This was not the Democrats' spread

Amber and I do not, per se, care about the local Democratic party. I'm sure they are fine people overall, and we are likelier to back their candidates down the ticket absent a compelling third-party comptroller who cannot cause too much upset if they do not get in. As Amber points out twice, just out of the Democrats' earshot, we are Green Party members. We know there are only seventeen of us in Red Hook, as a Green Party judge came to our door years ago to personally woo us--after sending two handwritten letters. There were four spots and five candidates, so the personal touch may have been wasted on us. (He did win. When I saw him months later and congratulated him, he had no memory of me, the ingrate.)

That said, the Green Party isn't hosting a potluck at the Rec Park, and these Democrats are. It isn't enough to sway my alliances, but I appreciate free food and assumed camaraderie. Likewise, my sense is the local Republican Party would consider sharing tabouli to be socialism. It offers only Trump signs and contempt. (This may not be a fair assessment, but they have been standoffish at their booths at street fairs and obnoxious at their Trump drivebys--assuming they okayed the latter and this isn't just outside malcontents who want to scream at locals.)

I did not trust there would be people here, so I made cookie brownies but fed Amber pasta beforehand. It is not that I do not trust the Democrats as much as I don't community events I discovered on social media, though I might have made a wry aside about Democrats' ability to organize effectively without devouring one another. However, when we arrive fashionably late (ten minutes, though we could have walked here in twenty more), twenty-five people are noshing, and several dishes are already reaching emptiness.

I recognize only one woman, Juliet, who runs the horse art gallery and compliments me on admiring her Little Free Gallery out front, a former newspaper box.

We should have come early. Everyone is nestled in their clatches, chatting amiably and familiarly. The invitation said this would be a social gathering with no agenda. Still, there are signs and buttons for a local politician on the front table. There is a reason Amber and I, heathens both, do not patronize the many free pancake breakfasts at churches in town. We know the whiff of a trap.

Amber and I settle on an unoccupied picnic table since sitting at an occupied one is too socially onerous. A woman, Sarah, sits next to Amber. She is the organizer for this event and perhaps the group, though is not a politician that we can tell. She says she might as well get to know us since everyone else here knows her and each other. She asks if we moved her recently and is surprised when we ponder whether it has been twelve or thirteen years (twelve and a half is about right). Where have we been all this time, is her implicit question. We were not invited to a potluck, is the honest answer. We are not here to be convinced of a political stance. We are here for the free pizza--which is inexplicably from New Jersey, and tastes it.

Sarah stands to give the speech she must: "This isn't political, but here is when the fundraiser will be so the Democrats can buy food for poll workers (the Republicans are pitching in equally, truly bipartisan). Take a button, go team."

She leaves our table for other schmoozing, as well she should. She has assessed us and found us of limited interest or utility.

A woman with a baby strapped to her torso replaces Sarah. Agatha, with a bright face behind thick-rimmed glasses, is the ideal of librarian chic, cradling her oddly sedate child. "It's her bedtime," Agatha explains.

She launches into almost the same questions Sarah asked. We arrived twelve and a half years ago because I was hired at Red Hook Residential Center. Yes, it's on Turkey Hill Road. No, it was closed by Governor Cuomo out of political expediency. (A flinch, as though this fact might spell my disloyalty to the party.) Now I work with actual murderers. Amber is a vet tech. They were the commencement speaker for Marist, though they touched predominantly on gratitude toward the people who helped the students. I'm so proud of them.

Agatha departs, replaced by Katie, who asks the same questions. She works from home in television. Amber and I will later wonder what this means. Does she edit shows? Sell sets? Voice act? It's unclear, but she wants a local, in-person job instead.

When Katie leaves, we realize most people have already left. It has been a little over an hour, but much of the food has gone. Why stay?

"Do you think I should say I'm an author instead?" I ask Amber. "That way, I don't end up talking about how my favorite student stabbed his mom in the face."

"Couldn't hurt," Amber says, more about the conversational shift than the knife, which I imagine hurt quite a bit.

We were here in hopes of making social connections--or I was. Amber's intentions might be humbler, simply wanting to hang out more with me. We'd been to a fancy dinner and then the drive-in the night before and still lacked some sleep. They mention wanting to host another Cozy Cafe, where people come over, have snacks, and do their art--something we have yet to actually make work. As the summer wraps up, we want to know our social life will not lose minutes of light each day until spring. We swear by our biweekly Queer Board Game Nights, and I have a meeting planned with a person from Lex (which, if you are even vaguely queer and socially lacking, is the app for you), but we do not excel at finding or keeping friends. We did not pull any new acquaintances from the Democrats unless they would like my recipe for cookie brownies, but it was a valid try.

last watched: Futurama
reading: Absolution