"Today, I'll Flush Amy Coney Barrett Down the Toilet" and "American Coups"

Today, I’ll Flush Amy Coney Barrett Down the Toilet

She’s been floating on her side all day, her little gills and fins flapping listlessly, bumping into Clarence Thomas. Thomas remains stoic, responding to only the richest among us for treats, unaffected by his colleague’s sudden back float. 

Bladder infection, my classmates wonder? Water too hard? Temperature too temperamental? For their part, Neil Gorsuch and John Roberts keep a clean distance, swimming at the opposite end of the tank, dipping in and out of the fluorescent purple and pink plants. And then there’s that flirty-rapist Kavanaugh, he’s the biggest of our goldfish at six inches. According to Mrs. Vojack, that fish is a keeper—he’s been with her since the real Kavanaugh’s confirmation in 2018. 

The other “fish justices” as we fondly refer to them, vary in size, mostly small and puny, but also resilient. So resilient! I’m talking spring break (which was a whole week this year) without food, an open window in the classroom during the polar vortex, and a black mold growing on the inside of the tank. Last month, I’d spent the better part of an afternoon carefully placing each of those justices in a plastic bag and then scrubbing their habitat furiously. 

Now, Amy’s dying. “You’re my least favorite for a reason.” I shake my head and look into her black, beady eyes. A dead judge usually means a total Supreme Court cleanout. I’ve got no time for this fish-woman crap! I use the net and swat at the justices until, finally, she’s within my grasp. Then, she gives one sudden and startling jerk, enough for me to almost drop her back in the water, but I don’t. I steady my hands and pull her out. 

It’s her last-dying gasp and that sick stench of dead fish that sends me hurtling to the girl’s bathroom. I’m shaky. I drop Amy into the toilet and hold my nose. I flush. Her body swirls into the sewer; my lunch follows. There’s a thick tightness through my abdomen. Cramps, I cheer. Cramps! 

I sigh. My mother was pregnant at eighteen. Yesterday, Wellesley sent me an acceptance letter. 

I pull down my pants, then my underwear. I inspect the inside lining. There’s nothing. Not a small pink smear, no spots. 

I poke at my stomach where I imagine my uterus to be. I squeeze the skin and the fat, I press down hard on my womb. I’ll beat it into submission. 

I insert my index finger into my vagina, looking for that period blood. 

There it is. 

Oh. My body loosens and I wipe the sweat from my forehead.  

I look back down into the toilet. Amy’s body has somehow floated to the top. 

I flush again, wildly. 

This time I don’t stop until I’m sure she’s gone for good. 

American Coups

Well, we had all these problems. They were ignorable at first, easily swatted away like a fly or at least something you could flip over from one TV channel to another. We held marches and protests with catchy names and cool accessories. We were a democracy, but now we were fighting against a despot-in-the-making, for Black Lives, against climate change, for sound government. That went on for a while, and mostly we could do whatever we wanted besides the usual government interference. There were weddings and funerals, family gatherings and holidays, work trips and vacations, all the normal modern American annoyances.  

Our kids went to school until they didn’t. We began dying, more of us than usual. We were told not to get too close to each other — that breathing was the problem. So we donned masks that covered our noses and mouths, some of us did this better than others, and really the only indicator of whether we’d be good at wearing a mask or not was how big our mouths or noses tended to be, and of course who we voted for in the last real election. Or whether our glasses fogged up. But then, we thought, we should just wear contacts. 

We were trapped in our homes when the daily coups began. Each day a new set of insurrectionists stormed our Capitol. Sometimes, they stormed every couple of hours. What a whirlwind! Setting down laws for us like how a trainer might train a puppy. Except those damn trainers changed all the time. No consistency, really. This or that one might have a particularly good mustache or a fetching haircut, so we paid closer attention to some more than others. One day, they let us loose and we all chased purple metallic balloons up and down our city streets, bumping into each other. Great community building, and quite fun. 

It didn’t feel like much at first. It was as though a soft winter snowstorm had rolled in and enveloped our lives. Cozy, even, until you thought about the logic of it. So nobody thought about logic anymore. A slew of Reaganites brought back the 80s, and we spent evenings dancing to Cindy Lauper and Madonna. There were tax cuts for the wealthiest among us, and this made us throw our money in the air and dance even harder. 

There were the country music mobsters and the rap rebels, and they kind of went back and forth with each other, each toppling the other and declaring this or that new dictator. Garth Brooks, Keith Urban, Snoop Dog, and Kanye all had their chance. We had the Kardashian Coup (great make-up); the Bernie Bros and the Never-Trumpers; the Steel cutters, and the Ironworkers; the Pork Board, and the Vegans. 

And because it was a democracy---everybody got their chance.