoying it for months. Seemed the lost unit suddenly got unlost and showed up at my door - 3 months later. It's a beast - it weighs like 30 pounds. So I hauled it upstairs and got on the phone to Kohl's. I explained the situation, the sweet customer service rep said "thank you for calling us!!" and told me they would have it picked up the next day - but suddenly put me on hold, came back on and said - "just keep it". Seems the no-longer-missing unit confused their system - it didn't exist so they couldn't take it back. She told me to donate it then suggested that Christmas was coming and maybe someone on my list would love to have it which made me sad because I don't really "do" Christmas anymore and have no people on a list. I offered to gift it to her, she laughed and said she'd love it but couldn't accept it. So I had this giant box sitting in the middle of my living room. I told a couple of friends about the duplicate culinary device and begged them to take it off my hands. They found it intriguing, but when push came to shove they declined. No one was having the "must-have" item of the season. They all suggested that I sell it, which felt weird because I'd gotten it for free, but my attempts to "pay it forward" had not payed off. So I listed it on a couple of selling apps and Facebook. "Sealed in box! You register it in your name!" - less than half price -seemed like a great deal to me. But the time wasters came out in droves. I'd almost resigned myself to using the giant box as a coffee table when a nice lady on Facebook messaged me and said, "I'd like to make an appointment to pick up the item today, thank you!" She got off work at 4PM and would drive right over. Her name was "Tijuana" - like the border town, she confirmed. She was maybe 4 feet tall - wide as she was tall. She had on a long down-filled puffy coat which came down to her ankles, making her look like she was scooting around in a sleeping bag. Cornrows, a cute little smile, a warm, festive demeanor. She handed over the money and asked me to count it to make sure it was all there. I was worried about her carrying this hulk of a box out to her car and offered to help her, but the little dynamo picked it up like it was a shoebox. She paused, turned to me and said, "thanks for selling it to me for such a good price, I know these things cost a lot more." It kinda got me, I had gotten it for free, but I took the nod, listened to her say she was gonna break it out that weekend and go to town - and with that the stout caterpillar scooted into the night. Her spirit really touched me, her generous comment and pixie smile stuck with me long after I got back into my apartment. I could breathe again with that box gone. It felt good - so I looked around to find my next victim. And there is was - another over-sized, must-have gadget that NASA undoubtedly had a hand in designing. Space shuttle-sized, it had to go to. And in that moment I knew where it had to go to: Tijuana. I sent her a message that next morning, she cheerfully accepted my gift and showed up that night- in her de rigeuer caterpillar duster jacket, tiny sneakers peaking out. She noticed the cardboard pet food box I brought the contraption down in - she asked me how many pets I had - she had several small dogs, seemed everyone counted on her to take their puppies after the novelty wore off, but she didn't mind, Tijuana didn't have a cynical bone in her beach ball body. Suddenly her phone went off, bursting into song -a glorious gospel ringtone explosion- the spirit moved me into some jack-ass raise-the-roof dance. She giggled and put it on silent- "aww, that's just my nephew, he calls me all day long" we laughed again, the spirit still with me, I gathered up the smiley, plump caterpillar into my arms and squeezed her with all my might. We said our goodbyes, Tijuana snapped up her gift wrapped casually in an old cardboard box, exclaiming, "God Bless you!!" and rolled out into the night. It was a nice way to enter the season - a chill in the air, a spirited ringtone salutation, and that makeshift special someone to check off my Christmas list.

HALLOWEEN TALE

So there was this family dressed up for Halloween, taking their young boy out for Trick or Treating. The dad was wearing oversized pumpkin glasses, the mom - rocking a witch's hat. Their little boy was dressed to the nines as a wizard. Only thing is, it's the day after Halloween. The family walked solemnly down the quaint, deserted Carroll Gardens block - the boy dragging his deflated Halloween sack - muttering to his sneakers in French which was indecipherable to me, save for the occasional utterance of the phrase "Trick or Treat" - for which there is no translation.

