Midnight by Anna Dove (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

then three--it wandered home after the last sip of champagne, carrying a briefcase full of very important and confidential items, and fell asleep with the self-assertive feeling that it was rather an important city, if it was honest with itself.

It slept now, breathing deep from its belly, an occasional light or sound, but for the most part quiet. Nothing was awake save the great stone monuments, ever gazing with steadfast eye upon the slumbering, bathed in starlight and omitting a faint luminescence quite poetic. What those eyes had seen, what the pale granites had witnessed: change, revolution, fire, war, crime, peace, history rolling on like an eternal cresting wave. Washington stood, the great obelisk, the Father of the Nation, the commander of the Continental Army, the rallying cry of unity in the face of revolution, casting his long image into the shallow reflection pool between it and Lincoln. Lincoln reclined, surrounded by thick pillars,  his hands poised on the edges of his chair in such a way that one could not tell if he were at ease or tensed for action, the Preserver of the Union, the orator to silence them all, his words immortalized in the stone walls by his sides. Jefferson sat to their southeast across the tidal basin, the man whose pen while grasped in human hand managed to transcribe in the most eloquent manner the eternal truths of individual rights, which before that point had not been so self-evident.

They watch motionlessly as humans from every nation approach—marveling at their grandeur, wondering for a brief moment about the historical significance, trying to remember if it was George Washington or Abraham Lincoln who had never told a lie. But that perhaps that in itself was a lie. And then the humans move on to the closest hot dog stand to address the more present and temporal needs. Occasionally a passerby has stood in wonder for more than the average time, maybe reflecting on a certain event or ancestor in some way involved in the history represented. They have lifted their eyes reverently, seeking something in the expression or artistry of the monument. But eventually, even the curious step back, turn away, and are swallowed again into the cresting wave. The monuments have seen it all, and they stand unmoved in the soft starlight like great, beautiful, silent ghosts.

This night in mid-March of the year two thousand and thirty three was especially quiet, the soft winds rustling the cherry blossoms and sending pink petals wafting to the dewed ground below. The roads were deserted, the restaurants and shops dim. Hours ago Mr. Smith had flipped the open sign to the closed side, and taking his coat from the rack, he had gone home to a pot roast and three well-behaved children. Mrs. Brown had finished her last editorial note and had gathered her purse, taking the metro home to her husband and her cat. Miss Tucker and Mr. Jones had decided that they had better go to their respective homes soon, as Miss Tucker had a boyfriend and Mr. Jones had drunk too much whiskey. Their chairs, now deserted, rested upside down on tables visible through window fronts and the streets that bustled by day now stretched empty.

An officer approached Jack, shining a flashlight on the sprawling frame. Just another drunk in DC, more plentiful than corn in Nebraska.

“Got to get a move on sir.”

“You know,” mused Jack, not looking at the officer, “I fought for your freedom to say that.”

The officer saw the label of the bottle Jack held, and tilted his head.

“Expensive liquor you have there. How did you come by that?”

“I feel as if you’re insinuating that I stole it.”

“Nope,” replied the officer, “just asking.”

“Good. Ever heard of Richard Armand? Special Assistant to the White House Chief of Staff Snyder Reed? Well, he gave it to me.”

“Right, okay. Time to get a move on. I won’t say it again.”

“It’s always move along, Jack,” said Jack lightly, almost comically. “Move along. But see, officer, I’m stuck to these steps, I can’t get them out of my head. I can’t really move along, as you see. I just can’t seem to do it, deepest apologies. Thank you for your work, we need people like you.” He shifted and the officer stuck out a hand to assist him to his feet, which Jack waved away. “Okay, alright then,” continued Jack, rising unsteadily, “Alright. Fair. I’m just a drunk, what do I know. Barely anything at all.”

He rose from the steps of the Supreme Court and walked off in the opposite direction, and was soon lost from sight in the web of dark streets.

 

9.    Make It Go Away

 

“When you have a persistent sense of heartbreak and gutwrench, the physical sensations become intolerable and we will do anything to make those feelings disappear. And that is really the origin of what happens in human pathology. People take drugs to make it disappear, and they cut themselves to make it disappear, and they starve themselves to make it disappear, and they have sex with anyone who comes along to make it disappear and once you have these horrible sensations in your body, you’ll do anything to make it go away.”

―

Bessel A. van der Kolk

Jack Hoffman awoke from a stupor near the Eisenhower building, still very drunk. He found himself sprawled out on a bench. It could not be much later than noon, judging by the sun’s position. He had just received his financial allotment the day before from his trench-coated friend and had promptly spent an exorbitant quantity on a handle of quality bourbon and a variety of other smaller bottles, which he had stowed away in his backpack. The night before, looking up at the moon, which peered effervescently down from its celestial throne, he had drained more than half of the bourbon while sitting on that same bench and watching the people