MX13NX

You didn’t want to be late these days, things being the way they are. I waited outside the front door on the steps until three minutes before the appointment. They used the Post Office for all official matters now. Patty, who’s counter I always waited for, was looking for me. She beckoned me over as I walked in. I’ve known Patty for twenty years, ever since Jerry and I first bought a place in Rehoboth Beach. She had come to his memorial service and for months afterwards dropped off very tasty casseroles. I started to hand her the printed e-mail appointed notification, but she immediately snatched it with her left hand and handed me a very official looking envelope with her right.

Patty told me to press my thumb against a screen. It went green and read VERIFIED. Patty instructed me to open the envelope and verbally state that I was the individual described in the document. It was a bit anticlimactic as I opened the envelope and pulled out something that looked like a passport; but wasn’t. All of those had been surrendered and cancelled; they were useless in any event. You couldn’t leave the country without a special permit, and then the passport you were handed as you left had to be returned when you came home.

The booklet started out with my name (the most current legal one, together with my birth name, my adoption name and finally, what I had changed it to) and presented my life. Everything was listed: year round and summer addresses, Medicare and Social Security numbers, weight, height, sex, arrest and criminal records, marital status (divorced, I sometimes forget that I was married – with Laura’s name and current address) driver’s license, car insurance, registrations and history of parking and moving violation citations. There was a section for medical information (COV-19 Recovered, no allergies, no appendix, Hepatitis B, broken leg, low-grade depression), prescriptions (Wellbutrin, Fish Oil, Calcium, Lipitor, Sildenafil), inoculations, my current mobile number, a list of all my e-mail addresses over the years, my credit rating and a list of my credit cards, next of kin and a surprisingly flattering photograph that I had never seen it before.

It was all there. My National Record (MNR). Everyone would soon have one of these dark green non-passport, passport-sized books embossed USA-NRA, and would be required to carry it at all times. If it was lost or stolen it had a GPS chip. When I signed the receipt I checked the box agreeing that I understood that if I intentionally or unintentionally damaged my MNR in any manner, lost it, or if my information changed or incorrect, I had to report immediately to the National Record Agency (NRA). Failure to do so could result in a fine of no less than $10,000 or other correctional actions as listed in the Emergency Recognition Act (ERA) of 2021.

Patty put her hand out and reverse waved her fingers. “I have to check it,” she said. She took it, got out her readers and examined the barcode. She shook her head up and down. She told me in a low voice that she wasn’t supposed to tell me how to decipher it. She proceeded to do just that. First my social security number -dash- my date of birth -dash- and six digits of letters and numbers. She looked at them very carefully and wrinkled her nose.

“OK, so let’s see what we have,” she said.

“MX13NX.

“M” that’s for Male.

Then we have “X” which means heterosexual.

Then “1” that means you’re a registered Democrat.

Then “3” which means on a scale of 1-5 you are 3 in terms of social media activity on political matters.

Then “N” and finally another “X”. We aren’t told what those ones mean.”

She looked up at me looking a little frightened. “Jerry and you were never married, I guess.” Jerry had been my partner of 17 years and had died three years earlier. “I’m supposed to report anything I know not to be true.” She bit her lip and then whispered, “but I never really knew you two were a thing.” She didn’t ask for a response and handed me the brand new MNR – I could smell the ink.

“I don’t like to report anything, jeez, I live in this town.”

Nodding her head to the co-worker at the next window, she said. “Some aren’t so particular. I grabbed your envelope when it came in.” She looked around again and whispered

“Lucky thing I was looking out for it.”

I walked out in a daze. Why was I lucky?

Ever since the excitement and terror during the two weeks of The Incident, barely six months ago, just as The Plague was finally declared over and when the Incumbent lost the election, life had calmed down and became more predictable by the day.

The incumbent’s followers, known as The One-Third (TOT), had taken over the streets, screaming that the election has been fixed and the incumbent the true President and throttling to death anyone who wasn’t one of them. They had set off bombs near power stations and tunnels and bridges and shut down water and electric systems. Life came to a grinding halt. We all hovered in our homes, just like during the Stay at Home mandates during The Plague. Only this time we were in danger of being shot dead by some vigilante TOT rather than contract the Trump Virus.

That was all in the past. Now there was no news as such. There was no conflict. There was no public, or private for that matter, discourse. There were no longer any liberals or conservatives or right- or left wingers or pro-lifers. Those words had been superseded. If you so much as sent an e-mail with those words they’d be blacked out. We were kept informed of more superseded words every week when they were listed on the Reformed Philology website. Every document with these words had them blacked out retroactively. This was included in the Protective Guidance section of The Rules. They were posted, constantly updated and expanded, popping up on that website.

Every hour an official spokesman, never in a uniform, appeared on your computer screen or TV screen, interrupting whatever was on, and read out the most recent official announcements. This was followed by Noteworthy Events, which usually involved weather forecasts, sports results, winning lottery numbers, reports on troop movements on the border of what was referred to as the Renegade North West (RNW), the area that refused to join the Reformed United States of America (RUSA). The RNW was Washington, Oregon and parts of Idaho and California from Silicon Valley north.

