Another Day In the Life

The basement smells like bourbon and righteous fury when I drop into my usual stool, bones aching from another day of pretending the world isn't actively on fire. Miguel materializes with that uncanny timing he's perfected, setting down a tumbler before I've even shrugged out of my jacket.

What's the damage tonight?

Old Forester 1920 Prohibition Style, he says, voice carrying that sultry-maternal contradiction I've learned means he's worried. Barrel proof, 115. Caramel and tobacco leaf, dark cherry and cinnamon bark, with a finish that burns like watching democracy die in real time.

I take the glass, let the amber liquid catch the light. Supertramp's "The Logical Song" bleeds through the speakers—When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful—and isn't that the fucking truth. The bourbon hits my tongue like liquid violence, all those promised flavors wrapped in heat that makes my eyes water. A vision of Gizmo appears…..

Phoenix sits in their corner with River, purple-and-gold hair catching light like a distress beacon. Their hands shake around a Coke glass. River's still in scrubs—forest green tonight—one arm draped protectively across Phoenix's shoulders while they scroll through their phone with the kind of intensity that means they're reading something that's going to hurt.

They arrested a journalist for covering protests, Phoenix says without looking up, voice cracking on the last word. Just—handcuffs at the fucking Grammys. For doing his job.

Wait, wasn’t that Don Lemon?, I ask in questioning tone.

Ezra bounces over from their beanbag throne, blue hair electric against crimson walls. I saw that. Federal charges. Like, actual conspiracy charges for— They make air quotes with pierced fingers. —reporting on public events. How is that even legal?

It's not, Della announces, emerging from the kitchen with a plate of blackened catfish that makes my stomach remember hunger exists. That's the whole goddamn point, sugar. Make the legal illegal, make the illegal normal, and suddenly we're all just waiting for the knock on the door.

She slides the plate in front of Renee, who's planted at her usual corner table looking like she could bench press the entire Trump administration into the fucking sun. Sarah sits across from her, flannel shirt pressed to military precision, while Erin perches between them looking like she's trying to decide which gravitational pull is stronger.

The thing that gets me, Renee rumbles, biceps flexing as she cuts into catfish, is they shot two American citizens during raids this month. Killed them. But instead of investigating that, they're arresting journalists who witnessed the aftermath.

Distraction, Sarah says flatly, like she's explaining basic physics to particularly slow students. Classic authoritarian playbook. Create so much chaos nobody can focus on the actual crimes.

Keira appears beside me without announcing herself, glass of red wine manifesting in her hand like she summoned it through sheer will. She doesn't touch me—we don't do that here—but her presence settles something in my chest that's been wound too tight since I woke up this morning.

You see the wind farm ruling? she asks, voice cutting through the growing noise with surgical precision.

I nod, taking another pull of bourbon. The heat spreads through my chest like defiance made tangible.

Fourth court this month telling Trump his climate vandalism can fuck right off, I say. Judge Murphy basically called it what it is—arbitrary and capricious bullshit disguised as national security.

National security, Bubba's deep voice rolls from his sentinel position by the windows, where he's been watching the street like he expects federal agents to kick down the door any minute. Wind turbines are a national security threat, but shooting American citizens in their homes isn't.

Remy appears at his elbow, cigarette dangling from lips, Louisiana accent thick as swamp water. Mon Dieu, cher. The lies, they don't even try to make them believable anymore. Just say whatever shit falls out their mouth and count on nobody fighting back.

Pink Floyd's "Time" starts up—Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day—and I feel Gizmo's ghost in the bass line, remember her tiny voice belting these lyrics during Saturday morning grocery runs when the world felt manageable. My chest tightens. I drain half the bourbon to drown the memory.

Marcus sits hunched over a beer at the bar, wedding ring catching light as he spins it nervously. His wife Sara wanted to come tonight but he asked her to stay home, needed this space to breathe without explaining why he needs it. His face shows the particular exhaustion of someone whose identity gets erased depending on who's looking.

The thing about all this, he says quietly, not looking at anyone specific, is how fast it happened. Like, we all knew it would be bad, but— He gestures helplessly at his phone. This is the first year. The first fucking year.

