by Jake Packard
“Let me remind you. Mr. Mayor, that this situation is a great deal more serious than pure philosophic sport for your legal and political intellect. People have been pouring into this city by the tens of thousands everyday because of his imminent release. What are we going to do with all this trash? We have too many humans clogging up the system already. The extreme danger, Jack, is that these people believe in him.”
“I’m sorry about that. What people believe is something we can do nothing about.”
“Oh, that’s great. That’s real sweet. What were the last few wars we were lucky enough to survive all about, if not what people believe? Religion, my man, religion. Millions dead, billions more agonized by fallout, epidemics, and famine, all because people believed in some fanatic who was cloaked with the irrational power of religion. I don’t think the world can afford another religion.”
“He does not speak of religion, Rodney, but of man. He speaks of how to live together, now.”
“Jesus and Mohammed also spoke about how men should live together, where did that get us? Your logic does not change the fact that people believe in this guy as an answer to all the world’s problems, the same way they believed in all those past prophets. But, when it is taken out of the metaphysical and put into practice on this inhospitable planet with its unequal distribution of resources, the problems begin. And because of that, violence and mayhem have progressed through the centuries, all due to some spiritual abstractions that no one has ever been able to produce even one single shred of concrete evidence to prove. Do you believe in him, Jack? Do you believe he has the power to save the world?”
“No matter what I believe, General, he is entitled under law to leave Rikers Island today.”
“These days laws get broken for all kinds of reasons.”
“Not on my watch, they don’t.”
The room froze over, as if a glacier moved into the office.
“So, what am I going to do, Jack, with all these hordes of hungry transients flooding into your city, and the millions more that could be expected in the very near future that will come to join this charlatan, and help him in build his invidious and divisive church right here?”
“You know what I believe, Rodney. If there is any way the world can ever climb out of the crater we now find ourselves in, we are going to have to get back to a system based on laws and responsibilities. So, as the mayor of the city-state of New York, I insist its laws, no matter how debatable they may be, must be obeyed. As public servants, I expect you and me to carry out our duties to the letter of that law. That’s what we are here to do. I can’t suspend the brownout now, even though I wish I could. So you got that. But, the world is going to get a chance to see Salem Jones today. We need to try and engage this man in meaningful discourse to find out what it is that so many others already see in him. Then we are to try and make whatever that is into something good for this city-state and the rest of the planet. Let’s just keep our heads level, stay on the common course, and see this through.”
The glacier in the room groaned as it continued to move inexorably towards the future.
General Pellet stood up, strong and silent against the cold. He saluted with numb cordiality and about-faced out of the operations room.
Jack sat alone in the arctic frost of the armored office with his convictions, and his preferred, ebony framed, digital moment.
# # # # #
The Crew
A dinged up Hummer 6 hobbled down a deserted, garbage-strewn street. It limped around burnt-out vehicles and broken police barriers like a battle-scarred beetle missing a leg. Not even the sprinkling of the season’s first snow, which fell like a sugar glaze, could confectionize the evidence of ruin, neglect and decay. The Hummer came to a halt at a mound of debris blocking the way.
The black man riding shotgun spoke up in strident tones to the rest of the crew riding in the back of the customized SUV, “Look what our freaky Salem Jones friends left us. She-yit! All this ripped up junk and stuff they left us in the street is certainly a nice Christmas reminder that peace and joy are coming quickly to this material world of ours.”
Herbie, Maria and Jerry said nothing, used to Branford’s outspoken behavior.
“Well, what are you waiting for white boy?” Branford said to Herbie who sat next to him behind the wheel.
Herbie looked through the windshield at the wreckage Outside looked frigid and forbidding. Inside the SUV felt warm and pleasant.
“You know the rules, Herbie. I am the star cameraman. She is the star reporter. And the fat one is Jerry, the producer. All above your pay grade, soundman.”
Herbie made no move to relinquish warm and pleasant too quickly.