There were usually reports of Canada’s refusal to return political criminals and “articles of historical interest.” That meant the original Constitution and Declaration of Independence, which was said to have been smuggled into Canada by a former First Lady. The only world news dealt with trade agreements and military maneuvers. Only classical music, country and western and for some reason ‘50s and ‘60s top hits; heavy on girl groups, were played on the radio. There were no more talk shows.

On television the recognized pundits and news anchors were gone. It was said that Rachel Maddow was working on a lawn care crew in western Manitoba, that Ann Coulter was a cocktail waitress in Vancouver, and that Jonathan Capeheart had become a sushi chef in Montreal. There was never any actual reporting of this, but there was talk. All news channels, newspapers, blogs, and podcasts disappeared. Sports, however, were rampant. Three sports channels, sometimes more, were shown simultaneously, 24 hours a day. You could gamble on-line 24/7 on three channels. The Kardashians, all the Real Housewives and Lady Gaga vanished. There was an official spokesman every hour who never had a name. Most looked like military, uncomfortable out of uniform - particularly the women.

The Office of the President, Congress, the Supreme Court, all State and Local Government, the military and the world of commerce were all consolidated and reformed. We weren’t ruled, we were “coordinated” by The Committee on Present Danger, or just “The Committee.” There were no longer any laws, we now had rules and guidelines. Everything was done in the name of The Committee. No one really knew who was on The Committee, but it wasn’t Nancy Pelosi or Mitch McConnell or Susan Collins or Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Joe Biden. They had vanished from public view. It was said they were all under voluntary protection, in their homes. I saw Joe occasionally at the Rise Up coffee shop on Rehoboth Avenue, two blocks from my house. He was always surrounded by people in dark suits who refused to let anyone near him. For his safety, they said.

The first few days, far away from the activity in the cities, we watched The Incident on television, and then suddenly all reporting ceased and black-and-white comedies from the 1950's played 24/7 on the television. For a while news filtered through various websites, but it soon disappeared or appeared as gibberish.

During The Incident the electricity and water were gone for almost a week. It was chaos. People died in the streets in front of their parents and children, there were horrible traffic accidents, several ferries sank, airplanes crashed, and there were riots and shootings. Suddenly everything stopped; there was dead silence.

Military units appeared in the streets and the local police disappeared. They returned a month later with new uniforms and procedures and were now known as The Executors. No matter what state or city you were in, they looked the same. If an Executor said you did something you were, by definition, guilty. In the cities there were military tanks and black vans with menacing looking men in uniform strategically positioned although it seemed they were everywhere.

Immediately after The Committee became our coordinators Comcast and Verizon came to everyone’s house, with an armed guard, and put bar codes and “sensors” on all your home computers, mobiles, modems and printers. Everyone with a car was instructed to appear at DMV at a specific time and date to be re-inspected for Air Quality. While there a box was placed on the steering column. It made a piercing noise when you tailgated or sped or went through a red light. It could also tell your alcohol count and whether you’d taken drugs, or if you parked illegally or without paying the meter, and whether you were texting. Traffic court was eliminated. An e-mail appeared that would re-appear every 30 minutes until you confirmed reading it, listing your violations. Fines were immediately deducted automatically from our bank accounts. If you could not afford to pay your fine, or if you exceeded the limits for each infraction, your car simply would not start.

Here in Rehoboth, like many small towns, cameras were installed on just about every streetlight or lamp post or telephone pole. We could see drones were constantly. When a crime was committed it was often broadcast on the television and our computer screens as it happened. Then The Elective Mandates (THEM) which covered everything from income tax to where you were to be buried to where you were authorized to shop appeared on your screens.

If you had them you could keep your self-protective safety devices (SPSD); as all guns were now called, you could buy many as you wanted. Executors had gone from house to house and confiscated ammunition, using a special Geiger counter that found it. There was an exception if you classified as Designated, which meant you were one of TOT. They had all the ammunition they wanted.

To cull the deer populations special licenses were issued for deer hunting. Each hunter was allocated a set number of bullets. If the bullets you didn’t shoot the bullets they had to be surrendered. Each SPSD had a chip installed so it was known if you’d shot or not. Some people refused to surrender their ammunition. We would hear from neighbors about the Executors appearing with black vans; there being gunfights and usually the house involved was firebombed. Eventually videos of these incidents appeared on our computer screens from unsanctioned sources, and then disappeared.

Virtually no one questioned or challenged The Rules or guidelines. There was a five-figure reward for anyone who reported anyone with unauthorized ammunition. Mothers turned in their sons. Wives reported their husbands. People who did this were declared Essential Patriots. They paraded on the Hourly Reports for their bravery and love of country in adhering to The Rules.

