Tuesday was one of the strangest days I've lived in quite some time. I started the day off by drawing my curtains to discover a thick layer of yellowy fog rolling in off the mountain. For some reason it didn't outright occur to me that this was out of the ordinary in a noteworthy manner. That is until after I left my apartment and was bludgeoned by the unmistakable smell of burning leaves. You know the smell. It's like a thick odor that completely sucks all of the scents around it into a dry void. Some people love it, some hate it (not the first time this sentiment would come up).
Upon arriving at my afternoon argumentation class, I learned that the odious layer of fog was actually the result of a massive forest fire one county over from Watauga. I immediately got a slightly nauseas feeling in my gut when I realized my town was covered in smog. And then, of course, this feeling was only intensified when it hit me that the nearby forests were literally burning on election day like some sort of Old Testament plague had been unleashed on us.
After exiting my class, I then trudged through the fumes to the courthouse so I could vote. The whole walk across campus all I could think about was how my life has been defined in eight year presidential increments, starting with Bill Clinton. I couldn't pay attention to the song in my earbuds (Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens) or the campaigners vying for my attention outside of the courthouse.
I was sure that my friend group was experiencing the same existential turmoil, so I decided to go to my friend's apartment where everyone was gathered, watching election coverage in between much needed music video breaks (shout out to R.E.M. for lightening the mood). Everyone had already been pre-gaming for a minute when I got there, but I chose to drink a lemon lime seltzer water. I was already disoriented enough and I didn't want to liquidly complicate that feeling.
This was quickly revealed to me as the correct choice when one of my friends began dancing on a pile of those annoying "Trump is a racist"/"Hillary is a criminal" mail in pamphlets and ended up uncovering the severed head of a squirrel (most likely suspect is still Spoon the cat and most adorable slaughterhouse I know). I still can't fully intellectualize the feeling this gave my friends and I. It was somewhere between hilariously surreal and metaphorically relevant.
Once everyone had stopped laughing at Biblical omen of the night number two, the consensus was that we should all head to Murphy's.
Normally, the suggestion of going to Murphy's warrants a pretty quick, "I'll check you guys later" from me, but after finding a decapitated rodent head in a pile of propaganda I couldn't bring myself to view the night as anything other than completely unordinary. It kind of ceased to matter at that moment that I don't even drink. Despite the fact that bars really aren't my scene, watching Tuesday night's episode of Celebrity Presidency from a bar stool with my friends made a lot of sense to my sober self.
We all made our way into Murphy's (affectionately referred to as Dirty Murph's) where the disconcerted election vibe was as thick as the smog. There were groups playing pool (arguing), groups drinking on the patio (arguing) and groups watching the election live from the bar (you guessed it, arguing).
Our group camped it out by the pool tables and tried to ignore the televised election coverage, which was a complete fool's errand. Everyone else around us from all directions was pretty much doing the same. Some were celebrating as Trump's electoral votes climbed and others were huddled in their own tight knit circles, consoling one another over the prospect that Hillary may not win.
As one o'clock passed, it became obvious that Hillary definitely wasn't going to win and the mood of about half of Murphy's became noticeably more somber. I tried as hard as I could to keep my mind on my friends and our conversation. This became impossible when I noticed one of my female classmates standing by the transparent front door, silhouetted by the spider webbed cracks in the glass, crying quietly.
In this moment political affiliation was the last thing on my mind. All I could pay attention to was how deeply unsettled I felt watching a young woman's hopes and dreams get visibly crushed right in front of me. And the real reason I get uncomfortable in bars really hit me. I mean like hit me on a totally "how have I never made this realization before?" type level. It's not the social anxiety of being stuck in a loud crowd or the soberness like I originally thought.
It's that form of palpable sadness that is specific to dive bars in small American towns. I'm talking the kinds of low-lit places where people, whether they're struggling blue collar workers or distraught college students, go to console each other over their most deep seated sorrows, while they pretend they're having fun. On the one hand, it's uncomfortable to see so many people so distraught. On the other hand, it's actually kind of nice to know there is a communal place where people can go to find others who share their same fears and worries.
After processing all of this the only thing that stuck in my mind was a lyric from Father John Misty's I Love You, Honeybear. "My love, you're the one I want to watch the ship go down with."
What was your election night experience like?
