A Farewell to Bernie

            Sizzling, popping, charring, and scrapping. These sounds played in the background. Closer to the foreground, a smooth vaporwave danced through iPhone, across Bluetooth, and to tango out speakers. Front and center in the foreground, three of us chatted. Vince scrapped the grill, started the ignition, threw down hamburger meat, and returned to his seat.

            Each one of us rested a red solo cup on the table. Pretzel bag, wrapped hamburger buns, empty soda cans, pickle jars laid beyond. Sealed behind the borders was a marshmallow bag. We could tuck it on a chair to shield it from the heat. Though in the end, they were going to be baked on spits or cooked into smores. Two graham cracker boxes laid below. Another cardboard box held plastic utensils. An adjacent table supported six different two-liter soda bottles.

            It was an August barbeque. The air was moist with showers possible, so the friends and I sought refuge under Milton’s porch. A tender meat aroma swirled. Fat bubbled and charcoal burnt. In bliss, puffy clouds lazed above us, and storm clouds were far away. The lawn was still recovering from drought. Grass rose in patches. The old oak’s stump marked the property’s edge. Birds landed in the yard, found worms for chicks, and flew back home. Most Americans would call today serene and what the American Dream could look like. A clique of five friends that enjoyed a friendly barbeque in early August. I almost would dub it idyllic.

            It was just one of us forgot the weed. We elected to send Milton into his house to see if he had any stashes. Despite his protestations of democratic mob rule, he obeyed. That left us four under the porch. I wore sunglasses. Franky wore his Kamala Harris hat. He worked up a sweat carrying his soda liters here and we could still make out his thin frame. Ivan wore a wifebeater but abstained from alcohol so as not to complete the outfit. Though with his muscles, he never looked to have a beer belly. Vince’s neck was thick with fat and muscle. His esophagus was known to have a high capacity. He wore jeans and a pink t-shirt with ‘ouch!’ written in white. Out of respect for Franky, I imagined that Vince left his MAGA cap in his pickup. Milton left his Ron Paul 2012 hat on his picnic table.

            “Guys,” Milton said as he came out, “I inspected ten million different things in my bedroom and located no weed.”

            “Sure about that?” Franky asked.

            “I would only lie to a cop or drug enforcement agent about that.”

            “Maybe I’m a cop,” Vince said.

            “A criminal justice degree doesn’t make you a cop,” I said, “or seven-eighths of one.”

            “It sure does. It sure does actually, Isaac.”

            “I’ll bet good money against that,” I said, “if I gambled of course.”

            “Wish you bet.”

            “The fascists in this country disapprove of gambling,” Milton said.

            “Now, Milton, I support legalizing a lot of things, but our government isn’t run by fascists,” Vince said.

            “As if there isn’t a fascist in the White House? Trump wants to destroy democracy,” Franky said.

            “Guys,” Ivan said, “guys, let’s cool ourselves down. The day is still young, and some meat is sizzling. I’d hate to get into an argument.”

            “Ivan is correct,” Milton said, “this is my property so we can silence the politics.”

            Franky looked at Vince, they nodded at one another, and Vince nodded at Milton.

            I looked at Ivan, smiled and then nodded. He returned a nod as we both welcomed the cessation of hostilities. I walked over to the grill, lifted the top and flipped hamburgers.

            With our politics on hats, silencing them seemed unlikely. My Bernie 2016 hat gathered dust in my room. I supported Bernie for revolutionary change. Franky went with Hillary. When Bernie bent the knee to the Clinton machine, I lost all hope. Once November eighth came with a Trump victory, Franky was broken. The next day, Franky polluted his social media feed with conspiracy theories of the left. Vince polluted his feed with conspiracy theories of the right that glorified Alex Jones and that compared liberals to fascists.

            Milton smoothed his short-sleeved polo and nice khaki shorts. The uniform made him sound more casual than he was actually. He wore the same outfit with his father to country club golf tournaments. Franky jiggled the ice cubes in his soda. Vince switched to cheap parlor tricks. Ivan examined the wood of the porch. I yawned.

            “Is this all?” Milton asked.

            “Afraid so,” I said, “we sent you in to search for weed to kill time after all.”

            “Shame we’ve got no weed. It’s been a good sedative when times get tense. It’s disarming, is that the word?” Vince asked.

