2000 was the last year of the old days, he said into the camera. 2001 was the first year of the new days. That’s when 9/11 happened. That’s how you know everything changed.
He took a drag from his cigarette. He looked up, for a long time, at the brittle-cold night sky.
That’s how we got to this shit now, he continued. Cops always watching. Just know that. Y2K. Peace.
That night, she walked beneath a scrap of moon, Venus sparkling nearby like the brightest bauble. Strange, black clouds muffled the moon, then left it naked, then covered it thinly as if it hung behind a scrim.
The crescent looked like a curved needle, and she wondered if it could sew all that was torn asunder. She wondered what sort of thread it would take to hold everything fast again.
How are you? people ask, and we had grown used to saying that we are fine. Most of the time, after all, these were just pleasantries, greeting cards exchanged with just a signature. Fine was enough to pass, but was not meant to uncover the true contents of our hearts.
After everything changed, we changed too. We still answered, Fine, but then we exchanged shrugs. We signaled each other with our twisted mouths. Well, we began to say next, as fine as can be given the circumstances.
Take him, the new mother said in a small, exhausted voice. The baby had not stopped squalling since his unexpected arrival, and their apartment was so crowded and so small. I don’t know what to do.
The sister had not given the baby’s fist the opportunity to clench her finger. She did not want to fall in love.
They wrapped him in a blanket. The sister held him all the way to the hospital. We found him, she said as she handed him to the nurse, whispering a silent prayer he would end up with what he needed.
I arrived at the casino town expecting the ringing of slot machines, the heartbeat-blink of neon. But boards blocked the doors, cars sat abandoned in valet lanes, and, at one outdoor bar, glasses of beer had been left to go flat.
In the neighborhoods, windows in a few apartments glowed dimly, but no one walked the cracked sidewalks. Potholes pockmarked the roads. I passed a lawn overtaken by weeds, their seedy tops silhouetted against a peeling building.
I had been here before, during the boom. I remembered the clink of glasses, the sound of coins falling into trays.
Thanks to those who rode wheelchairs, strapped babies to their backs, leaned on canes, held hands with trans lovers. Thanks to those who overwhelmed Chicago and marched anyway, and to the four who marched in Lilly, Pennsylvania. Thanks to those who marched in Edinburgh, in Buenos Aires, in Dar Es Salaam, in Guam, in Seoul. Thanks to every body, every soul, every beautiful, resolute face.
We are mighty, yawped the collective. We are not afraid, and we are ready to do the work. If you come for one of us, you come for us all.
The first thing to go was the amusement park, the roller coasters and merry-go-rounds imploded in the name of serious business. The pools went next, because there is something calming about lane lines bobbing in blue water, and this is not a time for relaxation. Food tasted like bitter dust, so there was no longer a need for farmers markets and restaurants. The din of shovels against stone drowned out the symphonies.
Colors dulled, plants withered, lights faded, handshakes went limp. It grew harder to walk, then, as if gravity itself clutched at our ankles.
100 Proof 