Collective Response was the one channel on television, other than sports and gambling, that broadcast 24/7. There was one program. It showed political and social criminals from all over the RUSA being brought forward and tapes shown of their crimes, sort of like Judge Judy - but no one laughed. The verdict was always, “in willful violation,” and the violators Went Away. The faces of these people, with their names and locations and transgressions appeared on the screen. Members of the Justice Forum, the people who handed down the verdict could not be seen or heard. The verdict appeared in flashing lights. There was no doubt that they could only be of TOT. The message could not have been clearer – it could be anyone; it could be you next.

Crime dropped substantially and then seemed to disappear. Abortion was available only by permit. It was unclear how it was decided who got the permit, although it was not unnoticed that single mothers, women with multiple “baby fathers,” women of low intelligence, women who were criminals and religious and racial minorities had their permits approved and their abortions subsidized immediately. This was all managed by something called Reformed Incidental Parenthood (RIP).

Serious medical treatments for anyone of any sort over 55 was discouraged and limited. If you had the money you could buy it with a permit. If you were in an accident, required a transplant, any sort of operation such as chemotherapy, and were of a certain age and hadn’t the resources your choices were Completion or the Hospice. Unsanctioned suicide was a violation, but oddly people who survived were treated and then released with no stigma or special identification. It was noted how few people survived attempts to take their lives.

Church services were monitored. Before you could enter the building, you had to run your MNR barcode under a reader. There were no longer any sermons. When the time came, a religious-looking man who could have been a priest, a rabbi or a pastor, read out that week’s officially sanctioned message of hope and love. The Bible and Torah and Quran were quoted in these messages, and they always emphasized complete trust and faith in The Committee, and the importance of “assisting” those who did not understand, appreciate or comply. That meant the honor of being declared an Essential Hero. That designation gave you some of the privileges granted to TOT. Megachurches closed down. Church ministers and staff became state employees and all church property became state property.

At the beginning of the school year a national curriculum, called Appropriate Learning, for kindergarten through PhD was introduced. It was presented as the Promulgation of Alternative Facts to Restore Unity. Religious and private schools were shut down and reopened as public schools. That summer all teachers and administrators were required to join a two-week Reformed Knowledge Orientation. Teachers also had mandatory monthly continuing education sessions and weekly update appointments with their Coordinating Advocate, who reported on their individual compliance. Teachers were promoted and given huge raises if they became Essential Heroes, identifying children of families they suspected of not adhering to, or were against, The Rules. All students were required to watch a certain number of reorientation programs a week; that too was recorded and monitored. It involved pop tests that appeared on their Androids and had to be completed within 10 minutes. Teachers were issued uniforms as were students. The Teachers’ Union, like all unions, was disbanded.

Education was rationalized. School became year-round. On any given day the same 4th grade math class was being conducted with the same materials, texts and teachers reading the same scripted lessons from Boston to Wichita to Honolulu. Most of the day students sat in front of individual screens most of the day, watching an Appropriate lecture. The monitors could tell if they were sleeping or not paying attention, and the teachers were alerted. History stopped with the 2016 elections.

Colleges and universities were reorganized. Their endowments and campuses became public property. Many colleges were converted to teaching trades and engineering skills; many closed down and were converted into spas and special medial facilities for TOT. The social sciences were curtailed. Foreign languages were taught only upon approval. Some colleges, like Harvard and Princeton and Potsdam closed for a while and then re-opened with new charters. There were many fewer Professors who, like the teachers, were retrained weekly and greatly rewarded when they became Essential Heroes.

Children of TOT enjoyed priority admission to all schools, universities, hospitals, healthcare, hotels and in some places there were special driving lanes marked for their use. It soon became clear, very clear, who these people were. Then, to make it even more apparent the MNR cover colors were changed. The silver ones were TOT. Most of us had green ones, but there were also pink, black and red ones; what that meant was to become apparent.

Libraries all closed for a month. Surprisingly, when they reopened, most of the books were still there. However, if you took a book or consulted a source, it was “noted.” Computer Science majors all had to be registered and were monitored. When hackers were discovered they were paraded on the Collective Response and Went Away.

Everything happened quickly – and effectively. There was no way these changes could have been developed and delivered so efficiently and so quickly after The Incident. But who created and planned their roll-out? How was it kept a secret in the Pre-Incident 24/7 news/social media circus? Where did all of this come from – it had to have been ready to be rolled out - and why did everyone fall into line like sheep to slaughter? Wherever you turned, television, billboards, radio - TOT was constantly hailed and credited with saving the nation from self-destruction at the hands of treasonous free-thinkers and poisonous constitutionalists.

No one really talked about anything at all important because we all knew we were being monitored by cameras with sensitive microphones and by Essential Heroes, which could be your spouse, parent, neighbor, waitress, co-worker; anyone. There was a rush to learn sign language and Morse Code. You would see people tapping something into the palm of another person. Then this became illegal. So, some people did Morse Code with their eyelids. Everyone, it seemed, knew “ -.. .- -. --. . .-.” it meant danger. Get Away. Now.

