My Corona Diary (Take XXV): The Trump Cult, Unmasked, At The Checkout Line

 

"Trump's First Detention,"

Take I/The Reckoner

I love it when the so-called "adults in the room," i.e., the mainstream media outlets, pundits and various talking heads, wrack their brows and wax in angst over the Trump Phenomenon. Examples include a recent headline that I saw in The Atlantic Monthly: "How Long This Can Go On?" Even such formerly Trump-friendly outlets, like the New York Post -- a/k/a, the Voice of the Cranky Old Man, who finds his world changing too fast for his liking -- seem to have finally grasped the whiff of hemlock wafting underneath this particular real life reality show ("How Long Can Trump Keep Contesting 2020 Election Results?").

Well, gentlemen -- because, let's not forget, it is mostly aging white gentlemen who always seem to stride atop these particular pyramids, and preside over the slaves toiling for them at the base -- furrow your brows no longer, and wax in angst no more, for I have your answer. 

Simply put, "it" -- whether you're referring to the Trump cult, the hypnotic spell that it exerts over its starry-eyed legions, or the long term threat it poses to democracy, such as it exists, or however we define it, in the United States -- will go on, as long as nearly half the country prefers to live in an alternative universe, in which COVID is a hoax, masks are the enslavement tools of the effete liberals who crafted them in their secret underground laboratories, and their cult leader, Donald Trump, continues to assert an electoral victory that exists only in the darkest recesses of their hindbrains (and his).

I got a taste of this myself at Matthew's the other night, when the wife dispatched me to pick up a few food items, plus the usual household supplies, like paper towels, and dish soap, that sort of thing.

I was getting ready to check out when I noticed the cashier had two Velcro bands wrapped around her upper forearms. I asked what they were doing there, and she responded, "Oh, that's because I have tennis elbow in the left arm, and every time I'm on the other machine..." She gestured at the lane behind her. "I'm in a lot of pain."

She explained that working the cash register behind us was more painful, because that particular model of machine requires more rapid arm and wrist movements. The newer ones, apparently, aren't as demanding, being more advanced models that don't require as much motion to operate. "Couldn't you just work the machine that you're on now?" I asked.

The cashier responded that no, she couldn't, because whenever the lines backed up, somebody had to work that particular lane, and that particular machine. Even though Matthew's has just installed six self-checkout machines, there aren't enough people to work the conventional registers that still exist. 

Got that? It's like saying, "You're a millionaire, but you'll still have to borrow to get through the holidays," or, "You can have artistic control, but you'll have change the name of the band." Are you confused yet? I don't blame you. So am I.

"They've been threatening to cut hours, for the part-timers," the cashier continued, as she rung up the last of my items. "They just put out our new schedules, but I haven't seen them yet. I'm not sure I want to."

"Why, how many hours are you working now?" I asked.

"Twenty to 25 a week," she answered.

I got ready to write the check. "Well, not to worry," I cracked. "We've finally got a stimulus check coming, so maybe we can cut some of our losses at the box office with that one."

"I feel bad for him," the cashier said, almost to herself.

"Who, Trump? Why, exactly?" I asked.

"Because he should be there in January. He proved that he got three million more votes."

"Really? How do you figure that?"

"Because they were Democratic judges, and they won't hear his cases," the cashier responded.

"Weren't there some Bush and Trump appointees in the mix, though?" I retorted. "At least, the last time I checked." 

Like the three Supreme Court Justices he got to appoint, I told myself. But I guess they too were part of the grand conspiracy against the Dear Leader.

This time, the cashier didn't answer me. Whether she was preoccupied with the check reader, or writing me off as part of the conspiracy, too, I don't know, but since we'd wrapped up our business, I didn't push the point, this time around.

As far as all the adults are concerned, though, I'll circle back where we started. How long, you ask, can this go on?

For defenders of democratic values, the answer is simple. For now, longer than we can imagine, as there is much work to be done. 

The sooner we see this, and stop clinging to some hypothetical notion of normalcy, or some temporarily interrupted social order, that we can restore, by just clicking our fingers, or flicking on a switch...the sooner we can start that work, and do what has to be done. I have seen the challenge with my own eyes. And the road ahead looks long, with no lack of hairpin turns to snare the unwary. --The Reckoner