            “It is a good way to relax. Ironically, I’ve been using it more since I graduated,” Franky said, “more free time perhaps? It’s not like I have more work.”

            “Or is it something else?” Ivan asked.

            “What do you mean?” I asked.

            “Are we doing anything? Like serious things that will be part of the future? Any future: personal, historical, family, friends, something to tell the world about?”

            “We are all together, Ivan. That’s friendship. I do not see much need to become historical,” Franky said.

            “It is, but not really. It’s not meaningful. Take some weed, enjoy the high, and then come down, that was the plan. Should it be like that or could we do more?”

            “And do what?”

            “I don’t know. We didn’t always need weed.”

            A lot could be said of Ivan. He was a good friend, no question about that. Occasional moments such as this, he tended to get heated and lost in near rants about a need to change. He railed against weed. Each time he did, I felt a twinge of annoyance and felt he was right. Why did we lose ourselves in poufy smog? It bothered me, albeit only for a bit.

            “We smoked less in 2015 now that I think about it,” Vince said.

            “2015 was a magical year. We graduated high school. What did we call it?” Ivan asked.

            I never smoked until boring college days to eat time between classes. Parents couldn’t nag me about it either.

            “It was the spirit of 2015, that’s what we called it. Whatever happened to it? Everything seemed so damn great and could only keep getting better and better,” Ivan said.

            “We lost something. I dunno,” Vince said.

            “No idea here.”

            A pause.

“And by the way, I think the wood’s rotting on the deck,” Ivan said.

            “Is it really?” Milton’s neck flung up, “are you sure about that, Ivan?”

            “But I’m no carpenter.”

            “Now you’re making me afraid. I need to run up and inspect the porch. Excuse me.”

            As Milton ran off, we slide back to our previous activities. Ivan searched for the rot, Franky jiggled soda, and Vince dealt to an invisible enemy. Milton’s shoes stomped planks overhead. I tried to track the motions, grew bored, and looked at the giant oak stump.

            Milton came back. In his hand were photos. All our eyes focused on them and watched as he threw them down. He spoke, “pick them up, look them over. These are from the summer of 2015.”

            “Speak of the devil,” Vince said, “hand them over, we’ve got to dig in. I need to see how much of a high school moron I looked like.”

            Vince divided them into fours. He gave us each a set and held back a fourth for himself. I examined my set. The first one showed us gathered under the old oak tree. Ivan, Vince, and Milton held beer cans. None of us were legal, as if that mattered. We were probably more drunk on the adrenaline than the beer.

            “When did you develop these?” I asked.

            “Only a few days ago. I was cleaning out my camera and found these gems.”

            “Vince, my goodness. I forgot how much you changed,” Ivan said.

            “What? How?” Vince asked.

            Ivan presented a photo when Vince was fat.

            “Those old times, that what you meant?” Vince said with a grin, “and so what? I was fat and shed those pounds. High school moron, exactly what I wanted to see.”

            “Just how much you lost,” Milton said.

            “We had good food over 2015. That’s all I have to say.”

            “If I recall, you were fat in high school, too,” I said.

            “I’d say I made my diet great again in 2015. Which I actually did do. Going door-to-door for Trump helped to burn off those pounds. That’s about all I got from that.”

            “You helped Trump get into power though,” Franky said.

            “I suppose I did. He won the Election. Let’s get off this, it pisses me off, we have these wonderful photos to enjoy.”

            Ivan let out a sigh of relief that politics submerged.

            We exchanged photos and laughed at every quirk we found. People showed great surprise at the fact that I had a mustache for one picture. As we tried to reestablish a timeline that never existed, we failed to determine when I had a mustache. Maybe I never had one was my defense. No counters were raised. A photo of Ivan making a funny face was found. He tried to mimic it but could not get his lips to go a certain way. We concluded that once his hairline started to recede, so went his ability to make that face.

            “Would you gentlemen like some beers?” Milton asked.

            “Beer actually sucks,” Ivan said.

            “You’re right,” I said, “being twenty-two takes the thrill from a drink.”

            Vince laughed.

            “Hey, the spirit of 2015, when did we invent the phrase?” Franky asked.

            “Ironically, January 2016 or maybe late December 2015 it came to one of our heads. We only had time to stich in one ice cream evening over winter break and we lamented how tight our schedules became,” I said.

            “Yeah,” Ivan said, “I had pistachio ice cream and then someone bemoaned the death of the spirit of 2015.”