The entire inside of the shoebox-shaped SUV had been converted into a state-of-the-art mobile operational headquarters for ABCNN’s New York City-State international news crew. With mobile transmitters and tracking devices to find satellites still operational, it could link directly through to the remaining worldwide network -- LA-Fox, the BBC and Al Jazeera. This made it possible to enter just about every home on the globe instantly but, of course, only with the Alliance’s blessings.
After the first generation of half-life made it a little safer to move about, the Alliance cracked down with its heavy rules and regulations tantamount to full-scale autocratic censorship. The surviving news outlets merged with the traditional Internet as the only medium of information. So, a new wave of computer brains starving for freedom and truth had to change direction like a swarming army of attack ants and, eureka, there evolved the Alternet.
Of course with their desire for complete control, the Alliance condemned the Alternet as subversive and made it a capital crime to be caught logged on. Whenever fresh talent appeared to give it a shot for the glory, General Pellet’s touted Python Corps cracked down on their transmission sites, thinning the ranks of the alternative computer world’s finest without mercy.
At this point, the crew knew the world depended on them.
“Do I have to hear myself say this again? You do know the rules boy, or you wouldn’t be having this cushy, sweet job that a brother deserves.” Branford’s arrogance began to pique.
“Yo, brother Bran, go easy on him. The sun hasn’t even risen upon the land as yet. This should be a gentle time for reflection, blessings, and prayer.” Jerry said with the air of an absent-minded professor.
“With the way this white trash ain’t moving, Mr. Producer, this morning’s sunlight, prayerful or fucking not, is only going to shine on him in places it don’t want to see. You. go back to your doughnuts. And you,” Branford continued while turning to Herbie, “get your ass out and move that pile of shit those hippie fags left in our way. Now, Herbie! Cause, we in here have got a rendezvous with worldwide success. Ain’t that right my sweet, young starling thing?”
Maria pounded on a laptop connected to a couple of digital video devices in the back of the Hummer. She tried hard to avoid Branford’s explicit racism and sexism. “Go ahead, Herbie,” she said. “He talks like an asshole but he is right. And, we can’t be late for this. The mayor lifted the block and said we can go global with the live link, just like we were hoping he would. We just have to get there on time so you can find it.”
Herbie reached under his seat for his gas mask, pulled on his disposable protective gloves, and with an amplified groan, he stepped out into the murky puddles of industrial ooze that hopscotched the oily street. He began to pull the twisted pile of dreck from out of the way of the vehicle, glancing back every now and then through the windshield.
Jerry took a bite of his doughnut and sipped of his coffee, a sense of joy spread over his his erudite face. “You might go easier on him, Branford, because if he doesn’t, and he should, I could bring you up in front of the Union Bias Board someday.”
“And what civil rights of that insolent honky did I trespass upon, other than to recite what he is supposed to do according to his job description? White flight my ass, try white stampede. It’s brothe
rs that run this city. It may have taken a little time and a dirty bomb, but now it’s our show, for better or worse. Exception being, of course, for the fat-cat Jews who are still getting rich from our hard work. So, I’d take that racial bias summons and run it so far up your fat Muslim ass you’d need dental floss on Ramadan to get the paper shreds out of your teeth. Hah, me, racist?”
“Yo, Bran,” Jerry answered, “both your bosses, Marty and Ira, started out as interns years ago and worked very hard against all odds to merge the two networks so that it would survive long enough to give you the work you do to get you your Emmys, and set up your family in a very fine lifestyle, which I remind you ninety-nine percent of this city-state would think nothing of slitting your throat for. So, a little appreciation maybe? And Jeez Looeez! Why is everybody so sensitive today? This could be the biggest event we ever covered without a body count.”
“Doubt that, knowing the general.” Branford looked over to Maria.
Maria looked over to Jerry and rolled her eyes.