We adjusted. We were careful. We waited. We hoped. We worried. We watched ourselves. We did not go on Social Media except for the most mundane issues; like sharing videos of puppies and recipes. We all went to work. We all went to our designated grocery store, restaurant and pharmacy. Almost all the fast food places and junk food disappeared as had all soft drinks other than mixers. But the liquor supplies were abundant. Strangely, after one drink, most people felt drowsy. Drinking wasn’t like before. Very few people could take more than two drinks. AA chapters closed down.

It was possible to watch anything on television that was produced before 2016; although a notification appeared stating that your viewing this program had been “noted.” No new movies were released. Old movies played over and over again. All television except sports, gambling and Noteworthy Events went off the air at 10:00 PM, and internet access closed down at 11:00 PM, unless you had a special license, which meant your screen would continue to work.

Despite all of this the appearance of the MNR was still disconcerting. I got home from the Post Office and my neighbor Judy came over. She’d gotten her Record an hour after I did. Her code was FY41MX. She had no clue what it meant. I told her that it meant: female, homosexual, Democrat, 4/5 on social media political and then “N” and then “X”. Still no clue on those two. Judy alternated between shocked and outraged and terrified.

We got on our bikes (not yet microchipped) and rode to the beach. Friends were walking up and down the boardwalk. There were certain places the cameras couldn’t go, mostly the restrooms. We saw friends and smiled and waved and said the most mundane things to one another. Sometimes we just walked by without saying a word to a family or people we’d known for years. You just couldn’t tell.

Judy and I went to the restrooms in three restaurants and the bookstore where we were sure there were no monitors. We talked to friends we didn’t think would be Essential Heroes and avoided strangers. We rode our bikes home. We sat out on my dock overlooking the Bay, which was not yet monitored by a drone, watching the sunset and compared notes.

Most of Judy’s and my gay friends, men and women, were listed as “Y,” although some were “Z. “She thought that meant bisexual or non-sexual or something. Some friends had higher political scores, unless they were Republicans; then the scores were always 1 or 2.

I told Judy about seeing my college friend Dan Worby, who was having lunch with his mother and daughter, at the Summer House outdoor cafe. They saw me and smiled; but no one actually spoke to anyone. Everyone tried to ignore the cameras going back and forth.

I went to the bar, ordered a ginger ale, and headed toward the men’s room. In a few minutes Dan came in. He was white with outrage and terror. While his mother, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew were all over the place in their political scores, they were all listed as heterosexual except for his nephew who was a “Z.” Their last letter was “I.” Only Dan’s wife Cathy and sons were “X.” Dan looked at me and started to cry. He was Jewish. His wife was Catholic. The kids were baptized as Catholics and were “X.” Dan’s mother was a survivor of Belsen. She now had a number tattooed on her arm to accessorize her MNR. His sister and her family were all “I”. Dan told me that two people at work had kids with Downes. They did not have the “N.” They have an “A.” It seemed to mean “Normal” and “Abnormal.”

He began to cry, and we quickly moved into adjoining stalls when someone entered the room. I could hear him trying to stop weeping. I could feel his being terrified and feeling powerless. I could do only one thing to help him. I took a paper towel and wrote the number of someone I’d heard of who was smuggling people across the Canadian border though Vermont under the guise of fly-fishing trips. As soon as the other guy zipped up and washed up, I slipped it under the stall door to Dan. I whispered that I couldn’t guarantee anything, but that I’d gotten this from a reliable source.

Everyone had MNRs in their hands within three weeks. There were no outcries about invasion of privacy or Constitutional rights. The news readers reported transgressors who attempted to alter or change the codes. Most were fined. Several were tried on Collective Response and then Went Away. My sister, who is not to be trifled with, marched into the local MNR office and demanded they change her daughters’s codes on the spot. They were both heterosexual and both Presbyterians. She brought the proof. Her husband, although named Dreyfus, was not Jewish. For some reason the girls were listed as Jewish while he was not; neither was my sister. The Spokesman would report such incidents and how to go about their official correction. By now everyone knew what the codes meant. And since we had to carry our MNR at all times, wherever we went was tracked. It was said that some people, like child molesters or wife beaters, were physically chipped. They were too embarrassed to tell anyone. It was also said that TOT refused to allow everyone to be chipped. For the moment.

At first there were only rumors, then we started to hear vague statements about it, and then we were told it was embraced by The Committee. It was called Completion. All you had to do was to go to a hospital and sign up for a kit. It was delivered by Amazon within a few days. You could designate heirs to receive a completion bonus of $10,000. You had two weeks to complete. If this did not happen you were visited by the Executors and were given another 48 hours. After that you Went Away.

There were billboards and public service announcements that especially encouraged Completion to the poor, old, indigent, sick, handicapped and what were now called Unreliables. That included all high Social Media scores as well as Non-Heterosexuals and Non-Christians and Abnormals. The Spokesman announced that Unreliables were part of a new classification, Irrelevants. Every day the Spokesman reminded people that the new treatment guidelines for people over 55 could only mean they would die anyway, and that the $10,000 bonus would make their loved ones remember them more favorably. On Sundays the religious spokesmen told people it was both more Christian/Jewish/Muslim and for the better for everyone if you took action sooner than later.

