aaron_the fall of america_chapter_28

Chapter 28

"This is Detroit. Motor city. Or was it murder city? Maybe not the capital murder city. That was the capital that was famous for that. New York was too. I guess most cities were famous for that. The pride of the great west where decisions were made with guns best. Guns are fun. Kill your mom."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm just excited. I shouldn't slam the Americans, they aren't all out to kill. Come to think of it, my brother is American and I like him. So is his girlfriend and I adore her."

"I find it difficult to perceive that civilised people kill each other."

"Civilisation is a new thing; it hasn't got into our DNA yet. Like I said before, we're just soft skinned reptiles."

"I don't believe you."

"It's our life."

"Your consciousness is developed enough to choose how to be."

"How to be, now that is the question, whether 'tis nobler to be nobler or wiser to wait for someone else to. But again I remind you, it's hard to bury the lizard. No one wants to jump into the unknown. We feel safer being what we have been. It's that old saying, out of the frying pan into the fire. Or was it something about, the hell that is known is better than the one that ain't? I think there's a couple other ones along the same line. Maybe it was a picture I saw of someone deciding to leave the insane asylum to find out that outside was a hostile environment full of ravenous carnivores? Large ugly ones."

"I'm looking forward to getting off this bus."

"I don't blame you. We'll be off soon."

"One of us may already be off," Karna attempted humour.

"Ah, now that's the question. Whether 'tis off to be on when all others are off or 'tis nobler to sling the arrow of outrageous fortune."

The bus finally rattled into Detroit's bus station after weaving through streets and under over passes and over overpasses and through traffic. It was a short distance to customs as I remembered so we shouldered our bags and walked to the border. We were the only civilians in the boarder building. Seven years ago we would have hopped on a crowded bus to get over, under the tunnel, to Windsor. There were no buses now. We couldn't go straight to Canadian customs. We had to be interviewed by American officials.

We were removed of our identification and luggage before being taken into a room and placed in hard steel chairs in front of a steel desk. No other furniture was in the room except for a mirror which didn't even appear to try to conceal it's onewayness. The light was harsh and there was no white noise to mask the slightest sounds, even breathing.

I wanted to tell Karna to be careful but I couldn’t chance the sensitivity of the microphones that were likely monitoring the room.

We waited.

A long time we waited until a fat, angry-looking man opened the steel door and sat across from us at his desk. He hadn't looked at us yet. There was something in his drawer that was of higher importance. After what appeared to me as a game to make us uneasy, he removed a paper and left the room.

What could have been hours later, he returned slamming the door behind him and sat down again. This time he looked at us. He looked at us for quite some time. I understood Richard's message. It was of prime importance that I hold my tongue. Anything and everything would be used against me. I could not question or argue with the fat man. No matter how wrong he was, how much I was infuriated at being held hostage, how much I disliked his face, his government and his reckless, self-righteous American way, I would speak only when spoken to.

"Why do you want to leave America?" asked the fat man.

Now that's the question, I thought.

"I asked a question, so now you answer," he said.

"Yes, Sir. I live in Canada."

"What is your citizenship?"

"I am Canadian."

"Why would you want to go back?"

"I live there with my wife."

"What do you do?"

"I work in a store."

"What kind?"

"Grocery."

He wrote something on the piece of paper he had retrieved from his desk the last time he was in. He looked like he was trying to figure something.

"Why would you come to America if you weren't planning to stay?"

"I wanted to visit my grandmother."

"Is she American?"

"She was born Canadian but she has lived in Florida a long time."

"Why."

"She likes the climate and has friends there."

"Why didn't you stay with your grandmother, surely it would be better than returning to Canada."

"My wife lives in Canada."

"How long have you been in America?"

"Four weeks."

"Let me see your ID, son."

"I don't have it."

"You don't have ID? How do you expect me to believe you are from Canada if you don't have ID?"

"I had ID. It was taken from me at the front desk."

"Do you have a receipt for it?"

"No."

"Then there's no way for me to find it."

He looked at me. It wasn't a question he had given so I decided to reserve a response.

"Well?"

Though he now required a response, I could think of none that would not send him into a rage that he apparently hungered for.

We sat in silence.

"You have no identification!" he yelled.

The door opened. A woman came in with our identification and a computer read out. He took it without responding to her and when she had left he began studying the print out and our identification."

"How old are you, Son?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Date of birth?"

"May 17, 1970."

"Um. And how old would that make you?"

"Pardon me?"

"The question, which shouldn't be so difficult, was: if you were born 1970, how old would you be now?"

"Twenty-nine."

"So then, when were you born?"

"May, 1970."

"Are you sure?"

