I rounded a corner near the bathroom, passing a woman whose pink dress matched her wet lips, distended with collagen, and found Fred with Peter and Haniya O’Connell. They were talking to Russ Mackowski, the soon-to-be Republican majority leader, who hadn’t even had to challenge Doup to usurp the position. Fred, Peter, and Mackowski each had a scotch in hand as if playacting the smoke-filled rooms where men did business, while Haniya picked at a nail and listened. Mackowski held forth.
“… basically no place to let down the partisan façade anymore except charity functions, and even then you gotta be careful who you get your picture taken with. Get spotted within a foot of a Democrat, there goes your career. But hey, my wife’s a hopeless almsgiver just like yours,” he said to Peter while looking at Haniya. Then he laughed to show it was all in good fun.
I’d met Mackowski a few times, a tall, old, barrel-chested misogynist who filled a room with his thunderous voice, opinions, and self-regarding stories. He’d been the avant-garde of the neo-Confederate right, only to watch The Pastor come along and incinerate his presidential hopes yet again.
Haniya, beautiful in a custom-fit black sequined gown, smiled. It looked quite real. “You’d be in trouble, Russ? Imagine where my credibility would go. I study redistributive economics, and you make Mitch McConnell look like AOC.”
Mackowski liked this and laughed very loudly. Their heads turned as I slid in.
“You look gorgeous as always,” Peter said, kissing my cheek. His newly grown beard scratched my face. He nodded at Fred. “Leave this man for better days.” Despite everything I thought of Tara, I still found Peter so endearing, and again felt a constellation of guilt for what I’d done to them.
Mackowski smiled and leaned in to kiss my cheek as well. “Miss Jackie, you look lovely. Nice to see you again.” Before I could reply, he looked back to Peter. “And will we see you in Aspen?”
“Nah. Freak blizzard coming through. I told you, Senator, it’s the twenty-first century, the New Abnormal, bro. Read your Tony Pietrus.”
Mackowski chuckled again and sipped his scotch while Haniya made her exit. “It’s been a pleasure,” she said. And as she slipped out of the circle, she put her hand on my arm and, pretending to kiss my cheek, whispered, “I say we leave them if they make us spend one more minute with this asshole.”
For a moment, I was worried the senator would hear, but also, I’d always felt like Haniya didn’t like me. That argument at the dinner when I’d failed to side with her about Vic Love haunted me still, so I thrilled to this moment of conspiracy with her. I clutched her arm and met her eyes in total accord.
“Kansas,” Mackowski was saying as he skittled the ice around in his glass. “A total pig-fuck, excuse the language.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Fred. “If this vacuum of leadership continues, then maybe other governors start getting ideas. Maybe we’ve got a thirty-state secession crisis on our hands.”
With some dread I asked, “What’s the latest there?”
“Just this morning Governor Justis says the borders of his state are closed for good, and from what the FBI is telling us, he’s executed two more people.”
“Jesus.”
“No one can even get Vic Love on the phone,” said Mackowski. “It’s an open secret he’s had a total mental crack-up. Even though her side is still fighting to keep him in office.” He pointed after Haniya.
“Which is why I’m saying, now that the vote got thrown to the House, it’s best to certify The Pastor,” said Fred. “Force him to take cool-headed insiders into his cabinet, surround him on all sides with the forces of reason, the way the Beltway managed with Trump.”
“Nobody wants that fucking Pastor yahoo in the White House,” Mackowski said dismissively. “And I don’t want my time as leader spent trying to get him to heel and keep his freaky ass away from a microphone, let alone a nuke.”
“I don’t think we have a choice. He’s going to have the votes,” said Fred. “And Governor Justis could be the least of the problems if the markets don’t settle.”
Peter sucked air through his teeth. “Can’t we hit the reset button, Russ? You moderate yourself to a Bush Forty-one stance and get on a ticket with like Amy Klobuchar circa 2020? She can hit interns with briefing books and you can run the country.”
Mackowski laughed very hard at this, his cheeks turning pink from all his good humor. Finally, he looked at me, curious. “Fred tells me you’ve joined forces with the eco-nuts.”
“Proudly,” I said.
“Well, everyone needs a hobby.” He swigged his scotch. “My wife took up bird-watching.” He set his glass on a nearby table where it rattled to stillness. “If you’ll excuse me.”
New Year’s Day came and went. Fred Jr. and his fiancée came over for a bit. A light snow left New York frosted and lovely. Fred and I stayed in bed for the first time in a long time. Then on January 2, Goldman Sachs filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection, and the world fell to its knees.
Holly had given birth to her daughter, Hannah, just after Christmas. With her out on maternity leave, the thoughtfulness and caution she brought to our meetings was in short supply. On January 5, the room was giddy about the panic roiling the city. “You can almost hear the hiss at trading desks,” snickered Tavia. “That’s fear pissing down their legs.” In light of this, it was supposed, our protests would gain urgency and acolytes.
Kate noticed my lack of enthusiasm. “You, Eeyore. What’s up?”
I hesitated. The white lady was about to sound sympathetic to Wall Street. “I just don’t think this is anything to celebrate. No one really knows what caused Goldman’s implosion. The Fed and Treasury have to use the resolution authority to wind it down, but Goldman’s holdings and balance sheet are global. Also, no one’s paying attention, but two major insurance companies filed for bankruptcy last week because of losses from ARkSTORM.”
As I suspected, I received blank stares.
“Good, let it all come tumbling down once and for all,” said Garrett.
“Fuckin’ A,” said Tavia.
“Are you suggesting something?” Kate asked me.
I swallowed. “Call off the escalation on the seventh.”
“Are you fucking dumb?” Tavia snapped, and Jenice put a hand on her arm. Tavia looked at her partner, aggrieved, like she was taking my side. “You don’t get opportunities like this. We can focus attention like a laser on these criminals.”
“This is a crisis of people losing their homes,” I said. “This isn’t just evil corporate bankers, Tavia. It’s middle-class and low-income people suddenly losing their most important asset, and the system is coming down around them.”
“Bitch, fuck the system! We are literally here to tear down the system.”
That night, less than twenty-four hours before they were to meet to certify The Pastor as the next president, the House of Representatives made the unprecedented decision to delay the vote by a week. D.C. had been locked down since the New Year in anticipation of the vote, and though there was a sigh of relief that the count would not be the target of a potential armed mob, it was becoming unclear if there would even be an inauguration at this point.
On January 7, as we coordinated our protests from the gas station where I normally did my part, the market plunged another nine hundred points. I was on the phone most of the day, reading about what was happening since cars had long ago stopped trying to get past us. In New York, the panic felt positively breathable. Later, I went down to our actions on Wall Street where bankers and traders scrambled past protestors clogging the streets. Many firms ordered their people to work from home, and offices emptied as the streets filled. Looking across the crowds that day, all I felt was fear. Though the climate crisis had pushed this financial calamity to our doorstep, the chants demanded that bankers jump to their deaths. I’ll never forget one sign I saw: ONLY BLOOD THIS TIME. More people spilled into the streets, and the NYPD presence swelled to meet them.