Lonely Hearts Chapel

Excerpt from Chapter 8 of LONELYHEARTS 2016, my upcoming campy, surrealish, dramedy novel about a bipolar pansexual at the end of the world. (More succinctly: about a troubled young man who starts college during this era of American politics.)

(In this scene: Miss Lonelyhearts finally–at his friend’s insistence–gives in and watches Trump’s “hilarious” candidacy announcement.)

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My laughter persisted while I fished for cig number four. Okay. This wasn’t so bad after all; mostly just loud and bloated incoherence. A desperate, dying man, who’d never truly grown an ounce in his life. Because he was given money instead of love or guidance. Just like I’d expected. I laughed because I needed to; it made me feel like I wasn’t afraid of him. Like I wasn’t afraid of what he was bringing-out in people. As long as I laughed, he would just be some spoiled little rich boy who could never really hurt me; because he’d probably cheated and bought his way through school, and eventually through life. Whereas I had struggled. And was forced to learn.

Now he was telling the audience not to believe the Bureau of Labor Statistics; he insisted the ‘real’ unemployment rate was three or four times what they said it was. I laughed even harder; who was THIS fucking maniac, to tell people what to believe?

Then he mentioned nuclear weapons, and the laughter stopped. I became a homeless orphan as the whole world burned and I lost all feeling. People and their buildings unknowingly melted into shadows all around me. Survivors developed the beginnings of the cancer that would rot their grandchildren’s insides. Centuries passed, and poisoned people grew poisoned things from poisoned earth. Humanity died without living.

OUCH. I flicked the filter out the window without looking, then lifted the burnt flesh to my mouth, to suck and lick the warmth–at first, to soothe the burn; but I gradually became aroused by the salty, pulsing soot of my fingers. So I closed my eyes and pressed my face against it. And slid my tongue in it. All was probing, reactionary dampness.

Hot water spilled onto my chest, causing me to re-enter the moment with a full-body jerk. Panicked, I braced my laptop, then heaved a relieving sigh at its safety. Was I crying? or were my eyes just irritated? I reached for another cigarette as I heard him, and remembered where I was.

‘Well, you need somebody, because politicians are all talk, no action. Nothing’s gonna get done. They will not bring us–believe me–to the Promised Land. They will not. . . I will be the greatest jobs president that god ever created.’

I chain-smoked with blurry eyes as I continued to watch Trump’s ramble: comparing politics to football, saying he was ‘really rich,’ and then apparently trying to say ‘braggadocious’ before giving up and deciding it was too ambitious of a word for him. I allowed myself to chuckle at his incompetence, even though I knew the world was ending. He rambled through some more nonsense, before circling back to his favorite topic: his wealth.

‘nobody knows what I’m worth. And the one thing is that when you run, you have to announce and certify to all sorts of governmental authorities your net worth. So I said, ‘That’s OK.’ I’m proud of my net worth.’

This led him to an exhaustive listing of his business dealings and their estimated worth; but he assured the audience he wasn’t doing it to brag:

‘I don’t HAVE to brag,’ he bragged.

He transitioned clumsily into saying he would build a wall between America and Mexico (and somehow make Mexico pay for it?) And then he promised to protect Americans’ guns. Not their families, just their guns. Guns were the only one of the two he mentioned protecting, anyway. In fact: every time he’d said the word ‘family’ at all during the speech, he was only referring to his own. Just to name them, to say how ‘great’ they were, and how ‘proud’ he was. Only once did he notably mention being inspired by an American citizen that wasn’t blood-related to him. He talked of a nameless woman: someone he’d seen on TV, talking about a local crime, whom he then felt compelled to call: ‘and she said, ‘You know, Mr. Trump, I was always against guns. I didn’t want guns. And now, since this happened . . . We now have a gun on every table.

‘‘We’re ready to start shooting,’’ this terrified woman told Trump, to which he replied: ‘Very interesting.’

Not too bad, I told myself; just typical dictator shit.

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Read more excerpts (and soon, the first five chapters) here. 

Love always,

your Mister

Excerpt from Chapter 6 of LONELYHEARTS 2016, my upcoming campy, surrealish, coming-of-age dramedy novel about a bipolar pansexual at the end of the world.

(In this scene: I use my own hometown as inspiration to delve into the psychology behind Trumpism. Please let me know how you think I did!)

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I recognized his bow-tie. Why did I recognize that bow-tie?

‘I just didn’t think our conversation was finished. From earlier . . .’

Oh yeah! He was the guy from my morning-class. I’d forgotten about our debate; the memory had sunken into the murk of the day. But it was definitely him, the guy from the class where we’d discussed welfare reform.

I’d argued that welfare was a waste, that it ‘makes people lazy, and it’s too easy to take advantage of.’ I passionately believed these things because I had been taught them. I was still possessed by the politics of my hometown. I’d been taught and surrounded by under-educated and under-represented people my entire life. Furthermore, I’d been taught and surrounded by lower- and lower-middle-class people, who’d been taught to be ashamed of themselves. But they’d also been taught to be too proud to ever admit that they’re ashamed, or that they need help.

They channeled the anxiety of these contradictions into blame. They blamed people who were poorer than them, and they blamed people who were richer than them; but they blamed the richer a little bit less, though, because they admired those people and wanted–more than anything else–to be them. And they never blamed people in similar circumstances as themselves, because that would welcome the possibility that they themselves could also be blamed.

They believed the world was at fault for all their failures, but their successes were theirs and theirs alone. I believed this, too. I called myself a ‘rugged individualist,’ which was a term I’d heard in History class when I was younger. I remembered that a President had coined the term, but I’d forgotten the exact context of it. It meant that I believed everyone was responsible for solving their own problems, no matter what caused them.

That’s why I argued with The Bow-Tie in class earlier, after he asserted that welfare programs ‘are good investments for any society.’ He said that such programs made the world safer, because they helped provide sustenance, education, and healthcare for people–and especially children–who would otherwise be powerless, malnourished, and desperate.

After he said this, I lazily reached into my bag and brandished my umbrella. I explained that I carried an umbrella with me everywhere, no matter the weather.

‘So, when it rains,’ I said, ‘I’m ready. I like to say that it’s my Northeastern blood; expect the unexpected. I’m not going to walk up to someone who wasn’t prepared and just hand them my umbrella. I’m going to expect them to figure it out for themselves.’

‘But what about people who can’t afford umbrellas?’ he asked.

‘Oh! So every wet stranger is my responsibility?’

‘The world is everyone’s responsibility.’

I sniggered and dismissed his point with a sharp wave of my hand. I didn’t feel like expending the effort of finding words to rebut him. Which was probably why he was sitting down on the bench next to me, claiming our discussion wasn’t finished. Damn him. And damn his perceptiveness . . . that gorgeous perceptiveness.

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Read more excerpts (and soon, the first five chapters) here.

Love always,

your Mister