I did not ask for my code to be changed to homosexual. I thought they’d figure that out for themselves at some point. Then I became worried about what would happen to me if they discovered my situation and I Went Away for not correcting the record. I also wondered if anyone would report me. I decided to take my chances. I was 66. I took out very expensive private insurance, understanding that I would have to pay for chemotherapy or radical surgery myself.

Unless you went to Canada.

Despite The Committee’s harassment of Canada, it wasn’t impossible to emigrate – Assuming you had money and were willing to part with the lion’s share of it. You had to be willing to potentially put the family you left behind in jeopardy. It was not unknown that the families of people who went to Canada might have what was referred to as Situations, especially when the emigrants were engineers, scientists, doctors and computer people.

But it was different if you were 55 or older. For them emigration was Sanctioned. That meant it was much easier to get the right permits. Supposedly there were no Situations for family members who remained behind.

After the MNR codes were assigned Prime Minister Trudeau immediately opened the Canadian borders to anyone with a 3 or higher, homosexuals, Non-Christians and so-called Abnormals. These people were immediately given Trudeau Permanent Visas (TPV), which granted them almost all the rights of Canadian citizens.

Surprisingly, there was no rush for the border. The Spokesman made almost daily reference to the concerns of The Committee that Canada was poisoning the minds and hearts of real Americans and that corrections might soon need to be undertaken - not subtle code for extending the The Committee’s coordination to Canada. There was fear that things would be worse for refugees in Canada once it was overtaken by The Committee; it seemed to keep most people under 55 from leaving.

No matter how much they growled, The Committee left Canada alone. Some said it was where The Committee kept their money. No one knew.

Immigration into the RUSA from Mexico actually increased; and was encouraged. Illegal immigrants already here, and newly arrived immigrants, were relocated to working centers all around the country, and lived on Protected Reserves. They worked in various factories, in agriculture, in waste clean-up, and in a catch-all category labeled Vital. Some said that included being human guinea pigs.

Immigrants who didn’t go to Protected Reserves, but who worked directly for people or companies, were granted visas. They could only live in guarded compounds, generally hotels and motels that had been nationalized, and they had curfews. Like the Protected Reserves, the compounds had their own schools and medical facilities. Anyone who got really sick had to return home, or they Went Away. Children were kept in special school dormitories. Parents had breakfast and dinner and weekends with their children. Otherwise they were under observation. All immigrants and their children were chipped.

Judy and I noticed that more and more people we knew had Completed, or Went Away, or never left their homes after they came home from work. Our bike rides took us further and further away from town. There were fewer drones in the country, for some reason especially near the Amish farms. Judy had not heard from her son in a month. He was an artist in Los Angeles. Her e-mails and phone calls were unanswered. When this happened, we knew either the person had Went Away or had somehow escaped to the RNW.

The Executors were very relentless about people trying to get into the RNW. It was also very difficult. The Committee had installed an Anti-Social Protective Barrier along the RUSA/RNW border. It was electronic and invisible. It was triggered by body heat. Drones would appear and corral you until Executors came. Whole families would Complete rather than be arrested. When captured your children were taken away from you and placed in detention centers. Their future was never discussed. Then you Went Away. The pursuit and capture were all shown on Collective Responses at least every other day.

There were many ideas about why the RNW was allowed to exist. The Spokesmen reported it as The Committee’s sensitivity to the wish for diversity and inclusion and its tolerance for their misguided and false beliefs. I knew the truth; but told no-one. I’d worked in energy for many years. There were more than a dozen nuclear power plants in the RNW, and the region supplied more than 80% of the world’s uranium. All but one of the manufacturers of nuclear missiles were in the RNW. Those missiles could travel 5,000 miles and could be programmed to target specific buildings, and it was said people. I assured Judy that her son was too smart to be caught; he was most certainly in the RNW.

A great many political people or non-Christians were allowed to continue their lives as before. It seemed that The Committee could comfortably keep them all quite productive and controlled just by the fear. With gays, handicapped and some criminals however, and with abnormals, it was a very different matter. These people became the definition of Irrelevants. They Went Away, almost always in vans that appeared to be delivery vehicles for national chains like Chick-fil-A or Home Depot or Dominoes.

Judy and I both had the resources to go to Canada. Since we were over 55 we were allowed, almost encouraged to leave – and there didn’t appear to be any Situations for the families of those over 55 who left; at least none that we knew about or were reported. Theoretically you were permitted to take up to 50% of your assets with you. The rest was paid out in an exit tax of 25% and the remainder in a trust; 5% of the trust’s income could be withdrawn each year, was subject to a 50% tax. No one had the slightest belief that they’d ever see that money. Almost no personal possessions could leave the country without special permits.

