arid

The concrete sears as painfully as every other surface under the penetrating white glow of the afternoon sun. Nicholas Carreure’s neck sloughs the sticky residue of one dried bout of perspiration after another. His blonde locks have become saturated, as has the headband keeping the sweat off his brow. White skin has yielded to reddish burns, excepting that raccoon-ish area around his eyes, thanks to a pair of dutiful sunglasses. His muscles burn, not only from the temperatures, but from having pushed this far. But the day is not over, and motivations are as peaked as the mountain ranges just barely coming into view on the horizon.

This service station, which may yet prove to be nothing more than an oasis, is sufficient–at least for fixing a flat. The meager shade of the overhang provides only minimal relief from the direct sun; escaping the sweltering winds is another challenge altogether.

Nobody occupies this island among wastelands save the attendant, a man far too weathered for his age, whose soiled blue baseball cap seems more at home on his head than his own hair, which takes its directions from the whims of the wind. His long-sleve cotton plaid hangs loosely from his dehydrated body as he shifts his weight into a stance of equal parts curiosity and disappointment, knowing he won’t be making a sale from the pedal-powered fellow who just walked his cycle up to the curb. It is possible that few bicycles ever pass through this desolate desert-within. Or perhaps they never make it this far…

Hands covered with grease and road grime, Nick begins to work the bead off the rim when a dusty red pickup truck slides into the closest parking space, raising a choking cloud of particulate, and letting loose a shower of gravel which plinks and ticks itself against Nick’s helmet and shins.

“Heya there, a-migo!” says the driver as he trades places with the vehicles door. He is dressed not unlike the attendant, but his curly black hair is uncovered, and is as dusty as Nick’s has recently become. A matching black moustache curls the corners of his mouth but is well trimmed. He moves with the haste of someone who is used to dodging sunlight, making his way into a sliver of shade–the same under which Nick found refuge.

Leaning in for a closer look, he exclaims “I’m Cal…you havin’ tire trouble?!?”

mark my words

Hello?
Hello, may I please speak with “Andrew Lie…uh…Le-vits”?
Speaking.
Hi, Andrew, this is inspector [NAME OMMITTED]–I’m with the U.S. Customs Office.
…how can I help you…?
I’m calling regarding a package you mailed to a “Margaret and Fred Levits” on the 23rd of last month…
Yeah, I’ve been on the phone with the post office quite a bit about that one. The last thing they told me was that it was likely lost in transit, and there is nothing they could do since I didn’t buy the insurance thing…why–did you find it?
No, sir, there was a problem with your package. After scanning, we opened it under suspicion and…
I’m sorry; did you say you opened my package…?…somehow, that doesn’t seem…right…
Well, sir, this is a new procedure instituted by the additional authorities granted to us by the U.S. Patrio-
I’m sorry (again); did you say you were with the Customs Office? I thought your office only dealt with issues of international transit…?
Yes, well, you’re correct, however (and its a bit complicated) but our division is already equipped and staffed for the kind of investigation and intervention the Department of Homeland Security is interested in… Honestly, I really can’t talk about it.
Uhhhhhmmm, ok…so what about my package…?
Yes, of course…well, like I said, we opened it and found that you were shipping some sort of food product; some kind of grain.
…? Yes, its called quinoa.
I’m sorry…keen-what?
Quinoa. Q-U-I-N-O-A, and you’re right–its a kind of grain, highly prized by the Incas…I wanted my parents to try it–but…I’m still lost–what’s the problem?
Its a raw food product, sir.
Uhhh…???
As of January 8th of this year, private individuals aren’t allowed to send raw food products through the U.S. Mail Service. You must be a registered food production agency to transport food products…
Um, ok…I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything about this…
…and my job is to call those individuals and let them know, in cases like this one, that we’ve had to destroy their shipment.
What?!? You’re joking, right? That’s just rediculous! What about like, ah, chocolate and candy and flowers–people send those all the time!
Well, yes, sir, but those are manufacturer-sealed, and anyway, those fall under the “gifts” classification.
Gifts?!? Well, FINE then, I was sending my parents a gift of quinoa…? WAIT–what about the other things in the box–I had sent my mother a particular blown-glass windchime she’d been looking for…
I’m sorry, sir, the policy states we must destroy the entire package including all its contents.
!!!!! …did you say this was because of The Patriot Act?
That, and subsequent legislature…
I…haven’t heard about any of this, and I usually have my ear pretty close to the ground. What is happening to this government? All this anti-terror stuff is bullshit!
Sir, this call is being recorded…and monitored…
((CHOKE))

THIS IS FICTIONAL (and I shouldn’t have to feel like I have to type that disclaimer)
I’ve just started Darkness at Noon by Arthur Koestler.
Thus far, its as good as I was told.
Its making me think about governments again…
and revolutions…
and how goverments are really just people…
the ends do not justify the means…!
why must it be so…complex?