“...This American
carnage stops right here and stops right now… America First,
America First...”
He stood shrivelled
and wet, shivering on the cotton tufted bathroom mat gazing into the
hole in the condensation he had wiped in the large, round mirror.
The past few years had been kind to him in some ways, he thought.
But not in his looks. Hard work had its rewards, yes, but the
bruises and scars throbbed red and hot.
He bent forward,
taking a closer look at the bags under his eyes; signs of ageing that
took him by surprise. Three years and he had changed so much. Even
when he was living on the old welfare system, he had not felt so
physically laden. So battered and so damn old!
But, he thought, in
those days he had no pride. He had no sense of achievement in
signing for welfare. He had no pride in begging for menial work that
he never got. And now he had debt, yes – but it was manageable
debt. Debt that was creating wealth and jobs and investments. And
he knew that that was making America great again.
He pulled the towel
around himself and lifted his toiletry bag and opened the door.
“About fucking
time you fat jerk!”
If looks could kill,
Romanian Tanya had just cut him in half with a blunt pair of nail
clippers while he, so, so tired, had no time to move while she
hacked.
He smiled and moved
past the queue to the dorm and his shared floor.
He pulled on his
pants and his laundered shirt and sat on the edge of his low, thin
bed to tie the laces of his shined leather shoes. Things only a few
years ago he could not have afforded. But in those days, no debt
company would allow him to live so far below zero. He knew this was
temporary. Because the work he had secured – one of the new jobs
the President’s closure of the corrupt Unions had secured (boy did
everyone appreciate that one when they were able to stand on their
own two feet!), was a job with a future. He was in contact everyday
with people who could help his future. He was learning from them,
banking knowledge, banking how to act when he became a middle manager
and then a boss, because he knew that his hard graft would pay off
and one day he would be driven from his huge house in a limousine.
Opportunities.
That was everyone’s
dream. But like the bloggers blogging across the internet, all
hoping to be discovered as some great commentator or writer or poet,
he realised there were more bloggers and poets than those interested
in reading them. There were more people scrambling at the bottom
than enough spaces at the top of the pyramid. More people than jobs
of any value. But he wasn't on the streets and he wasn't Asian,
black, or gay. Luckily the President was Scottish, and even though
the Scottish in Scotland seemed not to like the guy, he seemed to
like the Scots. And most of the white European race, except for, he
supposed, Hispanics. Which was good for him with his Scottish name.
He had one rung he couldn't fall off. There would always be a class
below the good, wholesome American people.
“America Is Truly
Great Again!” The special edition of the New York Times, printed
for the new workers villages seemed to have one headline every day,
or variations on the theme. “America The Great.” “America is
Unbeatable!” “The People, not the Swamp, Rule America!”
He never read it for
news. Because there rarely was anything new in it. It was mind
chewing gum. A past-time. Something to keep him away from Fox News,
because at least he could set this down and let his mind wander. He
had a few minutes before the breakfast room was opened, and he
savoured it. His working hours were long. This was time to relax
and dream of future opportunities. Of the freedom that work and
money and the laws passed to protect people like him would bring him
in the future.
“Hey, Gil!”
He wanted to ignore
the shrill, nasal voice.
“Gil! Wanna play
a game?”
“Not really, Joe.
Wanna relax.”
“Aw, come on, Gil,
just one game.”
He knew he wouldn’t
be allowed to relax. Joe would whine and shout. There was something
not quite right about the guy. Back in the days when all of that tax
money was wasted on kids being diagnosed as being on one spectrum or
another, money would have been thrown at Joe, to accommodate his
weirdness. But Gil knew that this way, Joe, like everyone who could
lift a hand, could contribute to the world and earn his debt too.
But he was weak...
He folded the
newspaper and crossed the dorm to Joes bed. On it was a checker
board. He knew he could beat Joe in a few minutes, but that that
would be like playing football with a four year old to win, so he
made it that Joe beat him. It took a long time. Joe was not
strategic in any way, and Gil could have won a number of times, but
he held back.
“Jeez Joe, you are
a great checkers player!”
“Ya know, Gil,
before we made America Great again, I didn't even have a checkers
board? At least not my own. Our house had stuff, yeah, but it was
all subsidised by the swamp. My mom had no pride. We do now!”
The “Making
America Great Again” classes were paying off on Joe. He could
barely read, but he could cite the propaganda word for word and it
was present in most of his sentences.
In fact it was
present in most sentences if you wanted to hold on to your job. And
the great and the good, when they spoke through the TV’s and in the
special editions of the magazines and newspapers he read, told
everyone how their efforts were creating American jobs, walls, cars
and wealth all of the time.
And he knew it was
true, because he was a great example of it. Lifted from the
projects, cleaned up, and given a place in the new world. New jobs,
where there hadn't been jobs before.
And in the dorms
there were many people like him, who were grateful. When that
Philippine President had come over to share with their President how
he had drained his country of drug addicts like him and the rest,
no-one thought our President would be so brave as to enact it. Who
needed new gun laws when the citizens could be empowered to clean up
the streets!
Another brave step
for our President to take. Of course the rest of the world cried and
shouted, but what did they know? They were harbouring terrorists and
drug addicts...
“You going for
breakfast, Gil?”
“Aye, Joe. Lets
go.”
He stood up, and
straightened his pants, stretched and lifted his blue jacket – the
jacket of his profession, and pulled it on.
