Nightmare on Mayfair Street

 

In the early morning hours, an old man falls into a deep sleep. As the morning light begins to fill the room, his eyes flutter, and his worst nightmare streams through his mind. He is standing next to his vehicle at a Shell station, filling his gas tank, when ICE officers approach.

 

“Hey. What are you doing there?” The officer in charge adjusts his face mask.

 

“Me? Oh…I’m filling my tank. What are you doing there?” The old man smiles.

 

“Smart ass, eh? Are you a citizen?”

 

“Last time I checked.”

 

“Can you prove it?”

 

[The group of officers has surrounded the old man.]

 

“Yeah, I’ve got my passport in the glove box.”

 

“Do you always go around with your passport?”

 

“Only since Inauguration Day, 2025.” The old man grins.

 

“Okay, cut the crap.” The officer’s voice is firm, a little too loud. “We know who you are. You’re the wiseass who writes snarky satirical pieces, making fun of Trump.”

 

“Nah, that’s a guy named C.W.”

 

“Nice try, pal. We know all your aliases—C.W., Charles, Chuck, Charlie, Chazzle, Papa. Now you’re gonna answer for all that stuff you wrote.”

 

[All of the officers nod their heads and shuffle their feet.]

 

“But I’m just exercising my First Amendment rights,” he says.

 

“Not so fast, old man. You’ve broken the law, and you’re gonna be held accountable for it.”

 

“Oh no! Are you talking about the garbage thing?”

 

“Maybe. What about it?”

 

“Last Thursday, I didn’t get my garbage can out to the curb in time. But they hadn’t emptied the ‘recycle’ bin yet. So, I put my garbage in the recycle bin.”

 

“Say what?! You put household garbage in the recycle bin?!”

 

[The officers take a combat stance, long guns at the ready.]

 

“I’m sorry!” the old man cries. “It will never happen again. I promise.”

 

“Too late, gramps. You’re under arrest, and you’re goin’ down.”

 

[Slam. Splat. The old man is face down on the pavement. Knee in the back. Cuffs applied.]

 

The lead officer reads him his rights—sort of. “You have the right to remain silent…uh…whatever you say will be used against your ass…uh…etc., etc., etc.”

 

Another officer pipes up: “Turn him over, Chief, so I can pepper spray him.”

 

“Nah, not necessary. Maybe just break a couple of windows, call it a day.”

 

[The sound of breaking glass echoes through the Shell station.]

 

“Oh my God!” the man wails. “My poor car. What now? Where are you taking me?”

 

“Couple of possibilities,” the chief says. “We’re reopening Manzanar and Alcatraz as detention centers.”

 

“I’d prefer Alcatraz,” he says, hopefully. “I have family in Northern California.”

 

“Manzanar it is, buddy. Manzanar for sure. Okay, load him in the Escalade and let's get him out of here.”

 

“You’re making a big mistake!” the man shouts. “I’ll call the ACLU. I’ll call AARP. I’ll notify my writers group. You’ll have so many octogenarians picketing with their canes, walkers, and Rascals, you’ll think it’s a freight train.”

 

“Make a note, Bubba,” the chief says. “Threatening officers with bodily harm.”

 

[The officers pick the man off the pavement and toss him into the backseat of the Cadillac. As it pulls away, he is heard to shout... ]

 

“At least I got a classy riiiiiiiiiiide…”

 

The old man blinks, wide awake now. He looks around the room. Oh, thank God! This isn’t Manzanar. It was only a bad dream...or maybe…a premonition.

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