Branford enjoyed the sarcasm. “I just love this girl, and she knows it, too. But, who do you think loves her the most? I’ll give you a hint. It’s due to her chromosomal good fortune. That’s right, it is my camera that loves her the most, because our little girl won those high cheekbones in the luck of the genetic draw. Notice here the operative word being “my.” Since I’m the chief of this crew and all the back-up units in the NYC harbor arena, and since I personally report to our good friend the kindly General Pellet himself, you are going to have to put up with my polite and well-though out commentary. And, Jerry, you can just kindly please keep your phony, liberal, Islamic, ass-kissing producer’s mouth shut back there. Miss Superstar needs to finish her homework so she can go get the hottest interview of this sorry-ass decade and jump on a fast plane outta New York so she can keep scrambling as fast as she can up that corporate network ladder.”
Maria measured Branford with her eyes. “Oh, so it is ‘my’ that’s the word of the day, huh? I’m impressed that you would pick such a big word with so many letters. Oh, my. Oh my, my, my. Well, try this out for a ‘my.’ Like, this is my gig, my scoop, and my beat. You know, this is the story I’ve been working on for months, assigned to me personally by Marty himself. So, if you’d rather be somewhere else, where there is more of a possibility of a body being torn apart, making for better video than a simple civil ceremony with earth-changing potential, please act like a professional and keep it to yourself. I told you not to eat sour grapes for breakfast when you’re going to shoot ‘my’ story.”
Through the mud-splattered windshield, Branford’s silent chortle seemed swine-like. What’s new? Herbie thought, the guy is a pig.
“My ass, sister, there’s no way I’m not doing this so-called simple civil ceremony. Besides that homo Hebe, who thinks he owns this network, don’t know shit. Pellet himself chose me personally for the honor of being the only cameraman to shoot this bullshit. So, I guess it really is ‘my’ show, darlin’ girl, all mine.”
“Would it be too lame to interject that this show is really for the whole world, and we are privileged to have the honor to report on its happening?” Jerry interjected, always ready to compromise for the sake of the team. “Look, we’re going to be there in a few minutes and most of it is out of our control, even the exact spot where Pellet ordered us to set up the broadcast.”
“Who cares?” Branford shot back. “It’s cleared by him and presented on a silver platter to us and no one else. What else do you need? We can see Maria, we’ll be able to see the prison, and we’ll show and tell the whole world today everything they need to know about Mr. Salem Jones. It will be his coming-out party, been sitting in prison with Bubba and the gang his whole life, nowhere to go with their little tube steaks but each other’s poop chutes. I can’t believe he got no virus. If anything he must have the worst case of hemorrhoids. I wonder if he’s gonna be walking funny.” Maria cringed. “But it don’t make no difference, my homeys, I still say we’re living in the Dark Ages making gods out of ordinary people just to lift ourselves from the drudge of our own meaningless and miserable existence. Celebrities. It used to be movie stars and rock stars, now it can be just about anyone and, in this case, no one anybody has even seen before.”
“No sense in cynicism. Especially for things you don’t know anything about.” Jerry dared to drop that in to try and soften Branford’s tone in front of Maria.
“So, Mr. Producer, you have a special enlightenment thing that the rest of us can’t comprehend?”
“It’s about submission, you moron. You have to learn to be happy with what you have, with what you were given. It is written.”
“Written? I’ll give you written,” came Branford’s quick retort. “Excuse me, Miss Born Again and Again. But what did your boy write about the unequal distribution of ideology?”
“Actually, he wrote about the lack of balance between spirituality and science.” She tried to answer without looking at Branford’s misogynistic provoking leer.
“Oh, I got it wrong again. I guess I’m just the seed fallen upon hard and thorny ground. So, what do I have to do now, Maria? How many Hail Mary’s do I got to say to save my penitent, shamefaced, sinning soul?"
“It’s hard to say, big guy, but even if you started saying them now all the way to judgment day, your flaming ass is sure headed downtown to that big old barbecue at the end of the world.”
