This story is partly a statement about politics mixed in with bits and pieces of the world around me and
my own imaginary vision of the future. Hopefully, like so many other things, I'll get to the end one day
and be able to stand back...and not think it's trash.
my own imaginary vision of the future. Hopefully, like so many other things, I'll get to the end one day
and be able to stand back...and not think it's trash.
Six years ago..Los Angeles, CA.
I wonder what would have happened if I had stopped for that latte? I had skipped stopping at my coffee place
on the way to work that morning, trying to get to office so that I could get to the file on my computer I'd
forgot to download so that I could make an important call when I heard the gunshots. I didn't duck
immediately, or even really break stride, but then neither did anyone else on that crowded plaza in Century
City. I don't think any of us really believed someone was shooting, it wasn't like we were in Compton or Watts.
I'm not sure which convinced me first, the explosion in front of me or the guys who suddenly appeared with
guns blazing. The little bits of metal which the swept back and forth looked just like the ones you see in movies
and suddenly it was though time slowed. I swear every head on the plaza turned in unison, and stared for a full
second. Then bedlam.
Some nights I can still feel one or two of the folks I knocked over, the hand under my shoe as I ran and ran
and ran. I can still hear the screams on the plaza, and the bullets as they whiz past, wondering how they
missed me. Sometimes my legs will start a running motion in my sleep.
Across the plaza, my heart hammering in my chest, the next explosion happened to a car in front of me and I
swerved to miss it. The buildings floated past as raced down the sidewalk, my labored breathing telling me the I
would soon be a standing target and lying waiting to die like one or two of the bodies I ran past.
It is a promise that if I ever meet the guy again, I will give him every thing I have. He was climbing onto a
motorcycle when I clipped him, swinging my metal briefcase to a resounding clang against his helmet that in
my mind for a second drowned out every noise on the street. He flipped forward over the handlebars and
disappeared as far as I was concerned. I straddled the bike, and unable to pry my fingers from my own
briefcase, awkwardly gripped the handlebars and pulled away from the curb, gaining speed and distance with
each passing second.
I was at home forty five minutes later, threading my way through traffic as my adrenaline ebbed away until at
the house I had the presence of mind to pull the bike up into the garage so that my neighbors wouldn't know
I'd stolen a motorcycle. I walked into the house, set the briefcase down and made myself a drink and slumped
into a chair to breathe. I turned on the television after a few minutes to see what was happening, to see when
the police or swat or the army would step into handle the situation.
The blonde news reporter who was trying to be right in the thick of action died in front of forty million viewers,
her blood leaking onto the hot pavement, her face more surprise than pained as the camera man followed her
down. A few seconds later as his common sense kicked in we watched the camera jerk down the street before
the thunder of bullets killed the remote link. As the screen flickered until the studio feed picked up, I got up and
started moving.
By the time the anchor had finished throwing up and had regained his composure, I had changed and was
stuffing a back sack. In went some clothes, a few small mementos, my laptop and some food. As after
thought, I pushed in the smallest frying pan in my house, then closed it shut.
As I pulled onto the street, the engine throbbing, I could see the smoke rising over the city. I picked a direction
northward and rode away. I really liked that house.
Two years ago...New York City.
Handleman stepped up to the podium, an imposing figure in black that dominated the stage ringed with
dignitaries. With the stoic look that was his personal trademark, he announced to the world that he white,
male, Aryan, deserving of their loyalty and gay. And that he was proud of it.
It took all of five seconds for his first assistant Calley to step forward and shoot him in the back of the head. I
don't think Handleman was expecting to die, not from the expression on his face as the cold steel of Calley's
pistol hit the skin of his balding scalp, not from how his face looked right before his forehead exploded. One
would have expected him to close his eyes and wait for it, with a certain calm.
I'd seen coming outs before, and though I was certain that the Gay And Lesbian Alliance would have been
rejoicing for those few moments before Handleman's tenure ended, the last ten seconds of the satellite feed
from the Aryan Republic in what used to be northern Idaho would serve no purpose to anyone. At least not
anyone I could think of.
The fall of Southern California which I had seen from ground zero had precipitated the rise of other fractional
movements, one of which was the Aryan Republic. Although rich and powerful, the movement suffered from
succession problems, and my own article a year ago had on that very subject had been well received, even in
the Republic itself. But not even my wildest theories, one in which I had even figured out a plausible way for
Calley's secretary's husband to assume power, had I envisioned the pandemonium on the stage now.
Calley stepped forward to the podium to assume the throne, looking as though he hadn't done what we'd just
seen him do, a genial grin on face. Even as the camera focused on his face, Handlemann's personal security
force rushed him, and they were rushed by some other men in those funny cut dark suits the Aryan's
favored. The stage turned into an ugly scuffle, the body of the Great Man trampled underneath the boots of
his former followers. Shots went off just as someone somewhere realized they were still broadcasting and cut
the uplink.