NOWHERE CHER

I was friends with this girl in either Junior High or High School - very briefly. She lived near me and I would walk over to her house - they had a lot of white shag carpeting and a dog to match - a beautiful Samoyad - perfectly coifed. In the living room they had a glossy white grand piano and I would sometimes accompany her - doing her best impression of Cher. She would wear a halter top and hold her arms just like Cher, hands dropping, belting out those A side and B side tunes. She had a nice voice which she disfigured singing through her nose to get those Cher-like tones. The few times I was over I never saw an adult anywhere. The house was silent, almost padded (due to the sea of shag) until she filled it song. I still remember how soft that dog was, perfectly coifed - I had no idea who was tending to the animal. The whole thing had a kind of Grey Gardens effect - although the inhabitant was 14 and everything was white and brand new. Just last year I got a friend request from her - some forty-plus years later, now seemingly transformed into a tragic figure. Seems she was living on the fringes of society, the posts had a distinct victim voice. Now Cher is no one's victim - so it was surprising - plus she had been a smart, kind of "with it" teen - so I was wondering how this world-view had come to be. Her son had joined the military and it soon became apparent that her lodging might be in question. She started posting items for sale - only those you part with when times are dire. A mattress, a worn coffee table, and old washer dryer all on Facebook marketplace. I could tell by her posts that she would be un-hirable - her state-of-mind would not present well at any interview. Friends would post potential job opportunities - but were always met by crickets by my old friend. One day I had posted some light-hearted thing on my page which she responded to with a "me too" comment about a near miss experience involving almost-assault and possible rape, it was really out of place and awful. I sent her a private message saying she had misunderstood - and some sorry attempt at being sympathetic around her trials which obviously fell short -she read it and never responded back. It wasn't long after that - that her posts came to a sudden halt. Weeks and months went by, her friends would post "where are you - I'm so worried about you" posts. I couldn't have been the only one who was wondering if she was living in a car, on the street, or worse. The posts from friends kept coming, people would give them a thumbs up or the crying emoji. Cher was nowhere, I assumed something horrible had happened. Until today. I saw a profile of a guy I knew in high school. He was the first guy I kissed. I was in the basement of his house, I had followed his cute, popular friend there after school - but the cute friend proposed that I kiss his shy friend and it was terrible. How could I know it was terrible, it was my first kiss, but it was. He was nervous, and trembling horribly, an icky memory - so naturally, I wanted to see what had become of him so I clicked on his Facebook profile. The guy was still "shy" - he had like 40 Facebook friends, and one of them appeared to be Cher. Only she had created a new profile, a new version of her name, stating she had moved to a new town as a Facebook event. Her old profile photo was blurred as though looking at someone through punch-drunk eyes - it was now replaced by a new, crisp photo. I wasn't sure it was her, I hadn't seen her since her teenage make-shift lounge act - but I was sure, in the end. Now, I can't claim to understand depression, or severe mental health issues but lord knows I've tried. I understand wanting to re-invent yourself, to start fresh - but what I don't understand is wanting people to think that you're homeless, living on the streets, or have perhaps committed suicide. All these friends reaching out to her on her page - and I imagine in Private Message - which she clearly got but left each and every one of them hanging while she tweaked her new/improved profile. Maybe if I tried a little harder, gave it a bit more thought I'd get there. Do I lack empathy, see it as just another story? But it's this ending I can't quite grasp - the disappearing act, the studied air of mystery, the silent reinvention - all Cher-like traits come to think of it, sans tragedy.

