Notes on the Interregnum

October 27

Earlier this year, before the pandemic, before the protests (and riots), in another lifetime which I'll simply call January, I bought my ten-year-old daughter a new puppy. We named her Tuesday. She's a Norwich terrier, purebred and exhaustively credentialed, with brown and black fur that stands on end as though she got zapped. This characteristic in her coat is unusual, the result of a genetic mutation that makes her undesirable among purebred enthusiasts; Tuesday is what they call a fluffy. Fluffy or no, we love her, and for my daughter, 2020 will always be the year we got Tuesday.

An old friend of mine is running for citywide office in New York. He is a good person and I'm glad he's running. Last night it stopped raining long enough so that he could have a socially distanced campaign event on a rooftop bar in Midtown. With mist crowning the high-rises surrounding ours, my friend worked the crowd. In lieu of handshakes, he knocked elbows and gesticulated like a base coach calling in a runner as he greeted and listened to would-be constituents. But with all of us in our COVID masks, the event felt strange, like a masquerade ball, and if the point of such a fete is to create an accountability-free environment, that's the opposite of the atmosphere you're aiming for at a successful political event. In the taxi home, I noticed a security camera and I thought how useless surveilling each other has become ever since we started wearing masks.

The fundraiser was just a drinks thing, so I have dinner at home. Amy Coney Barrett is getting confirmed on the television. First, there's the vote on the Senate floor and the Democrats theatrically walk out. Then the Republicans have their ceremony at the White House. Everyone on all sides is gesturing and mooning in aspirational ways, as if what they say or do might enshrine itself in history, and the result is that it all feels even more theatrical and even less relevant. Paradoxically, the energy of these events feels like an undertow before an enormous wave breaks, rolls in, and washes us all away.

Is the wave that I'm intuiting a blue wave? The polling says it could be. But didn't we learn in 2016 not to trust the polls? Or by not trusting the polls are we now overlearning the lessons of 2016? Election predictions quickly become dizzying. Occasionally, I'll ask people who they think will win the election. Many say Biden. But many will also hedge and say they wouldn't be surprised if Trump pulled it off. When I mention the poll numbers that place Biden firmly ahead, they'll shrug in a disaffected way, and it's a gesture that says, "Didn't you get the memo? It's 2020, facts don't matter."

My brother is a mathematician. Facts, numbers, logic—that's kind of his thing. He does not understand this postmodern moment we're living in, and doesn't care to; he's also never been that into watching the news. He told me once about Pascal's wager, which has to do with the logic of believing in God. It goes like this:

God is or is not.A game is being played where heads or tails will turn up.You must wager, it is not optional.Let us weigh the gain and the loss in wagering that God is.    Let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all;    if you lose, you lose nothing.Wager, then, without hesitation that He is. There is here an    infinity of an infinitely happy life to gain.

When people tell me that they think Trump will win, I think they say this because they are using Pascal's logic. They believe that if Trump loses, no one will remember that they said he had a shot at winning. But if Trump wins, everyone will admire their prescience. It strikes me as a cynical way to think about the...