            “Well who said it?” Franky asked, “I did not.”

            “I didn’t,” Vince said.

            “I couldn’t have said it. There was a spoon in my mouth,” Ivan said.

            “My, do not look at me,” Milton said.

            Eyes fell on me, I laughed and said, “wasn’t me. Whoever said it came after I spoke.”

            A pause.

            “Nobody’s going to take credit?” Vince asked, “look, I won’t bite the fellow. I’ll slap you on the back actually.”

            “Maybe no one and everyone invented the term. It was true in January 2016 and just as valid today. A toast,” I rose my cup, “to the spirit of 2015.”

            The five of us toasted.

            “But why January?” Franky asked.

            “With families, jobs, and the what not, we were just too busy to meet up for winter break 2016 except one day. I hung out with everyone at least once otherwise, sometimes in groups. It was the one time we all got together, right?”

            Everyone nodded.

“My girlfriend demanded a lot of my time over winter break,” Milton said.

            “Now you mention it,” Vince said, “four of us got together once, except you.”

            “The girlfriend.”

            “Yes, yes, that girlfriend,” Franky said, “who most assuredly exists. What’s her hair color again?”

            “Blonde.”

            “Extremely odd, wasn’t it brown before?”

            “Did I say that? She’s a beautiful girl, her hair’s magical, it changes color based on seasons.”

            “Tell you what, Milton, my old friend,” Vince said, “but I swore you told me it was blonde and only blonde. Plus, there’s no magic out there.”

            “There is a logical explanation, I assure you. On a million dollars, I will testify that her hair’s a sandy blonde that can turn brown,” he said with reddening face.

            “Most, most peculiar as you never told that she was a brunette. I lied to see your reaction,” Franky said.

Milton laughed. He probably treated Franky’s deception as a game. Franky’s face gave no indications that he was playful. Of the few facts we knew of this girlfriend, she attended Fordham University with Milton, and she was there on scholarship. Milton’s grades were enough to get him into college but the Fordham Alumni t-shirt his investment banker father wore seemed to suggest other reasons for admission.

            The girlfriend never surfaced on Facebook or Instagram. Ivan claimed to have seen a picture of her. It was at a car show that he attended with Milton. There, Milton slipped open one picture. It was a beautiful blushing blonde who seemed a tad too mature for the average college sophomore.

            “But so, no weed?” Franky asked.

            “No weed,” Milton said.

            “Lovely weather we’re having,” Vince said.

            “The sky is blue,” Franky said.

            “Yeah,” I said.

            “Sure is,” Ivan said.

            We returned to our solo cups of soda. I tried to find a melody in the small ripples in my Dr. Pepper. The flames of the grill crackled against charcoal. A crow flew overheard and landed on a nearby tall tree. Ivan stood and poured himself another cupful of Pepsi.

            It was a wonderful past, if albeit it felt more than four years ago. No one could go wrong bringing up 2015 as everyone would chuckle and share their favorite memories from the year. As we left high school crushes, prom dates, and other friends behind, the summer of 2015 was a benchmark of better times. 2016 was marred by politics. Jobs and internships kept us apart since 2017. Between 2015 and 2019, we had rare good times that were forgotten. 2015 looked to be a golden age whose shine overwhelmed other times.

            “My English professor loved to toss around the word parallelism. Gents, it’s been four years since 2015 and we’ve got some big parallels going on. We left high school and now most of us are out of college and we have Elections going on, who’s voting for whom?” Vince asked.

            “Please, anything but politics. I just want to enjoy my chips in peace,” Ivan said.

            “It won’t turn ugly. How about this, we talk about the front-runner?”

            “Anybody but him,” Franky said.

            Vince smirked, “and you know who I’m talking about. It’s Joe Biden time.”

            “Him? Can you explain?” I asked.

            “He’s ahead of all other Democrats and he is ahead of Trump in head-to-head polls. Thoughts on the man everyone?”

            “If I may be blunt, he is a corporatist Democrat who will clog our economy for political rather than practical gain,” Milton said.

            “I think he’s a creep,” Franky said, “a racist, and an ally to segregationists.”

            “I should like to see him step out of the race as that will allow for Bernie Sanders to take the lead in the Election. Not as if I imagine anything would change,” I said.

            “Doubtful of Bernie?” Vince asked.

            I gave an indeterminate nod. Like Ivan, I was not enthralled with politics.

