I'm pulling up to work on the first day of the impeachment inquiry hearings, and I don't want to turn off the car. I linger a bit at the curb with the radio on, listening.
I want to say I think this process will make a difference, but I tend to be a pessimist and if the last three years have taught me anything, it's to be even more pessimistic. This man feels completely unstoppable, like those hallucinogenic brooms in the movie Fantasia, but brooms are for cleaning things up, not making messes, and my metaphor is clearly not working, and anyway, it's unsettling to see Mickey Mouse chopping up anything that has hands.
Through my window, fog sits in the hills above the industrial area of Portland where I work. I want to say I think this process will make a difference, but if the last three years have taught me anything, it's that half the country will turn a blind eye on any number of truths. As I was driving in this morning, listening to the opening statements, there seemed to be no fog at all on the east side, but then, ahead, a sudden cloud lay across the Broadway Bridge. Driving onto the bridge, I drove right into it, white all around me, out over the water, and the world disappeared into it. It was like the river was the dividing line. Half of the city clear, half the city socked in. That's not a metaphor, it's just weird science.
I've got to stop listening. I've got to get in there and get on the clock.
I turn off the motor and let things go quiet.
As I grab my bag and get out of the car, a bicycle rides by, white head lamp lighting up silver in the fog. I hear the voices again, loud. The same exact voices. The bicyclist flashes by, listening to the hearings as he goes.