Cape Disappointment

   

       

            She hadn’t considered the loneliness.

When Beth chose the old family cabin that sat on the shore of Cape Disappointment, she thought she was doing her loved ones a favor. They would never find her there, she thought, they would never have to bear another loss. After all, missing still carried with it a sliver of hope. Missing was better than…

She spent her time walking barefoot across the hardwood floor, wearing only the white gown her husband had given her for their third anniversary. She would stop at the fireplace, empty except for a thin coating of ash, and study the framed photographs, covered in dust, that sat on the mantle. Pictures of her parents when they were young and optimistic, before life and loss had worn them down. Pictures of her and her two brothers, happy and naïve, before adulthood stripped them of their innocence. She attempted to get lost in the photos, to travel back, to better times, only to find herself stuck in the current moment, longing for a way out.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, she would gaze out the cracked window at the waves, massive and white, as they battled against the rocky shore with a force so imposing she found it hard to believe they weren’t living, breathing creatures. She recalled a time when her only son would play too close to the turbulent waters and she would voice her concern for his safety, only to have her husband reassure her again and again that kids will be kids and you must let him be. She never argued with him then, though now she wished she had. And through the window, every once in a while, she thought she saw a small boy playing in the surf, though always, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared.

After the sun went down, and unable to sleep, she sat in the dark, in an old wooden rocking chair next to the fireplace, the one where her mother would read her nursery rhymes as the flames danced on the logs, the one where she had read the same lines to her own child decades later. Now she simply sat, no rhymes, no rocking, only waiting for the Earth to turn, for the sun to illuminate her world for another day.

Several years had passed since anyone had visited the cabin, several years since the accident, which was the very reason she chose it in the first place. And yet now she longed for a guest, anyone, a family member, a friend, a friend of a friend, a real estate agent there to sell the dilapidated building, a contractor sent to tear it down. She would even settle for vandals, teenagers with only destruction on their minds. Unable to leave, she walked the floors, longing for someone, anyone, to haunt…

           

Christmas in the Clink

            It doesn’t matter why I’m here. But if you need to know, I copped a plea and took a twenty-one day sentence for a crime I wasn’t guilty of. It happens. I remember telling one of my professors about how unfair it seemed to admit guilt to something I didn’t actually do. I’ll never forget his response: “But think about all the stupid things you’ve done that you didn’t get caught for.” He made a good point. We all do stupid things at one point or another in our lives; things that could probably land you in jail if the wrong person was watching. And if you haven’t, then you should probably spend some time in jail if only to add some excitement to your dull life.

            Everybody here did something stupid. This is County. This is for “criminals” whose sentences are less than two years. Drugs. Theft, in order to get money for drugs. Not paying child support, because you spent your money on drugs. Drinking and driving, while on drugs. Mostly drugs. None of us really did anything that bad, except the pedophiles, who are the worst human beings on Earth, who even the other inmates despise, who never leave their beds, which are situated right next to the guard’s desk, as if he would protect them if violence struck, as if he wouldn’t turn the other way when a pedophile was getting his teeth kicked in.

            I sleep across from them. Not by choice. It was the only bed available when I was released from solitary confinement four days ago. I wake for breakfast, put on my orange uniform, and get in the back of the food line. The room we are imprisoned in is about half the size of a basketball court, with rows of beds on one side and tables and chairs on the other. In between, there is the guard’s desk, a few toilets, and a couple of showers. I grab my Styrofoam clam shell, a half-pint of milk, and a Dixie cup of grape juice. I find an open seat at a table. Inside the Styrofoam there is some burnt toast, watery oatmeal, and a banana that is so brown and mushy it appears to have been peeled the night before (they don’t give us the peel, because inmates used to cut them up, dry them out, and smoke them to get a mild buzz). There are also about fifty packets of sugar. One guy goes around and collects everybody’s packets. He also trades me his milk for my juice. He will take his collection of sugar and juice to the other side of the room and pour it into a plastic ten-gallon bin beneath his bed. He’s been doing this since Thanksgiving. Apparently, the ingredients are fermenting and should be ready to get the boys drunk on New Year’s Eve, the day I get released. I can’t say I’m sorry that I’ll miss it.

