When They Go Low I Give Up

by Stephen J. Lyons

I’m huffing away on the elliptical at our local gym, reading another depressing commentary about our nation’s state of affairs, when I look across the room at the television to see the scabrous visage of one Steve Bannon. This is “War Room,” his program on Newsmax, a station I didn’t even know was included on this gym’s cable plan.

I hopped off the machine to change the channel to something innocuous like HGTV, or “Naked and Afraid,” but then I noticed her: A sweet, white-haired woman pedaling in front of the TV. I guessed her age somewhere north of 70. Probably a widow. Her eyes were transfixed on Bannon as if she was listening to Lincoln deliver the Gettysburg Address instead of a malodorous malcontent who wants to burn our democracy to the ground.

I now faced a decision. Do I engage her in conversation? Construct a bridge between our divisive political loyalties?

Or, do I ask, “Hey, isn’t that the guy that ripped off all those people who contributed to the construction of Trump’s wall? The man who has been found guilty of resisting a Congressional subpoena and is now serving a four-month sentence?”

Then I saw her portable oxygen machine. Darn! Not wanting to possibly be the cause of her demise I backed off and retreated to the elliptical and my sad magazine article. When I next looked up there was Charlie Kirk screaming.

Two days later, when I pulled into the parking lot of the gym for another round of physical torture, I spotted a pickup truck with a huge BLM bumper sticker. I practically clicked my heels in delight. Wow, someone with a like mind does exist in this majority Republican rural county! No need to contact a relocation realtor in Portugal.

Then I looked closer at the bumper sticker. The BLM actually stood for “Biden Loves Minors.” Huh? What does that even mean?

I had to meet this guy. Set him straight. Give him my old man Boomer lecture on how he has fallen into the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories like Pizzagate, cat-eating migrants and other fictions on the Dark Web.

Luck prevailed. We were the only two dudes in the weight room. So I grabbed my cup of cold brew (fair trade) and ventured inside with my hackles raised. But my Biden-hatin’, twenty-something bro was hefting hubcap-sized 45-pound discs of iron, not pastel-colored 10-pound plastic hand weights (don’t judge me). The guy was splashing off some serious workout sweat.

I approached cautiously. However, my courage quickly flagged. There was the little matter of his neck tattoo. In my world a tat anywhere above the shoulder is a red flag. Approach cautiously. 

If it’s a facial tattoo, the rules change. It means, out on parole. Look for an ankle monitor.

My options: Strike up some safe banter, like, did you go deer hunting this fall? Do you think Caitlin Clark is hot?

Or, I might try to find common ground. “Have you read the latest long-form piece in the New Yorker about how these might be the very last months of American democracy?”

You can see my options were limited. On cue, the stereo system blasted out “Sweet Home Alabama.” The BLM dude could not hear the iconic redneck anthem, but it seemed to fit perfectly with the tense mood. Would Lee Greenwood be next in the song queue? Sleeveless muscle boy and presidential pedophile stalker was lost in his weight regime, straining and grunting with each rep. Why would I interrupt such unfettered joy?

So I retreated to my safe space, the elliptical, where I got my heart rate up to just about 100, and I read about all the American expats moving to Portugal.