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.
_____