“Amen that, sister.” Branford smiled.
The moment of mutual respect lowers gently upon them all, Jerry with relief pulls a jelly doughnut from the box.
Maria breaks the brief peace. “Listen fellas, this might be the biggest day in all our lives. If this guy is anything remotely close to what reports say he is . . .”
Branford couldn’t help but interrupt. “Baby M, I truly hope you ain’t starting to believe this shit. I mean it makes for a good story and all, but doll face, it is the middle of the twenty-first century and we haven’t seen a sign from the Big Guy in over two thousand years.”
“It all depends upon where you look, my faithless friend,” Jerry had a quizzical expression as he wiped some powdered sugar off the corner of his mouth. “And, if you are willing to see the signs. You see, Muhammad wrote a book that was recited to him personally by God, and that was less than fifteen hundred years ago.”
“And that’s what he said. Big deal. You know what I say, prove it. Whichever way you chop it, two thousand years or fifteen hundred years, what’s the difference? If God is real, where is he now when we need him the most?”
The driver’s door to the Hummer jerked open and Herbie climbed inside. He pulled off the rubber protective gloves now slimy with mung and threw them back out into street. He slammed the door shut and turned to the crew with a toxic gleam in his eyes, “Yucchh.”
* * * * *
The Prisoners
Men of all colors and races sentenced to life without parole sat in hardback chairs in the prisoner’s mess hall at Riker’s Maximum. Most had committed crimes of inhuman caliber upon their fellow citizens. But now their faces glowed with an inner power as if they sat at court in an ancient stone palace, graced by a magnificent empire.
Salem Jones emerged from out of the shadows near his cell. The former criminals rose to their feet in unison. They lowered their heads before him. One by one, they approached and said something in his ear, each his own fervent prayer. They embraced and then kissed him on each cheek, then stepped aside to allow for the next to make his devotion.
A dark man in his sixties named Esteban spoke to him. “Unfathomable for us to think what it would have been like here without you.” The men murmured an assent in unison, some of them rocking on their feet, sole to heel. “Our souls were devastations of the spirit and we knowingly and willingly danced with the devil. But we were never forsaken. Raising you from infancy has been the greatest blessing we could ever have hoped for in this life.”
A bald man with many tattoos named Lucas spoke next. �
�I was sent to this prison on trumped-up charges. The DA needed to stick something on some poor schmuck to make it look like he was doing his job. I looked the part, so I was their man. Needless to say I was bitter. I felt like a human sacrifice strapped to the top of a great pyramid waiting for his heart to be plucked out for some pagan god. Then you came, a miracle to us all. I don’t know much, but I know this. My life now has a purpose, and there is a reason why I am here.”
A short, grizzled, old man with a patch over one eye and many scars on his face followed next. “It’s time,” This man called Gino said. “But wherever you go, Salem, so will go we.” He grabbed Salem by the shoulders and they looked deeply into one another’s eyes. He hugged him like a brother and stood him up at arm’s length for all to see.
Nothing more needed to be said. Salem’s eyes welled up with tears, like water bursting forth from an ancient stream running in the green hills of the Galilee.
* * * * *
The Link-up
The early morning light diffused through the smog made the air suspended over the entrance to the prison look poisonous. Solid waste particles from an industrial product burnt to heat the penitentiary floated in a carcinogenic emulsion over the crowd that had been forming all night. The multitude filled the parking lot in front of the seldom-used front entrance of the Rikers Island House of Detention, and spilled out onto the grounds and between the other buildings that lined the space. Only a few minutes to go before the doors would open and Salem would walk out. The expectant feeling of a miracle loomed over the peaceful congregation of Salem devotees.
A garrison of the First Arm, armed to the max with the latest mob control gear, surrounded the people. Snipers with high-powered weapons stood ready on enjoining roofs, but out of sight, a concession the General begrudged to the Mayor’s intransigence.