I turned off the channel and flipped over to a 24 news network to get a replay, and maybe the basis for a new
article, but after the commercial the anchor ignored the whole event, going off into sports. I watched it
through, but it was obvious they weren't coming back to it anytime soon. Using my notes and the net for
updates, I cranked out a story by midnight that made the front page of the Times Special section on the
matter. Conservatives thought it was a bit dry.
Two weeks ago...Philadelphia
As the train pulled into the station, I marked the page of the book I was reading with an old business card, and
then checked to make sure I hadn't been robbed. Most of the west coast refugees still hadn't acclimated to
east coast or Midwestern living, and current estimates indicated five years or more before the economy would
be able to reabsorb us all. As a result, the homeless and a lot of criminals were people who were formerly
middle class who had fled the Mexican 'Reclamation', the Second Big Quake, the Civil Wars of the Aryan
Republic or the last big battle that had blown a hole in the Rockies. The guy next to me was wearing a vintage
San Diego Padres jacket, and we accidentally looked at each other so I tried to crack a smile hoping the guy
just owned an old coat, and really wasn't from the bay that used to be Southern California. I let the crowd
clear out and waited until the platform was nearly empty before heading out.
Why it didn't immediately strike I don't know, but I guess I was expecting an explosion, gunfire or at least
excitement. But there wasn't, just the sound of my feet on the concrete as I made my way through the
station and started looking for a cab to to take me downtown. Most of my clients had moved to the suburbs
north of the city proper ages ago, but this client was a good sized piece of my business and I'd caught the
morning train in. I hit the curb as it hit me.
There were quite a few cabs waiting, but no one was moving towards them, and as I hustled over to one I
realized that myself and one other guy were the only folks moving with any speed. We both came to a slow
stop and looked at each other, then looked at the stricken crowds around us. Some people had sat down,
some had made it to posts, I saw one lady lie on the ground and the man slowly reaching for her, his face
confusion as to why he wasn't moving faster before he sprawled next to her.
The only other guy on the curb started running and I'll be damned if I didn't follow, the sound of our shoes
clattering as we raced down the sidewalk, then the street, then through wherever.
My side was splitting and my feet were burning when we finally made it to a side street where a couple of
people and few drivers gave us an odd look as we dashed, now both wheezing as we made our way. We
paused at a street sign and let the our lungs catch up to the rest of us. Then we started laughing, at our good
luck or whatever and stumbled up the street like old buddies until we found a bar just opening.
After my first I called the police just in case, but the lines were jammed so I figured they must have known by
now. After a few more we called our offices, but my client refused to re-schedule. Thinking that business must
truly go on, I hailed a cab and skittered downtown making it with plenty of time to spare. That was probably
my mistake.
In the middle of meeting with company's head of PR, we were interrupted by the city's emergency services
troops after one of the more paranoid secretaries called in that I'd somehow walked off the train platform
unharmed. The office quarantine and the shots we all had to take in the chest really put a damper on my
presentation.
Today. Somewhere in South Carolina.
I would say I was lost, but that imply that I would know where I was when I got where I was going. And I
wouldn't.
My name is Attorney Sanford, and no I am not a lawyer, just wishful thinking on the part of a mother anxious
for her son to amount to something. Six years ago I was writing ad copy, doing some consulting work and
trying to sell screenplays in Hollywood. The world has changed so much since then. Now I'm a freelance writer,
available for ad copy, consulting work and right now I'm trying sell plays on Broadway. The more things
change the more they stay the same.
I'm currently on assignment for Micheal McGee, who is no longer a person but a political entity. You may see
him on television or online as man with his finger on the pulse, but the only pulse he's checking is his own. The
only reason the man would be up before noon is if hadn't slept the night before. His office is paying me triple
my normal fee plus danger pay for this one and I'm beginning to suspect it might not be enough. I wouldn't
had to take this gig if some Texan separatists who don't want to be part of Mexico or what's left of America
hadn't nerve gassed Philly, Dallas and Mexico City all in the same day. But if it's one thing the Muslim extremists
taught other extremists, it's the effect of simultaneous strikes.
I look up from the floor of the truck I'm lying in and the guard gives me a weak grin, and asks me to please
face down. These are new extremists and not used to inflicting their will, people who fell forced into a bad
position that they can't see any other way out of. I give him a weak smile back and go back to looking down.
We're riding down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere and in the next ten minutes we stop three times at
what I assume are checkpoints before we pull over and the engine stops. My escorts pile out and I'm left alone
for a few minutes. Then the door opens and they let me crawl out and stretch my legs in the mid-morning sun.
It's South Carolina all right, and we're in the middle of a clearing you couldn't spot from the air if you had the
GPS coordinates. My laptop and cam are back in Charleston, but they've given me a fairly new Mac and digital
cam that's way better than mine. They're worried about bugs and tracking devices, but they haven't swept
me, and it's a nagging thought in the back of my mind.
He comes out of the woods looking like my grandfather out on stroll to the cattle pens, casual and relaxed, but
with someplace he needs to be before too long. Three guys behind him have that same free afternoon gait,
and I notice other than the guys who brought me, nobody is armed. Not even a pistol. I realize then that
Grant Tollboy is different than you're usual politician.
