I tried to work through the manic episode, but it was an unusually social day at work. I was trying to do my job because my morning hours are precious vis-à-vis my productivity. Past editors-in-chief of Blood and were getting their pictures taken with the Research Council, and they loved to laugh in front of the elevators, which I sit near.
I hid in a vacant office and finally got some work done. Unfortunately, our laptop batteries last only about an hour, and nobody on my floor could locate a cord. I tried taking a walk, and it didn’t work. If I didn’t start my day two hours before everyone else, I wouldn’t have finished anything.
When agitated, some will sputter something that sounds like English but seemed to be a forgotten dialect. That was me telling my boss I had to go home. It must have scared the crap out of her.
The walk to the Metro was calming, and I breathed through my commute in a half-empty subway car. I got home, didn’t play with Oscar, laid down, breathed for twenty more minutes, and finished my work for the day, except for one thing.
I had to bring myself down before the show, but I also wanted to hang out with Ember and whoever she had collected since I saw her last. That person was Steve, a chatty, retired man carrying a sign that said, “Nazi HQ.” Steve’s girlfriend works in the Capitol and may be a legislator.
Immediately after I introduced myself, an older man on a bike in the Cadillac of MAGA hats wheeled over on one of those rental bikes. Everybody was calm. Ember didn’t engage, she just waved her sign. Steve and the man traded talking points, which were deflected by the target’s stubbornness. Nobody got angry, but we thought he was stupid, and he thought we were stupid.
When I had arrived, she wasn’t sitting in the path of the douchebags because they had parked their Escalades in front of her. Off to the side, she waved one sign as high as she could (which wasn’t very high) and wore one around her neck.
I wondered if she was acting weird around me for some reason, but she’s really just weird in general. Thursday, she had painted Celtic knot-work on DMT onto her cheekbones. Her glasses were amber and the shape of sunflowers. Her baseball cap was covered in metal studs.
Speaking of DMT, we talked a lot about it. In fact, she had a recipe for extracting it from tree bark because “it comes from nature.” No thank you. The last time I tried a hallucinogen, I had a bad time, so never again. The last time Ember did, she saw a blue goddess who said she was ready.
I asked her how long she’d been doing this, and she told me two weeks. I asked her how long she lived in the DMV area, and she told me two weeks. Something called her, she didn’t know what. I tried to explain that I didn’t believe in the supernatural, but I was fascinated by it, but I lost control over my words and turned into a sputtering mess. We changed the subject.
She had been living in Vermont as a cook. Apparently, she has a bachelor’s in psychology but without a masters and doctorate, it’s a useless degree. She couldn’t find a “real” job, so she did some factory work while her soul died. She quit the kitchen when her calling found her, and she came straight here, where her cousin lives.
Ember is inspiring and brave, as well as being cocky and full of life. It’s impossible to believe that she came from the parents she later described to me.
The sidewalk, a block from Union Station, is prime hunting grounds for people-watchers, like myself. Except for the guy on the bike, most people, ignored us after I arrived. As the day went on, though, people thanked us, took pictures with Ember (She had the flashy signs), and chatted with us.
For example, while his family waved at us with enthusiasm, a dad told his eight-year-old daughter, “They’re protesting. If there’s something you don’t like, protest.” An older gentleman walked past us, spun around, middle fingers extended, and yelled, “Fuck the Heritage Foundation! I used to work for George W. Bush!”
I was there for an hour when we were approached by two people Ember already knew. They were federal workers, so they wore Covid masks to hide their identities. Though they did tell me their names, though: Brandy and Dani.
Brandy (plot twist: he’s a middle-aged man) paced the sidewalk, a tiger in a cage, with his own sign. He’s a veteran, who are another demographic the government is screwing.
Dani brought a slide whistle, playing it every time someone entered or left the building. She lives in Takoma Park, the same town as all the coffee shops I like.
Next, we met Carrie. Carrie was passing by on her way to Union Station, wearing a Banksy T-shirt and a red headscarf. She needed to plan tonight’s White House protest, but she stuck around for half an hour, discussing the resistance. While Dani played the slide whistle, Carrie booed.
We later found out this is illegal, as Ember explained to me slowly and carefully so as to avoid misunderstanding.
I left after about two hours, when it had gone from a single fiery woman to a small movement. As I pointed myself at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Dani spread her arms. I generally don’t do hugs, but I let her wrap her arms around me this time. It felt right.
If I needed any proof this was an episode, and a particularly bad one, it could be found in the way I kept up with Steve. And with Jane from the play, with her delighted, effervescent charm.
I suggested an idea for how to increase ticket sales for Thursday shows to the producer. I pitched my artistic services to the same producer. I teased some of the actors who’d never spoken to me before. I started so many conversations, and I invented the word “DOGEbag.”
The problem with hypomania is that it’s not as destructive as regular mania, so it feels like a lot of fun. However, as my morning in the office proved, it’s not great. I probably need to talk to my doctor.
I also got three phone numbers.
Jeremiah Murphy 