I might as well have come to Earth from Mars, like Mike Smith in Robert Heinlein’s novel, or the desert wanderer of the King James Bible. I am in alien territory.
I find the Environmental Protection Agency to see if pollution is clouding my vision. I am told that clearing the air is no longer their mission. A kind woman who looks ashamed says that even though the sky is hazy brown, the next car I buy will be cheaper because it won’t have to meet emission rules, and the gas for it will be too, since they aren’t going to worry about refinery pollution either.
There is a small group of protesters outside the Justice Department waving flags from other countries and saying that people who are here legally cant be deported just because they don’t see the world a certain way. I wonder if that includes someone as lost and confused as me. Big men in ballistic vests and wide tactical belts begin cuffing the protesters and loading them into the backs of vans. One of the armed men meets my gaze and says something to the man beside him, who takes my picture with his body camera as I turn to hurry away.
I decide it might be best to get out of there, so I try to buy a subway ticket to the airport, but my credit card isn’t accepted. I try an ATM machine. My account has no money, the screen says. I should see a teller inside. I walk away quickly, glancing over my shoulder to be sure no one is coming after me.
With no money or credit, I can’t get to the airport, and I couldn’t buy a plane ticket home even if I could. I pull my ball cap down low over my face and walk out to the highway west and put out my thumb, hoping for a ride somewhere, anywhere, as long as its some place I might recognize as my country.
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