Thinking about the vilification of men got Grant thinking about race. Just like the old government had divided up society along gender lines and pitted people against each other, with government riding in to save the day, the old government had done the same with race. It was so apparent, especially after the war. Before the war, the old government tried to scare minorities about all those evil white teabaggers who wanted to kill them and enslave them. Just like they’d told women that men were evil and needed to be controlled by… the government.
The government used race to get support from whites, too. While never saying it, the government was hinting pretty clearly to whites that all these new security measures were necessary to protect people from “crime,” which often meant ethnic gangs. The common denominator in all this was that government was the only fair and powerful thing that could protect one group from the evils of the other group.
It would be impossible to be a racist after going through the Collapse and war. People of every race did bad things and good things. Grant thought about his own experience. There were Mexican gangs in Frederickson. On the other hand, there was Gideon and all the Hispanic soldiers in the 17th. Race didn’t fit into any rigid “good” or “bad” category.
Almost all people in New Washington had similar experiences. They had seen minorities do bad things and good things. Minorities had seen whites do bad things and good things, too. It was not lost on most minorities that the politicians and bureaucrats who had destroyed everything were white. Well educated, upper income whites.
Grant thought about all that the Patriots had done. He was very proud. Not cocky proud, but deep-breath-and-smile proud for a job well done. Grant was just a small piece in this whole thing. He had always thought that the only way things would get fixed was for the old system to collapse. People, who could start over on a clean slate instead of being trapped in the old system, would do what made sense, and that was freedom.
Chapter 334
(February 24, year after Collapse)
His pants were falling down. Damn it. Stay up.
Grant Matson hated wearing a suit, and he hated a tuxedo even more. A tuxedo that was too big was even worse. His pants were several inches too big and his shirt was baggy and had about two inches too much collar. His bow tie looked silly cinched up in an attempt to hide the fact that the collar was too big. Oh well. Almost everyone else was in the same boat.
No one had clothes that fit anymore. It was a mixed blessing. Everyone lost some weight they probably didn’t need. The old way of living, like having plenty of food to make those clothes fit, was a thing of the past. But, things were getting back to a new kind of normal and there was enough to eat now. Things were getting better. Much better than they had been 299 days ago.
Two hundred ninety-nine days. His son, who loved to count days and could tell anyone how many were between any two given dates like he was a computer, told him earlier today that it had been 299 days since May 1. That was the day it all started. And now, just 299 days later, it was wrapping up, as symbolized by the event he was attending tonight. Thank God it hadn’t lasted longer.
There he was in their new house. “New house” used to be a happy term as in “we just bought a new house and it’s great.” It used to mean the fun of moving up and getting something better. That was the old America.
This new house, a “guesthouse”, wasn’t like that. It was a fine house; in fact, it was a little nicer than his old one. But it wasn’t his. It wasn’t the house his kids spent most of their childhood in. His wife didn’t like it. She missed the old house, but understood why they had the new one. Tonight, she was dropping the kids off at her parents’ who would be babysitting while they were out. He was all alone. He chuckled at how lucky he had been throughout this whole thing. He had almost been alone forever. In fact, twice he had almost been alone forever.
Tonight, Grant wasn’t alone. There were some plainclothes soldiers outside the guesthouse in inconspicuous places, guarding him. But no one was inside the house. Just him. It was so quiet. He felt alone.
In the downstairs bathroom of the guesthouse, Grant looked in the mirror to adjust his bow tie. He was the same guy in his mid-forties with brown hair. But wow. Look at that. His face looked so much thinner than just a few months ago. Grant barely recognized himself because he had finally shaved. He hardly recognized himself without that military “contractor” beard.
Grant had aged quite a bit in the past 299 days. His face was toughened, and he looked confident. Deadly confident; the kind of confidence that it takes to stand up to bullies and help people. His eyes were different than before the Collapse. There was a hint of loss in them. Not a cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat kind of loss. His eyes showed that there was less of him now, that something had been lost. Taken from him.
Staring at the new him in the mirror, Grant got lost in memories. That was happening a lot lately. He would just lose his train of thought and drift into heavy thoughts, usually triggered by remembering someone or some event. Extremely vivid memories like waking from a realistic dream, in that first moment when the dream is so vivid it feels real, despite it being a crazy and unrealistic dream. The memories he was having were real, however. That’s why they were so vivid. And, in this case, reality had been crazy and unrealistic.
Grant looked again in the mirror and examined his tuxedo. It was symbolic of so much going on that night. He bought it about five years ago when he was climbing the ladder of law and politics in Olympia, the capitol of Washington State, and occasionally had to attend formal events. He would have fit in it just fine 299 days ago.
On this night, Grant was wearing a tuxedo to an event that warranted a tuxedo. It was the kind of night that only happens once in a lifetime, and never happens at all in the lifetimes of most people. Dinner tonight was a victory celebration. It was a victory in the biggest thing in his life or the lives of almost any American. He would be remembered throughout state history, at least as a small figure. He would have a school or something named after him. He should be happy, shouldn’t he?
This victory came at an enormous price. “Bittersweet” is a cliché, but it was true in this instance. Bitter because a lot of people died and suffered. Not billions of people like in some over-the-top apocalypse movie, but plenty of people. People Grant knew, some of them very well. Everyone knew many people who were killed, widowed, maimed, went crazy, were ruined, or had their families broken up. Grant thought about sweet Kellie. All she had ever wanted was a good man. He died in the war.
Almost everyone had been hungry and afraid. Grant didn’t lose his wife, but they weren’t nearly as close as before the Collapse and it would probably stay that way for the rest of their lives. His daughter was no longer the bubbly outgoing teenage girl she had been; now she was quiet and deadly serious most of the time. She had seen and done things that no teenage girl, or anyone for that matter, should have to experience. His son had fared okay as far as Grant knew.
His old home was trashed so he was borrowing this new one, the “guesthouse,” from someone who was now in jail. Grant would rebuild his real home but it would take a while. Things like police protection, farming, and rebuilding roads were a higher priority than remodeling. His old home was a symbol of what everyone was going through. It would take years of hard work to rebuild his town, state, and his country. Actually, the countries.