            I eat my toast, drink my two cartons of milk, and give the rest of the food away before going back to bed. I wake back up for lunch, which is a hotdog that is somehow charred black and soaking wet at the same time. I eat the bun and a small bag of chips and give the rest of the food away. I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t, so I head back to the tables and try to get in on a game of Risk. “Sorry,” the game’s ringleader tells me. “We’ve decided that you’re not allowed to play with us anymore.”

            “Why?” I ask.

            “Because you just keep rolling the dice and attacking until all your troops are destroyed.”

            “It’s called strategy,” I say. “Haven’t you ever heard of kamikaze?”

            “Yes, but it never works. You just end up ruining the game for yourself and one other person.”

            “But it’s Christmas.”

            “It is?”

            I didn’t even have to be here right now. When I took the plea, back in September, my lawyer arranged it so I could do weekends for a couple of months instead of spending Christmas in the clink. I declined the offer. It was an easy decision: spending every weekend during my last semester of college in jail, or missing a holiday that I’ve never really cared for to begin with, plus getting it all done in one stint. There was no way I was wasting my weekends, and I was pretty sure that once they let me out after the first one, I wasn’t going to go back again, which would have only gotten me into even more trouble.

            After being banished from the Risk game, I head over to the television, which is bigger than any television I have ever seen in my life. It gets a hundred or so channels, the premium package, HBO, Showtime, the works. But the guys, they only want to watch the “Bring it On” franchise: “Bring it On”, “Bring it On Again”, “Bring it On One More Time”. I sit down for a few minutes to watch a group of beautiful women spring into the air, flying, and flipping, and falling, and landing, always with a smile. “That chick is busted,” one guy says.

            “I wouldn’t touch her with your dick,” replies another.

            What are these guys talking about? I think to myself. They will never get with any woman even remotely as good looking as these women on the television. The meth must have really fried their brains.

            After listening to these guys ridicule the actresses for about fifteen minutes, I’ve had enough. It feels like I’m in second grade. In keeping with this infantile feeling, I head back to my bed and do a “word search”. I hunt through the jumble of letters and find the most beautiful word in the English language: F-R-E-E-D-O-M.

            We have a surprise for dinner. We are led out of the room in single file. Out in the hallway there is a table set up. We each get our own personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut and a Dixie cup full of soda. I choose Pepsi, my favorite. We walk back into the big room and find seats at the tables. I open my pizza box to find that it’s not a personal pan pizza after all. It’s about half the size. More like an English muffin pizza. The restaurant must have made them specifically for us. Apparently, we’re not even worth a personal pan. Regardless, it’s still the greatest pizza and the best soda I’ve ever tasted in my life.

            After dinner, another surprise! Two surprises in one day, I don’t know if we can handle this much excitement. We each get a gift, wrapped in a paper bag: a pair of socks filled with hard candy. I empty the hard candy on the table, keep the socks, and head back to bed. “Wait,” someone yells. “You don’t want this candy? Don’t you at least want to trade?”

            I shake my head. These guys have nothing that I want. I grab a thick paperback copy out of the John Grisham library and head back to my cot. I spend the rest of the night reading, and thinking about life, finding comfort in the fact that I will never again have a Christmas worse than this one. You know, unless I get caught doing something stupid…

Who Wants to Be a Fender Bender Thousandaire? (Notes on Jury Duty)

            “You are hereby summoned to serve as a juror…” Finally! I’ve been waiting my entire life to read those words. For once I get to be on the other side of “justice.” Early on a Monday morning I travel to the court house where I’m put in a large room with a couple hundred other potential jurors. We’re shown a video that does its finest to sell us on the idea of jury duty. “Trial by jury is your most important constitutional right,” the video preaches. “The only right, in fact, that is mentioned in both the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.” Wow! It really must be important! And yet, nobody in the room seems very enthused to be here.