"That's what they told me each year when they put candles on my birthday cake."

"Who?"

"Who what?"

"Who put candles in your cake?"

"My parents for the first while, then friends, then my wife and friends."

"How old will you be on your next birthday?"

"Thirty, unless I figure out how to stop it."

I was trying to lighten the atmosphere but my attempt at humour wasn't appreciated. He stared at me for some time before continuing. I sensed he was like the mechanical dog in Bradbury's novel about burning books. The dog could detect a guilty book hoarder. The fat man seemed to think I might be guilty of hoarding something. Maybe the truth.

"What are you thinking now, Son? Are you going to change your mind?"

"Pardon me, Sir."

"You were day dreaming. Do you remember where you are, who you are? How old are you, Son?"

"You've asked me that already. I'm twenty-nine. Why do you keep asking?"

Mistake.

He slammed his fist on the desk and turn flaming red.

"You never mind why I ask the questions, just know that I do and you don't. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is you name?"

"Jeff Archer, sir."

"What's your wife's name?"

"Leanne."

"Leanne what?"

"Leanne, Sir."

"Leanne, Sir what?"

Another fist slammed down and anger burst form across the desk.

"Leanne Archer, Sir."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-three, Sir."

"Why don't you have a ring, Son?"

"Pardon me."

"Where is your wedding ring?"

"At home."

"Why aren't you wearing it?"

"I don't like to wear jewellery, Sir."

"Not even a wedding ring?"

"No, Sir. I saw a friend lose a finger because his ring got caught on a shelf as he fell. I've never worn a ring except for my wedding day."

"What is your wife's name, Son?"

"Leanne, Sir."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He pulled out a book and slammed it down on the desk. He stood up, leaned toward me and pushed the book into my face. I didn't need to look to know what the book was.

"Put your hand on this book, Son."

I hoped Karna understood the game before he got to her. I was reluctant to participate in his myopic ritual but knew there would be no explaining away the Christian faith in America.

"Swear that your wife's name is Anne Archly!" the fat man screamed.

"Her name is Leanne Archer, Sir."

"I said swear," he bellowed with the authority of God's own voice.

I wanted to swear every curse I could think of, then invent some more just for him. I wanted to curse him in every language. I hated having the fat bastard in my way. I wanted to rip his oily red head off, they scream, 'fuck off' down his bloody neck. I refrained. I exercised complete control.

"I swear."

"You swear that your wife's name here is "Anne Archly," he continued to scream.

"What?"

"Second thoughts now?"

"Pardon me?"

"Swear!"

"I swear that my wife's name is Leanne Archer."

"What?"

"I swear my wife's name is Leanne Archer."

"You are a liar!"

"No, Sir."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, Sir."

"Then you must be a liar. One of us is a liar."

"Sir?"

"Do you think I'm a liar?"

"No, Sir."

"You are a fool. Swear your wife here is Anne Archly."

"No, Sir."

"No!"

"No, Sir."

"What is your wife's name?"

"Leanne, Sir."

"Swear it!"

"I swear it."

"You are a liar."

"No, Sir."

"Keep your mouth shut."

"Yes, Sir."

"I said keep it shut. That means don't speak, understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Shut up!"

I nodded.

"What is your name, Girl?"

"Sarah."

"Sarah what?"

"Sarah, Sir."

"Sarah, bloody what, Sir?" he wailed.

"Sarah Barker, Sir."

"You are one dumb bitch."

"Yes, Sir."

I didn't know whether to laugh or punch the fat bastard in the head until he shut up.

"Sir," I said.

"You shut your mouth, Punk, and keep it shut until I tell you to speak. Do you understand me, Son?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Well, shut up!"

"What is your name, Anne?"

"I don't understand, Sir."

"Certainly you must be smart enough to know your God given name, Little Girl."

"Yes, Sir."

"What is it?"

"Sarah Barker, Sir."

"Stop calling me Sir."

"Yes, Sir."

"What?"

"Sorry."

"Sorry what?"

"You are confusing me, Sir."

"It's not hard."

"Yes, Sir."

"Shut your mouth you little bitch. You make me sick with your stupidity."

He was obsessed with the idea that we weren't who we said we were but until he could make us admit it, he couldn't send us to an institute for therapy. At least I was holding onto that hope as I submitted to his anger.

"Okay, Son, who is lying here? Your wife says her name is Sarah and you say it's Anne. Which is it?"

"My wife's name is Leanne. Sarah is not my wife."

"Well who the hell is this bleached blond bimbo bitch, your mistress?"

"My cousin?"

"With your cousin? You are one stupid mountain mother fucking immoral inbred, aren't you?"

