Jed Wolf

As my wired wooden bones hobble toward the bathroom this morning, I wonder when I became someone who likes air conditioning. I used to love melting in the sun like a buttery tiger from Little Black Sambo before Ron DeSantis became governor. Now, as republicans grab power and I recline on my adjustable bed with my woke shades drawn like something “here to die,” what used to take twelve full hours to enjoy takes about an hour and a half. Unnerving days fly by as our dreams of peaceful retirement in Florida feel increasingly threatened.

How I became someone I vowed never to become rubs in each morning on our porch as sinewy women marathon by and countless other oblivious joggers, power walkers, and bikers motivate me to make a peanut butter sandwich and retreat to my room.

In my cold cave, I find myself googling nursery rhymes, wondering if my mother was a racist. She derived sadistic pleasure from reading Mother Goose to me and my sister. Clothespins still remind me of infants being hung by their toes. Maybe fairy tales were where I first learned to doubt what the rest of society treasures. Dark embedded messages were the only means some women had in those days—other than barbiturates and cocktails—to cope with motherhood.

Besides poor eyesight, dimming wit, and a marble-sized lump in my left testicle, what does a happily married gay man like me have to complain about? A medium once told me a severe infection from thirty years ago that blew one ball up to the size of an orange was “psychic pain” from living in the closet too long, I surmised. It took approaching a brilliant white light and watching myself from the ceiling of my lonely apartment to turn back, wake up, and finally come the fuck out after thirty-two years.

Near-death experiences were supposed to teach gratitude, but I flunked “The Course in Miracles.” After coming out, rather than healing PTSD from a homophobic education, Eckhart Tolle and Deepak Chopra’s denialist spirituality made me wish I’d kept heading for the light.

Now I’m gloating at strangers who slow down to admire our house. I’m hating how I look in pictures again and wondering where Jane Fonda’s silver lining is. The other night at a party, I found myself judging others like I used to in high school. Those Himalayan standards I thought I’d left behind—too lofty for anyone to reach, towering above Grand Canyons of low self-esteem—have returned. In my dreams, I’m leaping hundreds of feet in the air again, avoiding this planet gracefully like Nureyev, while no one notices.

A doorbell-ringing guy from the Department of Agriculture rouses me from my reclusion. Drake Falcon—yes, that’s his real name—looks more innocent at thirty than I’ve ever been in my entire life. As he hangs a fly trap in one of our citrus trees, I wonder if something similar might attract MAGA Republicans. When I ask what the Department would do if fruit flies were detected, he says, “Not much we can do,” which makes me want to return to my cold room.

Memorial Day approaches. Thus far, we’ve only hung out our American flag, and I feel pity for our pride one. The two normally fly together this time of year but in this climate, as “Florida is no longer deemed safe for women, blacks, LGBTQ and other minorities,” and it’s harder to purchase fishing licenses than guns, we and many of our queer friends have been keeping our heads down.

During front porch coffee this morning, I feel its rolled-up rainbow stripes longing to join its boring brother. With another Memorial Day and July Fourth just around the corner, no wonder I’m depressed. Tired from hearing about dangerous new negotiations over the debt ceiling and sick from revisiting vanquished demons, I know it’s time to act.

Though gazing at the impotent red, white, and blue thing hanging in the morning heat makes me want to blast Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” I take a long sloppy swig of the water I’d offered Drake Falcon, quench my thirst, and begin unfurling my rage in words.