They begin calling names in groups of forty. When the roll call ends, muffled celebrations echo through the room. This happens three times before my name is called. It’s around eleven in the morning when I enter a small courtroom on the seventh floor with thirty-nine other potential jurors. We are assigned seats by the Judge, who is elderly and grey. He informs us that this is a personal injury case. Damn it! I immediately think. This is not what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of robbery or kidnapping or hazing. A case that I could write about someday with enthusiasm. A case that would allow me to screw over the system with impunity. Not a case where some asshole is suing someone for a monetary value. “This case is expected to last at least four days,” the Judge tells us. Four fucking days! I’m not losing four days of my life over a financial dispute. I need to get out of this.

We are forced to swear an oath. If I make any false statements I can be held in contempt. So much for lying my way out. We go around the room and each potential juror answers eight questions out loud. Before they call my name, I mess up my hair. And my beard. I must look like an insane homeless man. I stand up and answer the questions. Jon Penfold. Thirty-four years old. I live in Montavilla. I’m a writer. I live with my partner, who is a massage therapist in a chiropractor’s office. (This is supposed to be my ticket out, for I’ve been told that if your significant other works in the medical industry, you will be dismissed from a personal injury case.) Yes, I’ve been to court before—I was forced to take a plea bargain and ended up being sentenced to twenty-one days in county jail. (Hopefully another reason for dismissal). Yes, I drive, though very rarely. And my partner knows me best. She would describe me as “funny.”

After all forty potential jurors answer these eight questions, we are asked more questions by the lawyers. These questions are for anybody to answer. If you have something to say, you only need to raise your hand. “Does anybody here have any opinions concerning personal injury cases?” I raise my hand. I tell the lawyer that in my experience, the individuals I know who are involved in personal injury cases are usually liars and cheats and are only concerned with easy money. “Does anybody here believe that a victim should not be rewarded financial compensation for pain and suffering?” A few of us raise our hands. We tell the court that we don’t believe in pain and suffering. “Does anybody here believe laws should be broken?” I’m the only one to raise my hand. “How could you possibly believe that laws should be broken?” I’m asked in disbelief. I tell them that if a law is bad to begin with, it should definitely be broken.

We are sent into small rooms while the lawyers choose the jury. I’m in a good mood, because after answering those questions, there’s no way in hell that they’re choosing me. After forty-five minutes, we are called back into the court. They begin calling the jurors’ names. Juror number four—Jon Penfold. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me? They have no idea what they just got themselves in to.

The lawyers give their opening statements. The plaintiff’s lawyer looks strikingly similar to the disgraced former Oregon Governor, John Kitzhaber. The defense’s lawyer looks like the dean from the TV show Community. The gist of the case: on a rainy morning in November, 2013 (yes, more than three years ago!) the plaintiff crashed her car into the man in front of her and then was hit from behind by another car (the defense). A minor “fender bender” in every sense of the word “minor.” They even show us photos of the cars, which appear to have no damage to them. And for this minor fender bender, the plaintiff thinks she deserves $600,000. This is one of those cases that illustrates everything that is wrong with the United States court system. Before the trial has ever started, I have already made up my mind. This girl is getting nothing.

The first person called to the stand is the plaintiff’s husband. How has their life changed since the accident? “We used to be able to watch action movies together,” he says. “Now, my wife gets anxious during intense scenes.” Are you fucking kidding me? I want to scream. Half a million dollars because your wife gets anxious during action movies! Her friend is called to the stand. She pretty much throws her under the bus. “She was better months after the accident,” she says. “She’s much more confident when she isn’t getting medical treatment.” Why the fuck are we here?