The problem was that once word got out that you were leaving people, mostly TOT, moved in and tried to buy everything as cheaply as possible. Thus, the value of art and antiques and real estate plummeted. If we were to go, we’d have to liquidate and leave within 10 days of final liquidation. We could each take one car and personal possessions. I had friends who lived in New Brunswick and Ontario and British Columbia . We did research on different parts of Canada – but we went into the stacks ourselves and didn’t check out any books – or we’d sign into the general library account that was not assigned to anyone. Judy knew someone who worked at the library who would make copies of the without making a “note.”

If we left, we’d leave everyone and most everything behind; permanently. There was no return, not even for visits. Pets were not allowed into Canada. We decided on British Columbia, which was expensive but had the best climate and the added advantage of being close to the RNW. We had to surrender our American citizenship, but if we made it there the RNW welcomed any and all to come home. That was a possibility, as was the possibility of Judy’s son living there.

It was when more and more of the gay men and women Went Away that we knew it was now or never. It started happening in the early summer and picked up as time went on. The gay bars were closed. The local gay support organization had closed down. The Gay Choir was disbanded. People with AIDS were told they would no longer receive the medication they required to live; instead they were sent information on Completion. All of the plaques on the trees memorializing someone who died of AIDS disappeared. You’d go to work one day and the gay who worked in the next cubicle wasn’t there and no one answered their home phone. If someone was brave enough to report them missing The Executors either ignored the report, or if they thought the gay had escaped to the RNW they’d tear the gay’s house apart looking for names of people who assisted in the escape. Sometimes The Executors took someone who lived with the gay or near the gay into protective custody. We all wanted to believe they’d gone to Canada or the RNW. We could not know. There was no communication with the RNW and messages from Canada were monitored. It was better for those remaining not to have contact with escapees. Particularly gay escapees.

People told Judy and me that we needed to get married. That would immediately change Judy’s status and remove any doubt from mine. The Committee could not believe that gay people married straight people; or vice versa. We would be, for the moment, protected.

But new rules and regulations were constantly being announced. First the Spokesman would announce the changes or additions and then everyone got an email with both details and if it affected them. Whether it did or not you had to sign, or thumb print, that you received the information and understood it. The Committee could and did change policies constantly. Marriage was no longer any guarantee of safety. People were informing on hidden gays and hidden abnormals and hidden Non-Christians. A new reward system was introduced for turning people in. It increased with each denouncement.

Suddenly new Rules were posted that put Judy in mortal danger. It had nothing to do with her being gay; yet. She was 70. After her annual check-up her doctor handed her a small box which contained copies of her medical records. Under the new Rules doctors could neither treat anyone over 70 nor prescribe medications. Judy had meds she required to live. She walked out to her car in shock and sat down and opened the box. With her records the doctor had pulled together a month’s supply of her medications from various sources. That was very risky for him. There was also an instruction booklet on Completion.

And then my sister told me that our brother was about to denounce me as homosexual and collect the reward. He only held off because she threatened to turn him in for his prescription drug abuse. That would last only so long. He was a greedy, selfish man and the reward would be helpful in keeping his bookies at bay.

We had to take action. We had very little time to get all the paperwork together and to dissolve our assets, sell our homes and cars, etc. I went to my doctor and handed him a hand-written note explaining Judy’s meds and our emigration plans. Once we started the process we could no longer get medications or have any medial treatment. He said nothing but immediately told me that in his opinion I had a series of diagnoses that were identical to Judy’s. He sent the prescription to my Walgreens which I immediately filled. The clock was ticking.

We told almost no one that we were leaving. My sister kindly bought my home and summer cottage and time share and investment properties. I reported the sale at about 50% of their assessed value; anything more would have sent up red flags. I, in turn, got half of that, after fees and taxes. She paid the other 50% in gold bars at Royal Bank of Canada in Toronto. I was authorized to remove a certain number of bars that my sister had stored there before The Incident. I had the art appraised by specialists at real market value and deeded them to the University Museum. This allowed me to deduct a portion of that value from the money I owed the RUSA. All told I was able to salvage about 75% of my worth. My pensions would be deposited in my Royal Bank of Canada account, less a 25% transfer fee. I forfeited my social security.

Judy deeded her house to her youngest son, who in turn took out a mortgage and gave the money to her. She then gave that money to my sister who released more gold bars. The biggest obstacle, and it almost stopped Judy from moving, involved her indulged dogs. Canada would not accept any pets. I did some research and discovered a miracle revelation: service dogs were accepted. Our vet certified them as emotional support service animals. Were they ever.

We were given a permit and authorized to exit through Buffalo’s Peace Bridge. While driving there we heard on the radio about an Occurrence in New York. Several bombs had off, Executors were killed, property was damaged. Every time this happened new Rules were introduced. We had to get out before it was impossible.

We’d surrendered our MNRs and a chunk of our wealth. We were granted a ten-day exit permit and $20,000 between us; the maximum we could take out in cash.