            “Dare I ask your stance?” Franky asked.

            “He’s a creep, that much I know. Have you guys been hearing about his campaign?”

            “As in how Kamala is demolishing his campaign?”

            “No, but that is fun to watch. Have you seen some of his campaign stuff? He thinks Trump’s a madman intent on destroying the American Dream Obama gave and Joe thinks he’s the sole man to save our souls,” Vince said.

            “Is that the gist of his message?” I asked.

            “Listen to his announcement, who we are, what’s at stake, this is America. My friends, that is what Biden says. America’s soul and magic are at stake, but don’t worry, Joe’s gonna save us.”

            “A great sum of sarcasm I detect.”

            “The values he’s got are anti-Trump. Fair enough, this is America and we can hate people here. What values does Joe want to give us? Tolerance instead of work, saluting a flag while unemployed, and denying eight years to Donald for Joe’s four-year reign.”

            “I find those to be admirable traits. I dislike the messenger and question his sincere commitments to stances embraced by the Democrats,” Franky said.

            “And when it’s Trump versus Biden, how are you voting?” Vince asked, “I see that Kamala hat, the way she talks to Biden, you’d think it to be elder abuse.”

            Franky laughed.

            “Don’t think humor gets you out of answering.”

            “The reality of the situation compels me to vote for the Democrat regardless of whoever wins the nomination. We can see the damage Trump did in four years. As Joe Biden says, we cannot afford eight years of his malevolence.”

            “So, you’ve got no principles,” Vince smirked, “don’t worry�"”

            “Vince, shut up. The fact that my parents fled Vietnam shortly after the war is exactly why I have principles to make sure Trump does not win in 2020.”

            “Don’t worry, I don’t have principles either. I voted Trump for jobs, not for the stars and stripes beating through my veins, Franky. I can trust plenty of Dems for jobs, but not Joe.”

            “A problem with democracy is that by its very nature, it corrupts individuals’ principles in the pursuit of power,” Milton said, “if I may be bold, the best principles to follow is protection of individuals’ natural rights safeguarded by a libertarian oligarchy.”          

            “That might be right; we should give our country to the businessmen. Good thing I don’t have principles cause those businessmen are making jobs the way they used to.”

            “We already have a businessman oligarchy,” Franky said.

            “No, our politics is far more analogous to a corporatist oligarchy. Mussolini would venerate our merger of state and corporate power,” Milton said, “what I am suggesting is an enlightened despotism if you will.”

            “Forget that,” Vince said, “how about it, we go back to 2015 like Biden wants? We take a time machine and pretend the past four years never happened.”

            “It is seductive. I will give you that. I got a college degree, four years of life experience, and a whole host of other qualities that I cannot wash away, for what? Obama and being close again to a high school crush,” I said.

            “Trump has inflicted his venomous rot these past four years. We have to heal it, not ignore it,” Franky said.

            “You make the rot sound younger than it is,” Vince said.

            “Could we give peace a chance?” Ivan asked, “we started so happy to chow on burgers. That’s my principle.”

            “Ivan, it’s not principles. It’s about getting to live.”

            “But I think the burgers are done,” I said.

            “Are they?” Vince looked at the grill, “s**t, it’s time to serve them.”

            Vince put burgers on five plates and passed them to us. The four of us took them and applied our favored toppings. I slapped pickles, lettuce, and onions on mine. Once we prepped our burgers, Vince made his. The five of us started to eat.

“It was such a good time,” Ivan stopped to chew, “the summer of 2015. What was everyone’s favorite part of the year?”

            “The movies if you ask me,” Vince said, “not just the old Marvel before Disney made it all into social justice junk. Whenever we went to each other’s homes and watched some older flicks together. That was great.”

            “What movies did we see?” Franky asked, “before it you know, became social justice junk?”

            “Watch it, I might need to report you for picking up my satire. It might be simpler to list what we didn’t see. There was,” Vince looked at his phone, “Inside Out, Ant-Man, Jurassic World, Leonardo DiCaprio being a total badass in The Revenant. Do we remember Pixels?”

            “Wasn’t that just you and Isaac?” Milton asked, “we were busy.”

            I nodded.

            “For me, the first barbeque if I may be bold. We all had s**t that screwed us over,” Ivan said, “but when we came here, I damn well enjoyed it, Milton.”