Day two, we listen to fake doctors, or “chiropractors” as they prefer to be called. The plaintiff’s chiro says that there will be a lifetime of pain from the accident. The defense’s chiro claims that her injuries were “absolutely 100%” not caused by the accident. Both chiro’s openly admit to being paid for their time from their respective clients.

Day three, the plaintiff is called to the stand. She does not appear to be in any pain or discomfort. She freely admits to crashing her car into the car in front of her before being hit from behind. When the defense attorney asks her “What exactly are you accusing my client of?” she answers, “I’m not blaming anyone for anything.” Again, Why the fuck are we here?

Day four, a car accident reconstruction engineer is called to the stand. He proves through science that the initial impact was much worse than the subsequent rear ending by the defense. Why are we here?

Day five, finally, closing arguments and deliberations. Shouldn’t take long, since this case is about as open and shut as they come. We head into the jury room. Four of us want to give the plaintiff nothing. But, much to our surprise, there are four other idiots who want to give her everything. I can only imagine that they’re dreaming of similar scenarios for themselves, where a minor fender bender will reward them with $600,000. For the next five hours, we argue our sides, and try to negotiate. In the end, we give her around $25,000 total, which isn’t much compared to what she wanted, but still $25,000 too much for a minor fender bender, if you ask me.

Wind: Thoughts on Turbines (an excerpt from The Road and the River)

       

            The terrain levels out and the brown dirt has transforms into lush, gently rolling, green fields. I am in the high country of the Columbia Plateau, and it is windy. Recently our society began taking advantage of this very powerful wind, which relentlessly blows across the highland. In addition to pavement and barbwire fence, the only sign of human existence is wind turbines, and there are hundreds of them. The white structures tower above the earth of North Central Oregon, and across the Columbia River in South Central Washington. These types are three-bladed horizontal-axis wind turbines (HAWT) and they are massive. If you have ever seen a piece of one being transported on a flatbed semi truck, then you may have some idea of just how big they are. Each blade alone can reach 130 feet, or about as long as Air Force One, and the tower can climb as high as 300 feet tall. For some perspective, if one of these turbines stood next to the Statue of Liberty, its blades could slice Lady Liberty’s head right down the middle.

            The use of wind power can be dated all the way back to Persia in 200 B.C. with the wind wheel of Heron of Alexandria. Over 2,000 years later the United States ranks 2^nd in the world behind China in cumulative installed capacity, which measures the megawatts of electricity created. In 2010 wind turbines accounted for 2.3% of electricity created in the U.S. and by 2030 the Department of Energy envisions that number rising to at least 20%. As part of the Obama Administration’s Clean Energy Initiative, wind farms have the potential to fight climate change, wane the country’s dependence on foreign oil, and create hundreds of thousands of jobs in the United States. But not everyone is as ecstatic as the president over wind energy.

            A minority of people who live near the turbines claim that the noise and vibration brings about “Wind Turbine Syndrome” (WTS). Symptoms of this newly coined term include internal pulsation, quivering, nervousness, fear, a compulsion to flee, chest tightness and increased heart rate, all of which can lead to more serious problems like heart disease, migraine, and panic attacks. Fortunately there appears to be a cure to WTS—money!

Landowners receive anywhere from $3,000 to $5,000 in annual rental income for each turbine on their property. As it turns out not a single one of these property owners have ever complained of WTS, even though they are much closer to the turbines that seem to aggravate their neighbors, who don’t receive any kickback from the power companies. In a December 2009 report, the American Wind Energy Association stated, “There is no evidence that the audible or sub-audible sounds emitted by wind turbines have any direct adverse physiological effects,” and the vibrations are “too weak to be detected by, or to affect, humans.” The industry claims that these people are really suffering from NIMBY Syndrome, which is an acronym meaning Not-In-My-Backyard. It affects the poor and rich alike. T. Boone Pickens, one of the nation’s most ardent supporters of wind energy, when asked about putting turbines on his 68,000 acre ranch in the panhandle of Texas, one of America’s windiest regions, replied, “I’m not going to have the windmills on my ranch. They’re ugly.”