Two thousand people showed up at that conference in D.C., Leila announces from where she's been furiously scrolling through feeds, strong voice cutting through the gathering despair like a knife through bone. Creating Change. Despite everything, despite all the attacks on trans kids and diversity programs and Pride funding getting gutted—people showed up.

Europe banned conversion therapy, Phoenix adds, looking up from their phone with something almost like hope cracking through the fear. Seventy-one to twenty-six. Council of Europe.

About fucking time, Ezra says. Now if the UK would get its head out of its ass and follow through on that 2018 promise—

Don't hold your breath, kid, Elaine calls from her table, where she's nursing a rum collins made with Diplomatico and fresh lime. Government promises about protecting queers have about the same value as my ex-girlfriend's promises she'd stop sleeping with her yoga instructor.

That gets a laugh—bitter, exhausted, but genuine. Rush's "Subdivisions" takes over the speakers, Tom Sawyer's rebellion bleeding through synthesizers, and for a moment we're all just suspended in the music, in the bourbon warmth, in the temporary safety of this basement sanctuary.

Grubby sits quietly at the edge of the group, barely speaking but absorbing everything like a sponge. Their intersex experience makes them particularly attuned to how fast medical autonomy can be stripped away, how quickly bodies become political battlegrounds instead of lived homes. When they do speak, it's barely above a whisper.

I keep thinking about the kids, they say. Trans kids. The ones who finally found language for themselves, who finally felt seen, and now— Their voice breaks. Now they're being told they're problems to solve instead of people to protect.

The silence that follows lands like a body.

Miguel pours another round without asking—bourbon for me, rum for Elaine, beer for Marcus, fresh Coke for Phoenix. His hands move with practiced efficiency while his face shows everything he's not saying. The wedding ring catches light. Della emerges from the kitchen again, wraps arms around him from behind, presses her face between his shoulder blades. They stand like that for a long moment—old married couple finding center in each other while the world burns.

Minneapolis, Remy says suddenly, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. That border czar, he's demanding they hand over immigrants from county jails. Like some kind of fucking mob boss demanding tribute.

Occupation, Sarah says flatly. That's what it looks like when federal government forgets about local autonomy. Just armed agents and ultimatums.

Two people dead, Bubba repeats, voice carrying weight of decades surviving what should have killed him. And instead of accountability, they send more jackboots.

Dani flows over to our cluster, scarves trailing like battle flags, crystals catching light. Her voice shifts from gentle to fierce without transition. The thing we have to remember is that showing up is resistance. Every time we gather, every time we refuse to disappear, every time we choose each other—that's power they can't touch.

Power they're fucking terrified of, Della adds, releasing Miguel to gesture with a spatula she apparently carried from the kitchen. Why you think they're trying so hard to make us illegal? Because when we're together, when we're organized, when we're loud—we're dangerous to their whole goddamn system.

Keira's voice cuts through the rising energy like scalpel through infected flesh. The question isn't whether we have power. The question is whether we're willing to use it when using it costs something.

I look at her—really look—and see the woman who's watched me nearly die, who's held space for my grief about Gizmo, who's chosen me every day despite knowing exactly how damaged I am. Her eyes hold mine steadily, no flinching, no performance. Just truth.

We're already paying the cost, I say. The cost of existing, of being visible, of refusing to disappear. Might as well make it count for something.

Mom's right, Phoenix says, and River squeezes their shoulder. We're already targets just for being ourselves. Might as well be dangerous targets.

The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again" starts up—Meet the new boss, same as the old boss—and the irony isn't lost on anyone. Ezra starts bouncing to the beat, that infectious enthusiasm that suggests joy itself is rebellion. Renee watches them with something soft underneath the muscle, protective instinct radiating like heat.

Brandon appears from the bathroom, notebook in hand, animated gestures returning as he slides back into his seat. I'm writing about this, he announces. All of it. The arrests, the killings, the court victories, the organizing. Someone needs to document that we fought back.