The door opened.

"George."

George, our interrogator, gave me one last sneer before he left.

An hour later, a man in uniform came in and motioned for us to follow him out. He lead us outside to an unmarked government car. We got in. We sat for a minute before another man in uniform came with our bags and put them in the trunk. He handed me our identification.

"Come back real soon now," he said.

"Thank you," I replied.

We were in the tunnel before our driver spoke.

"We apologise for George. He's been at this job four years. Sometimes he gets excited. He thought you might have been American. He isn't often wrong."

"One day Americans will come to visit Canada," Karna said.

The driver slammed on the brakes, then turned to look at Karna.

"Why?"

"To visit. It's a beautiful country."

"No American in his right mind would ever leave America. There is no reason to."

"If Canada was to become part of America," I explained. "Then we might see some Americans coming to visit."

He looked at me, grunted then continued driving.

Our driver took us to Canadian customs. I thought we would be done with him but he came in with us. We came to a counter where an attractive black woman sat behind a computer. She looked up and smiled.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"Great, America is a beautiful place to visit," I said.

"Do you have a file for Sarah Barker born June ninth, 1976 and Jeff Archer, born May seventeenth, 1970?"

"Social insurance numbers or pass port," she said.

Karna handed over her identification.

"Yours, Sir."

I started to tell my social insurance number, then checked myself after the first two numbers. I found my fake card and handed it to her.

In a minute there were two readouts.

"Here you are, Sir."

"Thanks for visiting America. Feel free to come back," the man said and left.

"Soon," I said.

"Sir," Karna called.

But he did not hear her.

"What do you want to tell him," I asked.

"Our bags."

"Oh, good point."

"They will be given to our customs officer," the lady said.

"Oh, of course."

"You are probably tired from the trip."

"I'm fairly beaten."

"You are looking pretty good for your condition."

"What's my condition?"

"Dead."

"I'm dead?"

"If you are Jeff Archer."

"I didn't know. Why didn't you tell the man."

"They don't need to know everything."

"I thought they did."

"Are you seeking asylum?"

"I am Canadian."

"Oh. What's your real name?"

"Leavy, Aaron Leavy."

I told her my social insurance number and she punched my info the computer. She gave a funny look at the screen then picked up the phone.

"What? Is something wrong."

"Someone has a hold on your file; he'll take care of you."

"Should I worry?"

"Not if you don't want to develop a nervous condition. Just have a seat, someone will be with you soon."

We sat and waited again.

"Aaron Levy. My name is Bob Mathews."

A tall man held out his big hand for me to shake.

"Hi," I said.

"And your name?"

"Sarah."

He shook her hand.

"Are you American?"

"No," she said.

"She's from Chile originally but she's Canadian now."

"European decent, I'd imagine. Somewhere north," Bob said.

Karna smiled up at Bob like a Swedish fashion model that had just stepped out of a sauna, naked, into the snow, to get the mail from the mail deliverer.

"Yes, well, come with me."

We followed Bob into his office.

"What do you know about the Exodus Chapter?"

"Moses had a hell of a time getting the Israelites out of Egypt."

"Yes, well, I mean your brothers organisation."

"Nothing."

"We try to support your brother as much as we can. He works at getting Canadians out of America."

"And has he changed his name to Moses?"

"No. Were you in South America for all these years?"

"No, but it's a long story."

"Well it's not my business," he said.

"What is?"

"Getting you on a train that gets to Toronto at six this evening."

"I thought trains were dead."

"No. A public campaign saved them. Well some of them."

"Richard lives in Toronto?"

"He has an office in a church there."

"In a church, Richard?"

"Yes."

"And Ashley?"

"His family lives in Nova Scotia."

"Family?"

"His wife and son."

"A son," I reflected.

"He's about five, I believe. There's a girl as well. She's seven but she's in the States."

"Seven. Christ, she must have been pregnant when I left, no wonder he didn't want to go."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Why is she in the States?"

"She was born there."

"And she wanted to stay?"

"She is legally an American citizen."

"But so is Richard and Ashley."

"Richard has been you."

"Okay, what about Ashley."

"You will have to ask your brother."

"I think I'm confused."

Bob tried to make clear the political differences between the government I had left and the government to which I had returned. A fundamentalist Christian despot was the president of America as they now called it. It was militant rule but they deny it. The Christian soldiers had taken over Mexico, Central America and South America.

Though many had tried, no assassins could get at Reverend Burns.

After he explained what he thought we should know, he took us to the train station, assuring us that Richard would be at the Toronto Station to meet us.



read on. book_02 chapter_29



by Joanne B. Washington

© 2001 | the jose wombat project