THE TENATIOUS WOULD-BE TENANT

Well, it's been a long, interesting journey finding a tenant for my rental. Perhaps people looking to secure housing aren't their "best selves" - the last gentleman put me through the ringer. Sixty-plus, fastidious, with great sensitivity to noise. Although he owned a condo just 2 blocks away, he was seeking a nest with "zero noise". Now my rental is off the street, facing a quiet courtyard, he checked out the windows and inquired about installing "sound proof" windows. He nervously scoured the 600 square food space, scanning for evidence of annoyances. I suggested he look at unattached housing, to which he did not respond. He asked if he could come back at 9PM to garner findings about noise levels when neighbors would be home. I needed an out. I did allow him to return, and spent most of the time coming up with reasons why he would not find the place to his liking. Still, later that evening, he sent me a lengthy text - asking to return at 9AM to "make more notes". Now, I'm a person who doesn't suffer fools gladly. Yet, I couldn't find a way to extricate myself from this nervous gent. I turned down his request for a 9AM, then he sent another two lengthy texts about his schedules, appointments, and his next available window which would be 9:30 the following morning. I spoke to fellow landlords that gave me an out - but I created my own, a response to his inquiry to purchase the unit after a "trial" period. Told him it would be unlikely that I would part with the unit, to which he responded, "I would be happy to be your life-long tenant." So push-over here let him back in. He began nervously scanning the apartment again, but this time busying himself with a tape measure and copious notes, asking me for exact measurements for ceiling height of closets, I could get back to him that afternoon. I started jabbering away at why he would never be happy in such a space, but he was in the zone. He only spoke up to report he had looked into "sound proofing" - he had a plan that involved staplegunning a double layer of towels to my freshly painted walls. But soon after he determined that he could "never be satisfied" living in a studio apartment; that he couldn't sleep unless he had a closed bedroom door. Although I had suggested this from the very beginning, and he assuring me that this was the perfect fix for his "downsizing" plan, he finally determined after much handwringing and note-taking that my apartment would not meet his rigorous requirements. After he left, I engaged a realtor to sell the apartment. The steady stream of apartment seekers had worn me down. The realtor was eager to see the pad, he brought an associate over the very next morning. We discussed what they would offer, and came up with a price. Yet, the next morning I was filled with doubt. I still loved the space, and it had served me well as a rental, albeit with some drama, for almost the last 30 years. But my inquiries had slowed to a halt. It had been on the market for 9 days, which qualifies it as a stale listing in this desirable Brooklyn 'hood'. As I mulled over what to do - lower the price, hire a realtor to handle the rental, or perhaps a property manager to deal with the drama both before and after move-in, I got a lone inquiry. She showed up the next day, a young advertising gal, very polite. She and her mother walked in, within 30 seconds she turned to me and said, "I love it!!! - I can't believe it's still available!!!" We signed a lease within the hour. This isn't a tale about faith, about the universe, although I don't discount that. I did put my hands together, looking up at the sky - and thanked, well, the sky - but it was most likely just blind luck. As I like to say to myself, "it only takes one." But that can be broad, as I got a doozy of "ones" - until the "right" one appeared.

THE WIDOWER

There's a man in my building, his wife had suffered from MS long before her untimely death a couple of years ago. She was a real cool woman, funny, ironic, really open about her "situation" and life in general. They had two kids, the girl in high school - an incredibly talented singer, super smart, a "big girl", spent a lot of time in therapists' offices. The son who was in college was a gifted athlete who was considering playing pro baseball, he, too had his own demons which may or may not have been fast-tracked due to his mother's illness or the fact that he broke his arm a week before training season. Anyway, this man who lost his wife - he was frumpy, shy, introverted and gentle. I felt so sorry for him and I thought perhaps I should invite him to the movies or something, just to get him out - I knew he dearly loved his wife. So one day I engaged him in the elevator and asked him how he was doing. He said he was doing okay, that he had started dating but he wasn't looking for anything serious. I guess he immediately started dating a close family friend and it was going well but he had "cut her loose" because there were "so many options". I guess a lot of women wanted to "take him to the movies" - and not in the innocent way I had considered. Cut to a couple years later - he's hot n heavy with a woman in the building who wears a lot of leopard print - I see them dining in the window in a few of a local eateries. His kids - I haven't seen either of then in the building for over a year. Today I passed him on the street on my way home from a walk in the 'hood - he was wearing a Burberry jacket, dad-jeans replaced by something less ill-fitting (he had dropped quite a few pounds), aviators hid his eyes although the sun was sinking fast into the Fall sky - yet, I could feel that horny gaze of a 50-something feeling seventeen. Perhaps it was his pursed lips or the way he insisted on getting my attention on a day I wanted to remain invisible. This, his new life, seems awkward - because he's still a huge dork behind those Foster Grants. I have to give him credit, though - still, I wonder if in those quiet moments he ever thinks of his wife, her wit, her courage, her fabulosity, and remembers their life fondly.