“What are you doing?” Layce asked me. She asks that question a lot but that’s a whole other thing. She was referring to all my black clothes laid out across the room and on the bed. I have a lot of clothes. I don’t know how to wear them but I have them but that’s a whole other thing.
“I’m trying to sort out my blacks.”
“What’s to sort out? It’s all black,” she said pointing at the clothes.
“They’re not actually.” I picked up a pair of black jeans and a black long sleeve shirt with zombies on it. “See the jeans are one kind of black and the shirt is another. Each one has its own hue.”
I put the jeans down and picked up my new black tactical pants (the ones that have all the weird pockets) and put them up to the zombie shirt. “Ah ha, see the same hue. This is a match.” I folded them up and placed them together alongside the other perfect match I’d found.
“Why are you wearing only black now?”
“I’m mourning the loss of our country. She is dying before our eyes. I got the idea from Johnny Cash. You know he sings, ‘I wear black for the poor and beaten down living in the hopeless hungry part of town, i.e. America. I wear black for the sick, old and lonely i.e. people without Medicare or Social security… ”
“Stop, I get it.”
“I could sing the whole song for you.”
“That’s okay. Maybe some other time. So you’re going to do this for four years?”
“No, I’m going to do this until he gets himself impeached or he blows up the planet. Either way I won’t need to wear black anymore.”
“I think I’ll wear my Hillary 2016 shirt until then.”
“That’d be awesome,” I said.
Layce rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to send Emma up to help? She has a good eye for color.”
“It’s all black.”
My new life in black. That’s Quentin. He’s a very learned bear.