I first heard of Tollboy right after the Aryan Republic declared it existed, but he wasn't a political bigwig or a
mover and shaker, just some guy who somehow got into one of the last unscripted Presidential Press
Conferences. There, in front of the media he asked what had to be the question of the year, and the one
question nobody wanted to ask.
"If they want to leave, why can't they go? It's a free country, ain't it?"
The president froze. He'd been expecting a softball question from one of his friendlies when Grant had popped
up from the back. Every head turned and despite having been the center of attention, the Commander in
Chief had suddenly feel like he was under a microscope. After few seconds, he croaked out a textbook answer
and followed it up with a smile, but everyone in the room could see it was question that had an effect.
Four days later it became the national question when the President, bound and determined not to let the Great
Northwest flounder like the Southwest committed troops. At that point in time we were re-enacting the
Vietnam folly in the Persian Gulf and Africa, and had troops engaged in the Southwest, so a fourth front was
not a popular decision. The idea of letting them go found credence in the general media, and Tollboy became
the voice of common sense.
"They sent a lawyer? I would have thought they would sent a reporter, or at least a writer." Those are his first
words directed at me after he's spoken with my driver. He's average height and build, just starting to go to
pot around the middle but still in fairly good shape. He got a couple gray hairs and he hasn't shaved but other
than that, put him in a suit and he could be middle management any day of the week.
"No sir, my name is Attorney. My mother thought the law was great thing to aspire to. I am a writer". My voice
cracks but he doesn't seem to notice.
"Well come on, " he says as he turns and ambles off into the woods, "let's go meet Grant Tollboy." Now I'm
struggling, cause I know this is Grant Tollboy, unless he's already started with body doubles, and damnit,
nobody said anything at all about walking.
We walk down what looks dimly like a trail for fifteen or twenty minutes, until the path slopes down in a thicket
of trees and we emerge in a shady little gully, split by a stream that gurgles like you imagine the ones in picture
postcards do. A couple big logs are lying around like benches and I sit down heavily on one. I'm in reasonable
shape, but I'm no hill climber and this is starting to look like a big goose hunt. From my perch, I eye up the rest
of my companions, a rag tag bunch who have been silent until we reach the stream, after which they begin a
quiet chatter. A couple of chests are dragged from the water and beers are produced, after which from a little
shed hidden amongst the trees fishing poles emerge.
"So, is this gonna be a silent interview?" The question comes from my host, who looks like the man I'm waiting
for but who just asked me to come meet him.
"I was waiting for Mr. Tollboy."
"Ha, you're funny. Let me clear this up right now, 'fore this gets even further out of hand. There is no Grant
Tollboy, not as you know him." He's drinking a cold one and grinning like a fox.
"There is a Grant Tollboy, I've seen him. The world has heard him. You look just like him," I counter.
"Oh my name is Grant Tollboy, sure, but I ain't who YOU came looking for."
"I came looking for Grant Tolloboy for an interview. Grant Tollboy the Next Great Man, Co-founder of the
Southern Free Coalition, the man who if he decides to stay an American could be handed the next presidency
on a platter."
"Yeah, right. Grant Tollboy is an old man who intends to get older. I own my daddy's farm, two pickups and
part of business that sells used parts. I like to fish on Saturdays, my beer cold, and my leaders with common
sense. "
That's the kickoff of our afternoon, and after we wrangle around on semantics, we settle in for a relaxed
afternoon of fishing and bullshitting. I get some video of him fishing, standing among the trees, and other
noble looks, then we talk about politics, the Aryan Republic, the Middle east, the economy, the State of the
Union, pickups, his niece who is getting married, the current state of terrorism, two or three drinking stories, a
couple strip joints we both crawled through and Europe as someplace he wants to visit with the wife.
The afternoon is starting to fade, and we've switched to sipping whiskey when he asks, "So, you got enough
to make me look like a politico yet , or do I gotta keep talking?"
"Meaning?"
"I wasn't born yesterday, I know how this works. You come down here, sit around for a day with a camera,
splice up whatever film you get, re-arrange everything, a few choice sound bites and bang! Instant political
genius." He's grinning and it's starting to unnerve me.
"Is that what you think I'm gonna do?" I ask, but I know it won't be me it will be one of McGee's data cutters.
They'd slice up the notes and video and out would spew either crackpot or saviuor, depending on what the
moment called for.
"That's what I know you're gonna do." He takes a slow sip and peers at me for my reaction.
"Then you're a hell of a lot smarter than most guys." Then we're both laughing. He motions for me to pick up
the camera, then looks thoughtful and makes a few choice conservative observations, then pauses, then just
as smoothly makes a few liberal observations. When he's done, he suggest I sell the different pieces of tape to
various talk shows and let them try to explain it all away. We laugh some more, but now I'm genuinely
impressed. After that I gather up my meager items, and with his entourage in tow we head back to the my
pick up point.
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