            “Skipping rocks at the pond,” Milton said, “I know we only did it once but there was something authentic about five gentlemen searching for perfectly curated rocks to skip across a pond’s surface. Besides, it was a free event that no one had to contribute money in order to enjoy.”

            “And who was the idiot that stripped to his underwear for a swim?” Ivan asked.

            “Ever used a mirror?” Franky asked.

            “Here I was hoping no one’d remember it was me if I brought it up.”

            “We remember,” Milton said.

            “That was a good time. I forgot about it,” Franky said, “but what about that time we impulse volunteered at Father Dion’s? If I may be bold, spontaneous as it was, we thoroughly enjoyed the service.”

            “That place where we had to put on the silly hats?” Vince asked, “we looked like idiots. We had an idiotic damn good time though.”

            Ivan looked at me, “and you, Isaac?”

            “Probably the whole year. It was the spirit of 2015 after all.”

            “But how about we create the spirit of 2015 again? Most of us have college degrees,” Ivan looked at Vince, “excepting select individuals. Yeah it is late summer, but there is plenty of time to volunteer or skip rocks or watch movies.”

Vince shook his head, “Marvel’s gone to the social justice warriors now. This isn’t me binging on Alex Jones again by the way. Even Disney admits it, praises it and all.”

            “With the Elections approaching, I have plenty of volunteer work as it stands. Kamala,” Franky tipped his hat, “needs us to phonebank.”

            “The pond we were at was recently purchased. I would rather avoid a trespassing charge even if the land is owned for tax purposes. Plus, with the girlfriend I overall have less time.”

            “Somebody buying up public land to sit on it? Glad this country’s keeping up its greatness,” Vince said.

            “What are you trying to say?” Franky asked.

            “Nothing.”

            “Say, Isaac, what do you think?” Ivan asked, “can we make a spirit of 2019?”

            “Not unless we gather everyone again. I am sorry, Ivan. I don’t think it’s possible.”

            “Are you sure? Are you all sure?” He tried to make eye contact with us, “but I guess not.”

            A pause.

            “Thank you, Milton. Thanks for giving us another barbeque. It keeps the spirit alive,” Ivan said.

            “A toast once more,” Vince held his cup aloof, “to Geoffrey Carver Milton.”

            “Please, just call me Milton. Milton sounds too expensive for my tastes.”

            We toasted.

            I leaned back in my chair. Ivan’s comment stuck with me. Those golden days were never coming back. Less than six months from now, I’d face a loan reckoning. These carefree days were coming to an end. I probably had a similar thought when I left high school. This time tens of thousands of dollars were involved. Plus, when school was out, we could always show up here. It was never revolutionary but coming here was a relief. When, and perhaps if, I got a 9-5 job, our orbits would fall apart. Grim suits would replace meme shirts.

“How’s everyone’s job hunts going?” Vince asked.

“I have a geology degree and I’m not looking for much right now. So, I applied for a job just above minimum wage working at a natural history museum. The job was listed in May, is still up, and I still have yet to get a callback,” I said, “and I’ve been applying to minimum jobs only to get nothing in reply.”

            “Amen to that, let me tell you that it’s no fun to sit with loans and a worthless English degree,” Ivan said.

            “You Franky?” Vince asked.

            He rolled his eyes.

            “Exactly, I can’t say I’m surprised. Look, for the Dems here, I blame bad trade deals for not getting jobs and tell you Trump’d fix them. We’re all smart people, we don’t have jobs though Trump’s president,” Vince said, “who’s to blame?”

            “Could you repeat what you just said?” Franky asked.

            “Bad trade deals are why you don’t have jobs. Trump didn’t fix them.”

            “My goodness, never would I think that you Vince, of all people, would bash Trump for failing to live up to his statements.”

            Vince smirked.

            “But why now are you smirking?”

            “I’ve known he hasn’t lived up to his promises for a long time. You make it sound though it’s something new. Tell you what, do you think Kamala’s going to change anything?”

            “Pardon?”

            “Is she going to make jobs or bring them back from China? You’ve got a college degree, is Kamala going to let you use it? Or is the economy going to give you chump change? How’s the job been going? Eye-rolling swell.”

            “She’s the best woman for our country,” Franky shallowed with his burger almost untouched, “I believe that she’s the best candidate for our country.”

            “Hey guys,” Ivan stood, “let’s not get too heated. I think we want to enjoy our hamburgers in peace�"”

            Franky took off his Kamala hat and examined the logo.