            Even environmentalists are up in arms over turbines. Yes, the same environmentalists who fight for a greener tomorrow have brought about lawsuits, and protested against pending legislation, citing bird mortality as an intolerable consequence of wind power. They refer to turbines as “bird-o-matics,” and claim that huge numbers of the winged animals are slaughtered every day by their giant propellers. Unfortunately the numbers just don’t add up. According to experts, turbines kill a relatively few amount of birds, at least compared to other man-made structures. Let’s take a look: wind turbines kill an estimated 10,000-40,000 birds in the United States annually. That may seem like a lot of birds, but now let’s look at some other numbers: lighted communication towers kill 40-50 million; automobiles, 60-80 million; power lines, 130-174 million; and windows, 100 million-1 billion. And let’s not count out our furry feline friend, the cat, who is responsible for 100’s of millions of bird deaths a year. So if these environmentalists are really passionate about saving birds, then they shouldn’t have a problem giving up their cars, cell phones, electricity, and windows. And kill all their cats. Sorry folks, but you can’t have your vegan cake and eat it too.

            And as for wind power being an “alternative” energy, well, for some people, that’s a myth as believable as Bigfoot. There are several factors that warrant their thinking. First of all, they assert that the claim of wind energy supplying the U.S. with 20% of its electricity by 2030 is mathematically misleading. When these numbers were derived, they argue, the American Council on Renewable Energy failed to factor in the exponential growth of energy use among consumers in the U.S. When you consider the increased demand of energy by 2030 compared to the number of wind farms planned on being built, the actual capacity will more realistically be between 1% and 3%. Secondly, turbines produce power only about 1/3 of the time due to the unpredictability of wind. And since there is currently no cost-effective method of storing electricity, intermittent power is supplied from existing fossil fuel plants, causing them to operate “less efficiently and with increased volatility.” Which means that with more wind farms comes more power plants, such as coal, natural gas, and nuclear. Thirdly, the electricity from these said power plants is actually half as expensive. Wind power requires between 30-45 times more land than nuclear, and 10 times more concrete and steel. In addition, the best locations for wind farms are far from urban centers, therefore requiring high-voltage transmission wires. The only reason that wind currently competes with other forms of energy is due to large subsidies from federal, state, and local governments; in other words, our tax dollars. In 2006 alone, the federal government handed out $2.75 billion in incentives. Finally, not a single study has been shown a reduction in carbon-dioxide emissions, and because automobiles in the U.S. run on liquid fuels, not electricity, wind energy will do nothing to displace imported oil and refined petroleum products.

              So who is right? Is it the Obama Administration, The American Council on Renewable Energy, The American Wind Energy Association, the folks suffering from “Wind Turbine Syndrome,” the environmentalists, or the naysayers? Unlike the Bigfoot dispute, it’s probably not as simple as believing, in hopes that you were right all along. When it comes to wind energy a lot of people bring up a lot of good points, and a lot of worthy questions. In the end, like most new ideas, it will probably be time that reveals the true answers.

A Preventable Weapon

            Of all the people I have known who are no longer in this world, the majority have been killed by the same weapon. It was not a gun, or a knife, or a bomb. In fact, it was something that most of us use every day. Something that most people couldn’t imagine living without.

            First thing first, I know that people are going to take offense to the fact that I’m referring to the automobile as a weapon. And of course, I understand that it’s not always a weapon. But neither is a gun, or a knife, or a bomb. But every object has the ability to become a weapon when it is used to harm a victim, whether it is intentional or accidental. For example: if you use a knife to cut a carrot, it is a tool. If you use that same knife to stab another person, it is then a weapon. Why not look at the automobile in the same way?

