The journalist, 1919

They sat in a circle smoking. I didn't smoke; I hated the smell. They were loud. They held their cigars with arrogance and careless ambition. Their hands were relaxed and their elbows were planted firmly on tables that were far from clean. The room was grimy, but the grime was a literary one: it was a place where stories were told and set. The grime added to the ambiance. I felt like an imposter. My femininity: My long wool coat with its matching belt tied in a nice, tidy bow; my preference for thinking with a mind not befuddled by chemicals or idealism; and my soft pleasant voice. I was dangerously imposing on their territory. I could smell their piss. I could hear them growling. My womaness irritated them. It clashed unpleasantly with their disgusting, filthy, foul artery of manly innovation. They were quite comfortable in their hole. I was a threat. The windows I had opened with my entrance were a source of potential chaos, an influx of new unwanted ideas. But I wanted a hand in the new world they were building, a hand that would hopefully help prevent another Russia.   

I approached the bar cautiously at first, then with greater confidence as I realized caution would get me nowhere. “A scotch neat please,” I requested firmly. The man tending the bar, shoved it at me without even looking up. I walked to the cleanest table I could find and sat down. The men took a brief respite from their argument to stare. There was a young one, an old one, and one somewhere in between.

The old one smirked. “Where’s your picket?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be fighting to participate in your precious democracy?”

“My democracy?” I snorted delicately. “It has too many frills for my taste.”

“Just as well.” He laughed, “It's all coming down.” 

“All of it? Why not just cut its frills?” 

“The whole thing, rotten to the core. Corrupted by capitalism.” He banged his fist on the table. I sighed, I knew we would get here eventually.  “Down with the capitalists!” he yelled. The room cheered. 

“And what will be our role in this new order?”

"You shall take your rightful place beside us! As long as you are willing to leave your silks and lace.” He laughed.

I snorted, this time it was much less delicate. “So, it's all going to culminate in another crusade against culture.” 

“Ha! Fashion isn’t culture.” 

“What is?”

His eyes glowed “ideas, philosophies…”

I helped him finish his sentence. “Things that propel us forward towards an unreachable goal. Culture is about enriching the present. Something fashion can do much better than existentialism. Why must we move in a straight line?! Straight lines aren't very interesting.” The old man simply scoffed, turning to face the young man he had been ranting to before I had rudely interrupted. I simply rolled my eyes, knowing the argument I had just made was undeniably excellent.

“I’d like another scotch.” The bartender scowled as he refilled my glass. “So. What are your political opinions. What are you passionate about?” I asked, arching my brows as I took out a notepad. Mirroring his silence, I pushed my empty glass towards him, wordlessly asking for more scotch.  

He flashed something resembling a smile. “You seem to be passionate about your scotch.” 

“That I am. I am also passionate about hearing people's opinions…” I snatched the bottle, pouring him a glass. “Particularly their political ones. Though, I suppose most opinions are political.” I let him ponder my words as I sipped my scotch. He was a bit slow. “Come on, what do you think of Woodrow Wilson, the League of Nations, Lenin, immigration, female enfranchisement?” I chuckled. “Prohibition?”

“I don’t believe in clear-cut opinions, too dualistic. I weave my ideas into my novels.” 

“Really?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t write allegories. But I do believe a story should have a point.” 

“A point, a single point?” 

“Mmm.. a theory... “  

The discussion blurred into a continuous rhythm of scotch and baseless claims, which after a few more drinks started to make more sense. Until finally the soft lights and harsh words faded into a overy complicated, fuzzy black. 

I woke with my cheek pressed against a cold steel countertop. I could vaguely taste my own drool. With effort, I opened my eyes. “What the fuck’s the time?” 

“Language, my lady!” The night before I had found the bartender’s sardonic tone moderately charming, but now I found it just as nauseating as the smell of hot pretzels wafting in from a nearby stand.    

“What’s the fucking time?” I repeated. 

“Ten after ten, you should grab one of those pretzels before you settle your tab.”  He smiled. I Groaned. I sat up, suppressing a yawn. I waved my notebook, heavily, triumphantly. “It was worth it though.” 

“What exactly was that for?” 

“I am trying to understand how today's revolutionaries think. And as an outside observer, I was hoping to maybe offer a bit of an objective perspective.” I picked up my bag. “But really, I was just looking for freedom. I wanted to be a man for a little while.”