The Magnificent Reversal of Howard Blythe

Howard Blythe had once read three pages of John Stuart Mill and considered this a complete liberal education. He carried this intellectual achievement with the benighted pride of a man who has memorized the capitals of seven Midwestern states and expects this to come up at dinner parties.

His wife Elaine had observed his political posturing for twenty-two years with the patient detachment of a naturalist who has devoted her life to studying a particularly mundane species of dung beetle.

Howard's liberalism manifested itself primarily in sighing deeply at newspaper headlines and murmuring "Well, that's troubling" before turning to the sports section. He considered this ritual as substantive as marching in the streets, but considerably more comfortable and less likely to interfere with his tennis game.

On Mondays and Thursdays, Howard engaged in what he called "civic discourse" - leaving comments on news websites with the solemn conviction of a Supreme Court Justice issuing a landmark ruling. Each comment was composed with furrowed brow and occasional references to "the common good," a term Howard had never defined but enjoyed deploying. He appreciated the taste of it.

On a Thursday in April, Howard read an article about a city council proposal to add a bike lane to Elm Street.

"I'll weigh in on this," he announced to no one in particular. Elaine was within earshot, watering a fern that had somehow survived two decades of Howard's occasional interest in houseplants.

Howard typed with the methodical precision of a man convinced that the permanent record was at stake: "As someone who considers himself progressive on transportation issues, I support this initiative in theory. However, I wonder if we're moving too quickly. Perhaps a study should be conducted on the impact to parking. Change is good, but prudence is better."

Howard sat back, satisfied with his contribution. He had managed to position himself as forward-thinking while simultaneously opposing actual forward motion—a rhetorical maneuver he had perfected over years of careful practice.

When he checked back three hours later, someone named "GreenCommuter" had responded: "Weird how 'let's study it more' always means 'let's never do it.' This exact argument has delayed the bike lane for six years already."

Howard stared at the screen as if it had suddenly begun displaying hieroglyphics. He adjusted his reading glasses, pushed them up his nose, then pulled them down to stare over the frames, as if the comment might make more sense from various optical distances.

That night, Howard dreamed that he was being chased through the streets by a mob of cyclists, their bells ringing with accusatory persistence. He awoke at 3:17 a.m., his pajamas damp with what he would later describe to Elaine as "night dew" but was, in fact, cold sweat.

Over breakfast, a meal Howard approached with the seriousness of a religious ritual, he announced, "The discourse has become uncivilized."

Elaine, who had heard variations of this declaration after every election since 1998, continued her crossword puzzle. "Four letters for 'tedious complaint,'" she murmured.

"I'm serious, Elaine. A radical accused me of impeding progress."

"Hmm," said Elaine.

By the following Thursday, Howard had discovered several online forums where men expressed their dismay at no longer being celebrated for having opinions. He nodded in vigorous agreement with his monitor, occasionally saying "Exactly!" to an empty room.

In May, Howard announced that he had been "exiled from the left," a curious statement given that his most radical political act to date had been accidentally subscribing to Mother Jones after misunderstanding a subscription card at his dentist's office.

"The progressive movement has been hijacked," he explained to Elaine, who was descaling the coffee maker. "They've abandoned dialogue in favor of dogma."

"That's nice, dear," said Elaine. She had long ago discovered that this phrase could be applied to everything from Howard's political pronouncements to his occasional attempts at growing a mustache.

June found Howard deep in the throes of what might be called, by a generous observer, an intellectual transformation. A more accurate observer might have recorded it as a tantrum extended over several weeks and accessorized with increasingly strident YouTube videos.

"Did you know," Howard said to Walter Griffin at the neighborhood block party, trapping him against the potato salad table, "that free speech is under attack? I myself was silenced for expressing moderate views on bicycle infrastructure."

Walter, who had made the mistake of asking Howard if he wanted a beer, scanned the yard for rescue.

"It was traumatic," Howard said, gravely. "But it opened my eyes."

By midsummer, Howard had acquired a vocabulary as ill-fitting as a suit inherited from a differently proportioned relative. Words like "woke" and "cancel culture" erupted from his mouth like unexpected guests at a funeral—startling, inappropriate, and impossible to politely ignore. His favorite phrase, "I used to consider myself a liberal, but," preceded his opinions with such tedious regularity that Elaine had begun timing its appearance in conversation. Howard achieved a personal best of twelve seconds after meeting a new couple at the Neighbourhood Watch mixer.

Howard's transformation accelerated after he discovered podcasts hosted by former sports commentators and middling academics who had found their true calling in selling outrage and vitamin supplements to frightened hunter gatherers. These voices entered Howard's ears like silverfish into an abandoned library, consuming everything and leaving only dust. While driving, Howard nodded at their pronouncements with such violent enthusiasm that his car often drifted between lanes, causing other motorists to honk in what Howard interpreted as ideological solidarity.

In August, a red cap arrived in the mail. Howard placed it on his head and studied his reflection with the critical assessment of a man trying on a new personality. "This feels right," he said to the mirror, which reflected back exactly what it always had: a middle-aged man with an expression of mild digestive discomfort.

Howard wore the cap to the Labor Day block party, pairing it with boat shoes and a belt featuring tiny embroidered whales—revolutionary costume design by way of a country club dress code.

"Howard," said Nancy Bartholomew, who had known him since they served on the library fundraising committee together, "what an interesting hat choice."

"It's a statement," Howard replied, puffing his chest slightly. "I've been red-pilled."

"Is that some kind of new allergy medication?" Nancy asked.

"It means I've seen through the lies," Howard explained with the grave importance of a man revealing state secrets. "What do you know about bike lanes?"

Nancy, who had simply wanted to compliment Howard on the guacamole Elaine had clearly made, smiled tightly and excused herself to refill a half-full glass of lemonade.

By October, Howard had alienated most of his former social circle, who had tolerated his previous incarnation as a self-satisfied moderate but found his new persona as a self-satisfied reactionary considerably less charming. Howard interpreted their distance as proof of his persecution and added it to his mental dossier labeled "Evidence of Cancel Culture," which was becoming as thick as the Russian novels he claimed to have read but had actually only purchased and displayed prominently on his bookshelf.

On the anniversary of The Comment—now referenced in the Blythe household with the somber gravity usually reserved for natural disasters—Howard sat at his computer, scrolling through his collection of grievances with the careful attention of a miser counting coins.

"I'm going to respond to GreenCommuter," he announced to Elaine, who was in the next room researching solo vacation destinations.

"After a year?" she called.

"I've been formulating my thoughts," Howard replied.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he composed his response: "As a former liberal driven away by the intolerant left, I now see the bike lane for what it really is: the first step toward government control of all transportation. Wake up, people!"

He hit "post" with the theatrical flourish of an orchestra conductor signaling a crescendo. He sat back, imagining GreenCommuter—who had, in reality, forgotten this exchange approximately fourteen seconds after posting—reeling from the devastating impact of his words.

"I've struck a blow for freedom," Howard declared to his empty study.

That evening, Howard stood before his bathroom mirror adjusting his new cap. His face had settled into what he imagined was a expression of resolute defiance but what more closely resembled a man trying not to sneeze during a photograph.

"I've finally found my true political home," he told his reflection, which stared back with the blank reciprocity of all mirrors everywhere, adding nothing, questioning nothing, a perfect audience for a man who had never sought anything more.

And downstairs, Elaine booked a two-week hiking trip to New Zealand, selecting the "solo traveler" option and the departure date of Howard's birthday with a decisive click.

There are no available updates on the bike lanes.