            In 2014, according to the Fatality Analysis Reporting System, there were 32,675 automobile related deaths in the United States alone. That it is a number already much too large, which makes the following numbers even more frightening. In 2015, the death toll saw a significant rise for the first time in three decades, to 35,092, and in the first six months of 2016, highway deaths jumped another 10.4 percent. With constant enhancements in safety technology (seatbelts, airbags, park assist, etc.), it is unfathomable to believe that these numbers should be going anywhere but down. So, why the increase? The answer is simple: DRIVERS ARE NOT PAYING ATTENTION TO THE ROAD!!!

            Anybody who has gotten arrested for DUI/DWI will tell you about the huge monetary penalties they received (among other punishments), yet if someone is caught talking or texting or looking at their phone, in most states, it’s merely a few hundred dollar fine, at most. And I know what you’re thinking: isn’t drinking and driving far worse than texting and driving? Well, a 2014 study by the Transport Research Laboratory concluded that texting while driving was significantly more dangerous than driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs. And now, with the ever growing popularity of Smartphone games and applications, the problem is only getting worse.

            So, what’s the solution? We could make the penalties stiffer, perhaps equivalent to those of DWI/DUI. But will that really solve the problem or simply bring in more revenue for the government? I believe the best thing we can do is to take personal responsibility to curb the problem ourselves. First thing first, shut your phone off while you’re driving. It’s really not that big of a deal. Humans drove automobiles for almost a hundred years without mobile phones. Second, say something! If you’re riding with someone who’s on their phone, tell them to knock it off, and be adamant about it. And third, if you see another driver on their phone, in the lane next to you, for example, roll down your window and yell at them. I bet they get off.

            I hate the fact that I even have to write this essay, and I know in the future, when we have self-driving cars, this will be a problem of the past. But the future isn’t here yet, and right now I’m sick of seeing friends buried and families heartbroken over something that is almost 100% preventable. Please, for the love of your own friends and family, put the phones down and pay attention to the road. It’s really not that much to ask.

Black Friday Matters

            It was dark when Frank woke up. He looked at the clock. 6:00. Still early, he thought. He climbed off the couch and walked into the kitchen. His roommate, Reggie, was eating a TV dinner. Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Corn. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. “What are you doing up so early?” Frank asked him. “And why are you eating a turkey dinner for breakfast?”

            “Jesus, Frank, it’s six o’clock at night.” Reggie stuffed a fork full of mush into his mouth. “You must have really tied one on last night.”

            “Six o’clock at night?” Franks said in a panicked voice. He ran back into the living room and searched for his jacket. “Have you seen my jacket?” he yelled to Reggie.

            “Isn’t it hanging on the back of the couch?”

            Frank checked the back of the couch. Nothing. Behind it. Nothing. Underneath. Bingo! He wondered how it got there as he searched the pockets. Half a pack of smokes. Two disposable lighters. A ripped piece of paper with a phone number on it. A tiny plastic bag coated in white residue. A token for a free beverage at a place called “Marty’s Hole in the Wall.” A nickel. Four dimes. His flip phone. Bingo!

            He checked for missed calls. Seven. All from the same number. Junior! He had promised his son that he would make him Thanksgiving dinner. His refrigerator was filled with all the ingredients.  Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Corn. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. He said he would pick him up at noon.

            Frank pressed the “Call” button on his phone. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

            “Goddamn it Frank!” It wasn’t his son’s voice.

            “I can explain.”

            “I don’t want to hear it. This was the last time. Please don’t call here anymore.”

            “Just let me…”

The line went dead. Ring tone. Frank flipped the phone shut. “Hey Reggie,” he yelled.

“Yeah?”

“What time does that store open?”

“Which store?”

“The one with the big Black Friday sale?”

“Eight o’clock, I think. Why?”

Frank swung his jacket over his shoulders and jolted out the door of the trailer. The rain pounded the windshield of his Pontiac as drove across town. He arrived at the store an hour before it opened. There were already over a hundred people in line. He waited. In the pouring rain.

