1: New Arrival

As the country loses its collective mind, Arnold is tested at his new job by irrational people, Francis despairs over how the election is going, and someone new walks into their lives...

Beep… Beep… Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

   What an annoying little sound. It managed to wake up everyone in the apartment except who it was supposed to, from the only other occupant of the double-bedroom to the neighbors on both sides. Arnold’s hand sought the digital alarm-clock placed just out of his reach on a nightstand in random swings. The beeping continued on, undeterred by his attempts to silence it, much like Conservatives when faced with the fascistic tactics of the irrational left-wing. It supposedly forced him to physically get up and press the snooze button--Francis’ idea.

   Arnold’s eyes cracked open. Determined not to leave his mattress until he absolutely had to, he rolled over and stretched to the nightstand the gizmo sat on, hanging a bit off his bed to bring his hand down on it hard and silence it. But then he thought for a second, knowing he was forgetting something. Oh, that’s right…

   “ARNOLD!” yelled his roommate from the doorway.

   He’d forgotten about Francis. Arnold’s roommate was the type of guy who’d hate having a white author write about him. He’d call out the author for being ignorant in portraying him neutrally, as if he were just another generic character, criticizing the narrative as “too white.” But on the other hand, if he were portrayed accurately after years of research into his culture, past and present, Francis would accuse the author of “cultural appropriation.” Yet, if the author wanted to avoid both those headaches and just write about what he knew within his own culture, Francis would go out of his way, involving himself in something that didn’t concern or affect him in anyway, to say the author was racist for excluding other races and cultures. Francis, due to his backward, flip-flop logic of that sort, was a guy somebody just couldn’t win with, because he was too entitled for the rules to apply to him.

   Arnold lazily looked toward his door and stared at his roommate, a tall black guy (a bit on the light-ish side) with a short goatee and long dreadlocks who was dressed as if it were his first day in college. He always dressed like that: he spent his whole life trying to portray himself as something other than a stereotype. The NYC college-scene had become his sanctuary, as the rest of the city descended right into the archetype people had come to expect.

   “Do you want to be late for your first day?” Francis scolded. “Again?”

   Arnold rolled back over onto his stomach. “Mph…” he mumbled into his pillow.

   “You and your damn white privilege,” Francis remarked, marching into the cramped space. “I won’t let it stand in my apartment!”

   Arnold felt a sharp pain on his head as his hair was wadded up and pulled hard. “Ow, ow, OW!” He quickly followed the agony out of bed in hopes of it easing. He felt more than one strand breaking away from his scalp.

   “Good, you’re up,” Francis commented, letting go and shaking the torn hair from his palm.

   Arnold rubbed his head, one eye still closed in reflex. “You didn’t need to do that.”

   “Then get the hell out of bed and get to your new job! God, first white people steal my people away from their own continent, then they won’t even help us pay our rent…”

   Quite a jump there, but if anyone was an expert in blaming everyone but himself for his own problems, it was Francis.

   Arnold combed over his bedhead with his hand. “You know they won’t hold me forever. Not many occupations agree with my work ethic.”

   “You mean ‘lack of’? We can’t survive on student loans forever, Arnold. White people don’t have enough guilt for that. And those don’t pay the rent. So, learn to check your privilege and get your a*s dressed!” Francis slammed the door on his way out, apparently leaving him to get his a*s dressed.

   The room was a small one. It barely had enough space for the mattress-frame in it and the nightstand placed just out of Arnold’s bedside reach. The foot of that bed pointed at the door to the living room. In between them was his cramped, door-lacking closet. The room had no windows; it was sandwiched between Francis’ spare room on the right and the building’s hallway on the left. Arnold didn’t have much, correlating with his absent income.

   The door to Arnold’s room wasn’t the best-built, allowing him to hear the television on in the living room. It was streaming political coverage non-stop. Whoever was on wasn’t happy, that was for sure. Probably another pundit ticked off with President Trump still being in the running. Arnold blocked it out. Neither side of the argument held his interest.

   Francis had taken to listening to politics again. Arnold reflected how he only seemed to pay attention to how the country was led every four years. He guessed that was better than the attention he paid to it all: basically none. But he felt the brunt of it, even in what was supposed to be home. All because of Francis. Everything seemed to be about Arnold’s “privilege.” He’d no idea what privilege he had. Nobody was giving him anything. No system was working for him. He only got the job he’d just had because no one else had applied. Not the same in the last six positions he’d interviewed for. All of which he’d lost out to those with “protected” statuses, the actual privileged classes.