            “We’re still here; jobs aren’t. Trump was supposed to be the status-quo shaker. How is Kamala going to make more change than Trump was supposed to?”

            Franky dropped his hat on his lap.

            “I’m under no illusions the police can hire me. They’ve made budget cuts. Why hire some kid who’s got nothing to his name except a college degree when some poor unemployed son-of-a-b***h has experience?” Vince asked.

            “Then why did you vote for Trump?”

            “I was conned. I didn’t trust politicians, that my dad taught me. He learned it in West Virginia after his brother killed himself. I don’t trust politicians and Trump, that I learned on my own.”

            “I’m sorry about your loss,” Franky said.

            “He killed himself before I was born. It convinced my dad to leave West Virginia.”

            I leaned up, “and Bernie’s not going to win the nomination either. Not as if it matters, he would not get anything done. Loan forgiveness, economic intervention, no corporate Democrats in Congress will let those happen.”

            “Isaac, are you sure about that? You were such an ardent supporter of Bernie during the 2016 Primaries,” Franky said.

            “Yeah, and I’m sure my five-dollar donation went to the DNC or the Clinton Campaign, or was sucked up in some blackhole of establishment politics. Look, I just don’t trust the system anymore. I can’t start my life and Washington won’t be helping me start just the same.”

            “Do you sincerely believe that some Washington bureaucrat can kickstart your life?” Milton asked, “the wealth of individuals arises best in absence of government�"”

            “No one’s saying that,” Vince said, “blame Washington or the multinationals, people don’t have jobs. We want jobs to pay bills, buy homes, and to have freedom.”

            “They told me that a college degree was all that separated me from a decent paying job,” Ivan said, “one degree later, $20,000 in debt, and no job. Those b******s lied to me.”

            “Franky, question for you,” Vince said, “you shared something on Facebook saying this is Obama’s economy. I said it was Trump’s. We argued but guess what? It doesn’t matter whose economy it is, it’s a crappy economy.”

            Franky looked at his Kalama hat and flung it on the ground.

            “I don’t believe in Trump any longer. That’s why I don’t wear my MAGA hat anymore.”

            “The fatal flaw of your analyses is how remarkably little that politicians play in economic policy,” Milton said, “the rationality of the free market is obstructed by corporatist policies that impede the free market’s logic. The normal turbulence inherent to a market economy are amplified by�"”

            “Milton, guess what?” Vince asked.

            “What?”

            “No one gives a s**t.”

            Milton pushed up, “excuse me, Vince, but that is extremely rude.”

            “I’ll want a job. These boys want jobs. Do you have a job, Milton?”

            “I had an offer,” Milton smoothed his shirt, “that I interviewed for. I must tell you the exact details are confidential for now.”

            “But you have something?”

            Milton nodded then sat down.

            “Yeah, sorry about that, Milton.”

I leaned back.  My burger laid half-eaten on my plate. A whiff of charcoal remained in the air. Our music remained on a calm Vaporwave channel. The melody echoed the once-smooth bubbles popping in my soda cup. It used to be chilled with ice and undisturbed by motion except clear bubbles in the ink black liquid. An aesthetic metaphor for what today started as, a chance for five gentlemen to get together and reflect on the good memories. Now it rippled with chairs scrapping against concrete.

            “We lost the spirit of 2015. How did this happen?” Ivan asked.

            “We got older,” Milton said.

            “We were seventeen, eighteen sure in 2015, fresh from high school. Four years later and it’s the same barbeque, isn’t it? We’re still five friends eating manly meats,” Vince said.

            “Who was going to win the Election?” Franky asked.

            “Donald Trump, beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Vince said.

            “The barbeque was the last Sunday before he declared. It was going to be Jeb versus Hillary, if we took the polls on their word.”

            “With the Marquis of Queensbury’s rules,” I said.

            Everyone looked at me funny.

            “It’s a joke, because the mudslinging isn’t Queensbury rules,” I said, “I thought myself funny. Crazy to think that was supposed to be.”

            “Too bad Trump didn’t do anything Jeb wouldn’t do.”

            “So, let me get this straight,” Ivan stood, “Milton, you have a job?”

            “It is in the works.”

            “Franky, you are volunteering for Kamala Harris?”

            Franky shrugged.

            “Do you know?”

            “I need to think about it.”