As was to be expected, when we got near the Peace Bridge between Buffalo and Ontario, we heard on the radio that the borders had been sealed until further notice. This could be a day or a month or longer. Judy and I were in great danger. We had to leave within nine days, or we would become Irrelevant. We had ceased to be RUSA citizens the moment we signed the departure papers. Nine days of the ten-day grace period remained. We met emigrants at a border hotel who were in the same boat. They decided just to stay and wait it out. Some people were down to six days.

I insisted that we leave immediately and head north. We paid for a week at the Border Hilton so that it would appear we were waiting in Buffalo, where we were authorized to be. I banked on the remote border crossings being less trouble; we’d not wait in lines when and if the borders were opened, and hope and pray that the Canadians would allow us to enter at a different crossing. Where you exited was strictly enforced for the RUSA; it was up to the Canadians whether or not to allow you to enter. The danger was that there was no escape from the ten days. If you were in line and next to go and your ten days expired, you automatically became Irrelevant and you Went Away. We’d decided to Complete ourselves before that happened.

We’d drive mostly at night and sleep in the car in the woods during the day. We took showers at truck stops and used only cash. We’d surrendered our credit cards. The TPV papers were not chipped. Even the dogs had their chips from their ears removed. Because The Committee was afraid the Canadians would hack the tracking, sensors were removed from the car with the export license. My car had temporary paper license plates, good for 10 days. We could move around, if we were careful, virtually undetected.

I was not wrong, but I was not right. The remote border stations were less crowded but still sealed. We drove along the St Lawrence Seaway, and then took the ferry across Lake Champlain from New York to Vermont. From the car ferry we could see the Quebec shoreline. It seemed you could almost touch it. We took back roads through Vermont and New Hampshire; finally, up to crossing station at Jackman Station, Maine. There we had a fright.

About a mile before the crossing there were suddenly a dozen black helicopters hovering around. Streams of black SUVs with no license plates drove us off the road. We didn’t stick around to find out what had happened. I turned around and we drove down to Bangor.

There I waited in a coffee shop where I knew my friend from college, Arleen, would stop by between 8:00 and 8:30 on her way to work. She’d gotten the message that we were leaving and needed help. We saw one another. We said nothing. She got her coffee, casually looked at some items for sale, and joined me on the outside café. We sat at tables with our backs turned to one another. Arleen told her friend, who sat across from her, that she really enjoyed visiting the Roosevelt House on Campobello Island in New Brunswick, just over the bridge from Eastport, Maine. Educational trips were still allowed to cross over for the day. Her friend and she abruptly walked away. I noticed she’d left a book on her chair. I took it and memorized the ‘phone number inside. I went to Arleen and told her she’d left her book behind. She smiled and thanked me. She said she was “all backwards” today.

I found Judy and told her about the number of what Arleen had said. We tried to eat, and drink our coffees, and act naturally. Arleen was 20 feet away and we acted if we were total strangers.

We were down to three days. The borders were not opening. There had been more Occurrences in Chicago and in Los Angeles and in Dallas and in Tampa. Even in Maine you saw more Executors, more road checks. For the moment we were more or less within the law; we told the offices at the checkpoints that we were on our way to Buffalo. Some Executors even gave biscuits to the dogs.

The ‘phone number in Arleen’s book was above an inscription that read, “To Arleen, my dearest friend, please keep in touch.” It was signed Lucy. We no longer had mobile phones. They’d been surrendered. Judy had packed an old one that did not work, thinking she might be able to use it in Canada. She went to the car and got it. In the coffee shop she took it out of her pocketbook and acted as if the battery had just died. She asked the woman sitting at the next table if she could borrow her mobile for a moment; her’s had just died. She began to punch in the numbers and stopped. She whispered to read it to her backwards – that’s what Arleen meant.

A bright and chipper voice answered with her name: Lucy Carter. Judy told Lucy that she was in Bangor and Arleen sent her love. Lucy laughed and responded that the Lord works in mysterious ways. She had been praying to Jesus our Saviour to send her two more chaperones for the class trip to replace the ones that cancelled. She was thrilled that we were coming on the Class Trip and couldn’t stop thanking us and praising the Lord.

She asked if we could meet up with the School Bus and other chaperones’ cars at the Eastport IGA parking lot at 7AM? We could and we did. About an hour before we drove into the parking lot, I stole a set of Maine license plates and burned the paper transfer plates on my car. They were flashing red neon signs that we were trying to get out.

We joined the line with the school bus filled with rambunctious seventh graders and two other cars. Lucy met Judy in the Ladies’ Room. She told her that we were to be the last of the three. If we were detained, we were to say we’d thought this was the way to go and had no idea who was on the bus. Not that it mattered – we’d be taken into custody immediately once the fake license plates and our papers were examined. We pulled out of the IGA parking lot and slowly followed the bus to the border. It stopped at the gate and Lucy got out, meeting the guard who came out of his booth. They hugged and laughed. Lucy opened her backpack and took out a manila folder with papers falling out of it.