Someone needs to remember we were here, I say quietly, and he meets my eyes with understanding that cuts bone-deep. We're both writers trying to capture something true before it disappears. His essays get published while mine collect rejections, but we're fighting the same war with the same weapons.

Sage sits in their corner creating art on napkins—tonight it's a phoenix rising from flames, wings spread wide, surrounded by smaller birds taking flight. They slide it across the table toward Phoenix without speaking. Phoenix picks it up, eyes filling with tears.

Thank you, they whisper.

Sage just nods. Sometimes witness doesn't require words.

Lisa watches from her corner, farm girl pragmatism mixing with newfound lesbian curiosity. She came out late, spent decades being who everyone else needed, and now she's claiming space for herself with determined precision. All this talk about power and resistance, she says, voice carrying sixty-plus years of hard-won wisdom, reminds me that wasted years don't have to mean wasted life. You can start fighting back at any age if you're brave enough.

Amen to that, sugar, Della says, raising her coffee mug in salute.

Julie stirs her Diet Coke and Jameson with methodical precision, seventy-one years etched in her face alongside determination that won't quit. They want us tired, she observes. Want us too exhausted to organize, too defeated to resist. That's the whole strategy—just overwhelm us until we give up.

Then we don't give up, Leila says simply, scrolling through more feeds with fierce concentration. We show up tired. We organize exhausted. We resist even when it feels impossible. Because the alternative is— She gestures at her phone. This. Forever.

Miguel sets down fresh drinks, makes eye contact with each person like he's taking attendance, counting souls, making sure nobody's disappeared between rounds. Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain" fills the basement—Chain keep us together—and the symbolism is so obvious it hurts.

You know what gets me about all this? Erin asks, and both Renee and Sarah lean forward slightly, competing gravities pulling at her attention. It's that they're profiting from the cruelty. Like, private equity making money off deportation flights, airlines charging premium rates to tear families apart—

Late-stage capitalism has no shame, Sarah interrupts, voice flat with disgust. It'll monetize suffering, commodify trauma, turn human rights into profit margins without blinking.

Then we hit them where it hurts, Renee says, fist hitting table with enough force to make glasses jump. Boycotts, divestment, making it expensive to be complicit. Money's the only language they speak.

Onyx sits near the edge of our gathering, eyes red from crying about strangers' suffering, loose leaf tea steaming in their hands. Their nonbinary femme presence adds another dimension to our queer constellation, their poetry about intersectional existence making visible what others try to erase. They haven't spoken much tonight but their tears say everything—the empathy so deep it becomes paralysis, the fear of visibility warring with desperate need for community.

We're all we have, they finally say, voice barely audible over the music. When the systems fail, when the government turns fascist, when they're literally killing people in the streets—we're all we have.

Then we better be fucking good to each other, I say, bourbon hitting bottom of glass. Miguel refills it without asking.

The basement holds us all—queer bodies, trans bodies, bodies that don't fit binaries or expectations or the narrow definitions of acceptable humanity. We're bruised and broken and fighting battles that should have ended decades ago. We're exhausted and angry and scared shitless about what's coming.

But we're here. Together. Refusing to disappear.

Queen's "We Are The Champions" starts up—I've paid my dues, time after time—and I feel Gizmo in the chorus, remember her tiny fists pumping air during this song, her absolute certainty that she'd conquer the world. My chest cracks open. Tears burn.

Keira's voice cuts through my spiral without touching me. She'd be proud of you. Of this place. Of what you're building.

I can't speak. Just nod.

The night deepens. More stories spill out—small victories, large fears, the ordinary miracle of surviving another day in bodies the world wants dead. We laugh too loud, curse too much, hold space for each other's rage and grief and stubborn hope that refuses to die despite every reason it should.

This is resistance. This is revolution. This basement full of misfits and fighters, this chosen family that claims each other completely, this sanctuary we've built from bourbon and truth and the absolute refusal to let them erase us.

They can arrest journalists. They can freeze wind farms. They can shoot citizens in the streets. They can try to legislate us out of existence.

But they can't kill this. They can't destroy what we've built here. They can't touch the power of people who've decided they're done asking permission to exist.

We're dangerous precisely because we're together. And we're not going anywhere.