            “I will put you down as a maybe then. Isaac?”

            “What do you want to know?”

            “If you have anything planned for September? Or about the future in general?”

            I shook my head.

            “Vince, same question?”

            “Pass some s**t classes. What you proposing?”

            Ivan grabbed his soda, “gentlemen, might I propose something? Please get your cups ready for what I have to say.”

            I was the only one to clasp my cup.

            “Okay then, well, what I want to propose is that we can have a spirit of 2019. Hear me out, we are depressed, jobless, and increasingly hopeless when it comes to politics. Who voted in 2016?”

            “Ivan, what are you saying?” Franky asked, “that you did not vote then?”

            “Why should I? Hillary locked kids up and Trump ‘s a racist.”

            “Come on, Ivan, but you have to understand that about politics,” Franky said, “voting is an important right.”

            “Actually, voting is a privilege given by states,” Milton said.

            “Keep on with your smarter-than-thou libertarian dogma,” Vince said, “and see where it gets you with the ladies.”

            “I have a girlfriend!”

            “Yeah, and I heard that free trade lifts all boats among other lies. I’ll ask magic for a job. Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy’s gonna bring one.”

            “Well, back on topic,” Ivan said, “we have nothing to do in 2019, not too dissimilar from when we graduated from high school. I see no reason to try recreating the spirit of 2015.”

            Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t put up a single counterargument. I had nothing to do except nothingness itself. Try telling middle school me there’d be no responsibilities after college, so you’d have all the time in the world to play your favorite video games. Not even VoiceOverPete promised a similar paradise. Somehow that was of little comfort to a college graduate.

            Storm clouds were approaching. Wind snuffed the hot air of the grill. Birds in the yard plucked seeds and worms with new haste. Chicks had to be feed just the same. Other dutiful critters carried along their day. How far we came that our advances created freedom from duty unknown to dotting nesting birds.

            “I feared having to give up meme shirts,” I pointed to Vince’s ‘ouch’ shirt, “and having to tie up every day like I was giving myself a noose. I want to laugh because not even CVS will call me back; I get to wear boyish meme shirts a little while longer.”

            “You won’t be getting a real adult’s job.”

            “How long do we have before we need to make payments on loans?” Ivan asked.

            “Six months, but it depends on the loan,” I said.

            “When I don’t have a job by December, you won’t see me anymore. I will be on the run from debt collectors. I imagine the Pacific Northwest would be a great place to live as a hermit.”

            “Probably a good place to write a book, make millions, and pay off the interest on your loans,” Vince said.

            “I hate how that is both a viable and unviable consideration.”

            “No need to be so negative. You can smile, they haven’t made that expensive yet,” Franky said.

            “Fortunately, nobody can forbid you from smiling. It is an expression of your natural right to liberty,” Milton said, “you are now descending into strawmen attacks.”

            “It was a joke.”

            “Laugh while you still can. Nobody has yet to buy your voice box,” Vince said, “just like how you can buy ponds now.”

            “None of us have to wear grim suits,” I said.

            “So, four years pass and we’re looking at a responsibility free world,” Vince said.

            “If you told me that was going to happen in middle school, I’d smile out of disbelief. Why imagine that, we have all the time in the world to play Pokémon again. Who can’t say no to that?” I asked.

            “I never went into debt struggling with murderous cows, that’s what. We have no responsibilities, but it’s not a carefree world. Play Pokémon and try to make money that way to pay down your $20,000 debt,” Ivan said.

            “Ryan’s ToyReviews exists. Someone is getting rich off that and all Ryan does is unbox items,” Franky said.

            “Milton, is that the logic of your free market?” Vince asked.

            “There is something called the subjective theory of value,” Milton said.

            “Just let me tell you a kid getting rich off opening toys he can’t hope to play with isn’t my idea of logic. If that’s logic I want an illogical system. I trust an illogical system to put jobs where logic says they shouldn’t go.”

            I stood, poured myself some soda, and said, “so much about college. We had good times over the summer of 2015 and looked forward to our futures. These are our futures, gentlemen, it seems we are returning to the spirit of 2015.”

            Vince rose his cup followed by Ivan.

            I returned to my seat, clasped my cup, but kept it on the table.

            “Well, anyone care to toast? Sounds like we’ve gotten exactly what we want, the spirit of 2015,” Vince said.

            Ivan toasted to Vince.