The guard shook his head no and seemed to look directly at our car.

My stomach felt like it had been kicked. Suddenly the guard took the paperwork; found one document and went into his booth. He was back seconds later, handed it to Lucy and waved her good-bye. She got back in the bus and we rolled on. I noticed that people in the first and second cars laughed and waved to the guards as they drove past Lucy’s friend. We did the same. We’d drugged the dogs and put them under a blanket in the back so they couldn’t make a fuss.

We got through the no-man’s land and then went over the bridge. We made it to the Canadian gate house and were stopped. The bus and the two cars in front of us were waved through. A Mountie in his bright red uniform came to our window. We had not been authorized to enter through this port; he could have sent us back. He should have sent us back. I pushed the button and opened the window. I started to explain, and he stopped me. “Welcome to Canada” he said. He told us to park the car and bring our papers into the RCMP building for processing.

Campobello Island is connected to the United States by a bridge, and to Canada by car ferry that takes an hour to land in a picture postcard town in New Brunswick called St Andrews. We spent the night in a guest house on the Park Grounds that the government made available, at no cost, to the those with TPVs. We had to undergo medical checks and the dogs, still drowsy, saw the vet. We spent some time with the officials going over our next set of plans and made appointments for final processing in St Andrews.

The next day we got up, walked the dogs, and drove to the ferry. The ticket taker saw our papers and told us there was no charge. An hour later we were on the New Brunswick mainland. All along the ferry ride we could see Maine. We could almost touch Maine. But Maine could not touch us. We were no longer Americans. We could never, ever go back. We had not left our country. Our country had left us. We looked at each other. We were both crying. We were safe, yet so many people we loved in similar straits weren’t and had no hope of ever being.

We drove to St Andrews and checked into the magnificent railroad hotel. We each went to the spa and emerged refreshed. We changed our money to Canadian dollars. The next day we finished our processing and got a 90-day temporary registration and insurance for the car and licenses for the dogs. We were issued our permanent TPV identification cards. There was no charge for any of this. No one told us that we could actually travel overseas on the TPV card; no one in the RUSA could leave the country without special permission. We were no longer Americans and weren’t quite Canadians. That would take a full year. I was amused that everyone who had a TPV was referred to as a TPV.

We were glued to Canadian television. There was constant news about America. We’d not seen anything like this since before The Incident. It seemed like a reality television show. None of it was good. Somehow people took videos on illegal phones and managed to get them to the Canadian news sources.

It appeared that The Committee was a collection of military people, of government officials, of corporate executives, of evangelical religious leaders and several movie stars. They were referred to as Protectors of The One-Third (PToT) What we had suspected was confirmed. TOT were those that had been blindly loyal to the Incumbent. Somehow, they emerged fully in control during The Incident. There was footage of Washington, DC – very few cars and fewer people. There was footage of empty shopping malls. There was footage of Executors taking people away. They never struggled. It almost seemed that they were happy to be taken We saw the Executors tap the Irrelevants identified as social criminals and Abnormals and Gays with what looked like a pen. They immediately became docile.

We took the Trans-Canada car train to Toronto, again at no cost. The train would occasionally stop in the middle of nowhere and pick up wandering people, sometimes families, who had managed to elude The Executors and cross the border. I wondered about Dan and his family. No one had heard from or seen them for weeks. In Toronto we went to Royal Bank of Canada and arranged for the gold bars to be liquidated and the money be put in accounts we opened. These accounts would also receive our greatly diminished pensions.

I took Judy to the Airport and put her on a flight to Vancouver. From there she would take a train to Seattle and search for her son in the RNW. She hoped he would move to Canada with her. We promised to keep in touch. I had decided to live in Montreal where I was going to be trained and volunteer to help TPVs transition.

It took some time to realize I was truly safe and would be OK. That I could not be taken away or forced to Complete. There were many TPVs like me, mostly older. We formed communities and supported one another. It was hell watching the news and seeing what our families were going through; wondering if they were alive.

There was no question that The TOT were the new nomenklatura. Their privileged housing and lifestyles made them very public; too public for the ones that were killed during the never-ending Occurrences.

There were two classifications of TOT: those who had been mega-rich and powerful before The Incident and those people in the crowds that screamed “Lock Her Up,” and applauded the ridicule of the handicapped and demeaning war heroes. They were the ones who thrashed or killed anyone who disputed the word of the Incumbent.

They included the White Supremacists, Muslim-and Jew haters and homophobes and racists and the misogynists (half of whom were women) together with the fundamentalists who believed that the Incumbent had been sent directly by God and was the second Jesus Christ. They were the one who had dismissed any Pre-Incident criticism or questioning of the Incumbent as Fake News. And, it was quite clear that they were untouchable.

I was reminded of what my Polish friend Krystyna’s father had told me about life under the Communists, having lived through the German occupation and the Warsaw Uprising, It was, he said, as if you awoke from the absolutely most horrifying and terrifying nightmare – only to realize that reality was even worse.