You had a dream. In it you gave your briefcase to another
person, and that person went to work for you, or tried to. Navigating the third
week of commuter rail delays, canceled trains, and subway transfer failures
caused by mechanical errors, frozen switches, and late-to-arrive equipment.
Your ninety minute commute was prolonged
to the three hours. The glia coat of your proxy's brain dissolved. Jangled nerves
sparked and fired outside the skull. Gone was the natural bubble-wrap casing
between the cerebrum and skull, the substance that cushions the mind against
the jostling stress of getting from place to place.
You don't even carry a brief case. Really, who does anymore?
It's all backpacks and computer sleeves
now. Today the case is an empty dream box. Inside you find the archetypical
traps of a dying middle class: a steady salary, health insurance, and
retirement benefits. The political cry of Gen X, Gen Y, and so-called
Millennial no longer claims improvement upon the lives of our American parents.
Recent ancestors fade to ghosts, sitting at their separate computers playing
solitaire onscreen, as night arrives. They wait for the snow removal crew to
arrive, with no where to go, whispering prayers against a sentence lived out in
a dementia unit.
***
Across the Ocean, a medieval death cult rises. Today, their
internet production allows the world to watch twenty-one captured Coptic
Christians wearing orange jump suits, marched on a beach by gun slinging
Jihadis toward a ceremonious beheading. Censors blur the pics, but you get the
message, as blood ebbs in the tide of the Mediterranean Sea. Water runs red
like a Pharaoh's curse. Each video sequel is more sensational than the
previous. You saw the prequel, the caged pilot paraded through a dirt packed
village amid a throng of jeering men, where he is burned alive. Before that,
one captured Westerner has his head cut off by an executioner with a British
accent and handheld dagger. You guess that must have gotten boring.
History repeats itself, and rises in your collective memory.
The Jordanian pilot is a Salem Witch fallen from the sky, trailed by the
burning embers of a billion dollar jet, fueled by imagined sorcery. A Medieval
diorama displays lions feasting on flesh in the Coliseum, and hooded prefects
of the Spanish inquisition building pyres in the plaza, and Jews boarding
boxcars to take a ride deep into a Nazi winter. Round and round we go...
What is this time that you are living in? Clicking the
remote between the Grammy's the Oscars, Forty Year Anniversary of Saturday
Night Live, and other mindless self-reverent fluff. Did you
see what Kanye did? What Kim wore? Saturated by distraction while Evil
prepares to overrun the world and pull the plug on the screens.
***
You live in Rhode Island, after all, so a blizzard, two
nor'easters, and another blizzard–while excessive–are not surprises to anyone
here. A sub-freezing reign of artic cold makes the dog's paws pause, bent at
his joint, he looks like you as God, eyes pleading, What are you going to do to fix this?
All you can do is say sorry for forcing him outside, while
you warm the pads with your mittens, digging clumps of snow from the tufts of
hair, and jostle him forward so he can pee, poo, and get on.
The big question isn't, why
do you live here? It's what are you going to do next?
***
Who on this train is willing to kill for it? The passengers entranced by the candy color pixel tiles cascading up and down the screens of their hand held devices?
You worry that it is going to take the worst of America to
defeat the death-cult warriors. Our best traits will not be honored.
Multiculturalism, religious tolerance, and equal rights won't do the job.
Neither will online pornography, Hulu binges, or the games played on the
dumbass smart phone.
As you can see we have
a short train, the conductor announces apologetically, I suggest you get squishy, say hi to your neighbor and make the best
of it. You won't do that, but you will move your backpack to make room for
the overflow crowd, as the train crawls and chugs to Boston for work, creating
another insidious commute.
The war-if we win it-will be won by an army of insentient
drones. Designed by combative humans with a killer instinct. Maybe that is what
these pocket video games are actually grooming the train passengers for.
Why does your mind drift right, even while your heart leans
left? Is this good sense, or a mental impairment brought on by seven feet of
snow and a night of bad dreams?
You close your eyes, and pretend to sleep.
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