They walked down the
long dorm, past twisted, skeletal remains of people, who had the
President to thank for the end of their addictions. All of them had
seen friends gunned down, and rightfully so, because unlike them,
their friends were just not strong enough to make America Great
again.
The breakfast rarely
changed. But he didn't mind. This was kinder than what had went
before. Before, he didn't eat. Now, yes, he banked debt, which
created new money, but he ate. One day his breakfasts would be more
fruit and fresh stuff rather than the cardboard cereal and cheap
maple syrup substitute. But the coffee wasn't too bad. Every new
thing in the world, if it was an advance, had a sacrifice. And this
new, fair system meant not only work for all, but permanent work for
all, and opportunities until you die. And some; the weak; sacrificed
themselves by not embracing the stronger America.
His latest
opportunity was a bigger bed in perhaps a few months when one of the
older, frailer workers died. He knew what he had done, the crime he
had reported, had moved him further up the queue. He thought to
himself, would I once have thought that cruel? He laughed. It was
no crueller than the innovations from before America was great again.
Things like the internet. That was a sham. Yes, it meant more
communication, but at the sacrifice of our safety and our children's
moral fibre. The car – another sham; those foreign car
manufacturers over-charging for their foreign built dangerous crap.
And certain freedoms… the freedom to travel Route 66… something
he had always wanted to do… but not something he should do as a
poor person. The bum he had been. Too dangerous. Highways –
built without barriers – and suicidal and stoned liberals were sure
to meet their end wandering across them. No longer, what with the
new safety laws. And the new jobs, and the new arrangements to
ensure we never missed a day. Well, we couldn't miss a payment, and
that was only fair for the food and shelter they were providing for
them. Those Gods and their tax dollars...
Joe noisily sucked
the rice cereal through the milk but Gil didn't care. Joe didn't
bother him. Some of the recently cured addicts did. Some of the
ungrateful workers bothered him. The ones who talked about rebellion
under their breath. The ones who would stab him if they knew he was
pigeoning on them and their dangerous ideas. Why would they want to
bring America to its knees again? American values should prevail…
and America was surely becoming great again…
The men marched in
and stood at the front of the brightly lit canteen. The room went
silent and everything went still.
“José
Garcia-Martinez step forward.”
Joe stopped slurping
and looked at Gil. Gil smiled at him, comfortingly. He stood up and
raised his hand.
“That's my old
name. I’m an American now… I’m Joe...” he stuttered.
They raised their
rifles. “Come forward!”
“I don't
understand... I...”
He looked at Gil
again. “It’s OK Joe. Do as they ask. It’s for the good.”
He thought, ‘Every
new innovation has a sacrifice. And jobs for all mean Mexicans cant
stay, regardless of how long they've been here. The Asians are going
and the blacks and native Americans are back in their ghettos
shouting about their oppression while they have no work. Some people
are just lazy.’
At least there was
one class below… impossible for him to fall into.
He looked around the
room. This was testament to the new world the President had created.
Clean. No drugs. Workers. Food. Opportunity. Always
opportunity. He had created opportunity.
Joe wasn't lazy, but
he was taking an American’s job. Gil had to tell them. ‘He’ll
be happier on the other side of the wall anyway’, Gil thought,
‘fighting against the rebellion there. Its their war, not ours.
Even though our President is being kind in sending their new
Government money to keep the communists and terrorists at bay, I
really think he should consider just building that wall higher and
manning it with machine gun nests.
Yep, the new America
is on its feet. Standing tall, making money, and we all prosper. We
all have opportunity and worth.’
The men escorted a
protesting Joe out of the canteen and everyone went back to their
morning routine.
Gil looked at the
time. It was his time. His bus would be here.
After a quick smoke
outside, and a crowded bus journey to the hotel, he was there. Ready
for his long shift.
He boarded the
elevator to Penthouse 4, his station. On arrival he was met by the
outgoing shift. They looked exhausted, battered, bloodied. They
didn’t look near him as they passed him into the service elevator.
Obviously the family were having an early start.
He took his place in
the marbled, gilded hallway, standing, facing the entrance to the
suite. This was the best part of his job. The standing, watching,
learning how the Gods of America lived; how they conducted
themselves. Because they were success personified. They were rich
for the very reason they knew how to be. They knew things he didn't.
The young God’s
played in their room; he could hear them, playing some sort of
shooting game. And the Great God himself walked into the hall. Gil
lowered his gaze. In this job, you were only part of the furniture.
An unthinking object. An ungrateful scrounger, leeching off these
hard working people.
He could tell the
God was agitated. He was looking for something.
“FUCK!”
The kids played on.
“What is it
honey?”
His beautiful
Goddess called after him.
“I’ve left that
book I was reading on the fucking plane...”
Gil knew his purpose
was about to be fulfilled. He was about to earn his debt.
“Honey, ask
someone to get you another copy! There are still book stores all
over this city!”
The God came closer
to Gil. This was it.
“Yea, I’ll do
that...”
Gil felt the blow on
the side of his jaw. This God worked out, unlike the one who had
stayed in the suite for the previous week. All he had wanted to to
was fuck Gil. This God needed to let off steam. And it was a
privilege for Gil to allow him to use him to do that. A stress free
God meant a better economy, a happier society and more jobs for the
likes of Gil.
The next blow
floored Gil, and he felt the stamp of the boot on his face. Like he
would the next day after a clean up in the pharmacy; and the next day
and the day after that…
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