There was a mad rush to the toy section when the doors opened. Everyone was after the same thing. Snatchimals. Frank didn’t even know what the fuck a Snatchimal was. But he needed one.

The shelf was empty.

“Excuse me, miss.” Frank approached an elderly woman who was holding one of the prized possessions. “I know how this must sound, but I need that toy.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “But I can’t part with it.”

Frank pulled out his wallet. “You don’t understand. I really need it. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars? These things are going for hundreds on the internet.”

“Please, just do me a favor.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t.” The woman headed toward the cash register.

Frank walked out the front door and waited. In the pouring rain. The woman came out. Frank followed her to her car. “Excuse me, miss…”

“You again! I said no…”

Frank punched her in the nose. She tried to yell. Frank punched her again. And again. And again. Until she fell to the ground. He grabbed her shopping bag and walked to his car.

He drove to a spot he knew next to the old mill. A spot that was secluded. He climbed into the back seat. He crossed his arms. He closed his eyes.

When daylight broke, he drove to his ex-wife’s house. He rang the doorbell. His son answered.

“Peter!”

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to bring you this.” Frank handed his son the bag.

Peter opened it and pulled out a Snatchimal. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s the new toy. The one everybody wants.”

“I’m fifteen fucking years old. Why the fuck would I want a Snatchimal?” The door slammed shut.

Frank left the toy on the porch. He drove toward home. He pulled into the trailer park. Two cop cars were idling in front of his home. He turned around. He drove away. In the pouring rain.

           

Playing the Trump Card

            Richard woke to a jackhammer striking the inside of his skull. And his mouth, it felt like it was filled with cotton. Or was it cat shit? It didn’t matter. He needed water. But that meant getting up. And getting up meant moving. And he was in no condition to move.

            He tried to fall back to sleep, but the pounding in his head screamed “NO!” Weed would help, he thought. So he rolled over and grabbed a joint off his nightstand, lit it, and took a long drag. He coughed out a cloud of smoke and took another hit. And that’s when he heard the moan. He turned around to find a motionless body resting on the far side of his bed. Who was this? He thought, I don’t recall bringing anyone to bed last night.

            He quickly scanned his memory as if it was a rolodex of blurry Polaroids: shots, lines of cocaine, more shots, bongs, the bar, after party at the frat house, more shots, keg stand…and that was all he could remember. He took another hit from the joint and that’s when the paranoia slithered into his consciousness.

            He sprung to his feet and began pacing back and forth across his room. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Did he rape this girl? What if he did? She was in his bed. He must have. And even if he didn’t, what if she thinks he did. That’s all it took these days—just one girl to accuse you. Just one stupid girl to ruin your life. But whatever happened already happened. Didn’t it? Why should two lives be ruined?

He could figure his way out of this. Couldn’t he? Let’s see. He could say he was never there. His frat brothers would give him an alibi, wouldn’t they? But that wouldn’t work—too many people saw him last night. Plus, the DNA. Fuck! The DNA! Okay, so he needed an excuse. Not an excuse—a reason. A psychological reason. He was a psychology major after all. But who was he kidding? He never went to class.

That’s when he saw the newspaper laying on his desk. Yes! That’s it! That’s his way out. The election! We elected a president who was clearly a sexual predator. And he received the majority of the women’s vote, so, if they voted for him, then that meant it must be okay to sexually assault a woman. Yes! That was the answer! The new president would get him off! He knew there was a reason he voted for him.

             But would he really? Richard began to panic. There’s no way that would actually work, would it? I’m so fucked, he thought, just like that swimmer from Stanford.

But wait, what was this? He noticed a tattoo on the woman’s back. He recognized the ink. He rolled the woman over. Thank God! It was only his sister! He didn’t rape anyone!

A sense of relief immediately filled Richard, until he looked down to find a condom hanging from his flaccid penis…