   Ever seen a clown quit his routine, sit down, and demand children entertain him? Yeah, welcome to the “logic” of the left, where the entitled call themselves “oppressed.” People literally have to make up ways for them to be minorities, mixing and matching identities, or even going so far as pretending someone can change their gender by chopping up their body.

   The lunatics run the asylum, and here Arnold was, just trying to tread water.

   Once Arnold was finally dressed in his uniform--a red shirt with The Pizza Deli’s rainbow-colored logo in cursive on the back, and a pair of red pants with a white apron in his bag--he left his room and was met by Francis again who shoved a plate of microwaved French toast into his arms. At least that came without a “white privilege” remark. Arnold folded one in half and bit off as much as he could, chewing with his mouth open. Francis had turned away already, having never enjoyed how his “friend” ate.

   The rest of the apartment was quite a bit bigger than Arnold’s room. The entrance to Francis’ room, the largest of the living-quarters, was on the other side of the small flat-screen set on a two-tiered shelf in between the doors. There was a kitchenette on one side of the apartment’s door, and between it and the exit was another open closet. Across the living room were the bathroom and a third room, unused. The apartment was probably meant for a new family, though Arnold couldn’t think why a couple just starting out would need three rooms. The worn carpet under their feet was musky from having never met a steamer. The couch in front of the flat screen was no better. Most of what they had was secondhand or borrowed and forgotten about by the various original owners. And most of it used to be Arnold’s.

   Arnold had been correct in his guess: election-campaign coverage was displayed on their flat-screen. None other than the Corrupted News Network itself, too. A diverse panel of political analysts (such “diversity” looked artificial, specifically engineered, to Arnold) sputtered and gawked at graphics of a line-graph, entitled “Evil Orange Man’s Approval Ratings,” showing an upward trend. Most were pretty red in the face, and when they spoke, they did with a heavy salting of obscenities that were barely censored at the last second. Not very professional, though Arnold knew he should’ve been the last judge of that. They couldn’t understand how Trump was still looking so good in the polls.

   “Eat up, we both got a busy day today,” Francis said, trying to distract himself from the unwelcome news by muting the television.

    Arnold swallowed his food. “You don’t have classes, yet. What’ll you be doing?”

   “Renting out our spare room. I hear a lot of new students are coming up here for the spring semester protests. Maybe a few will stick around. Now eat!”

   Arnold shoveled the rest of the food down as he went for the door, grabbing his coat from a closet next to it. They both called out their “C’ya’s” and he went down the three floors of the complex to the little garage. He waited until he was done with that little bit of exercise before putting on his coat. He didn’t want to get to his new job sweaty. He wasn’t going to work hard to make a good first impression, but if he did the bare minimum then he could avoid making a bad one.

   In the parking garage was his motor-scooter, chained up to a bike-rack set into the concrete. Arnold hopped on it, undid the chain, and off he went, taking the exit onto the busy streets. New York traffic, as always, was absolute hell. He didn’t know whether it was legal for him to ride between the multiple lines of yellow and apple-green taxis, none of which were moving, though that didn’t stop him. It never mattered how many lanes made up the city streets, there’d always be too much traffic for them to handle. He weaved in between lanes and vehicles, earning the finger and several combinations of foul words yelled from open windows in broken English and half a dozen others.

   As he made his way through Central Park, Arnold found the cause of all the back-up. Protesters had flooded the area surrounding one of the President’s hotels in several blocks in every direction, making the streets inaccessible. It was an unfortunate side-effect of the selfish carelessness of those who didn’t agree with the election: they didn’t have the foresight to recognize how many lives they were actually ruining while claiming that their values were under threat. The irony wasn’t lost on Arnold: Liberals had demanded their candidate must’ve been accepted as the president if she’d won, but that same group threw out that view as soon as they’d lost. They definitely weren’t setting a good example, and over three years later were still sore about such a well-deserved loss. Some of those very Liberals, the present protestors, held signs that read “Rape Melania” or “Cage Baron”.

   Wow, Arnold thought to himself, turns out the Libs were the violent ones all along.

   The detour took him quite a way around Central Park just so he could get to the other side. With minutes to spare, he was finally parking at the Pizza Deli, securing his scooter in the provided rack. Above it was the bright neon sign that proclaimed the establishment’s name, in the same colors as the back of his uniform.

   The Pizza Deli: the ultimate place for pizza, coffee-drinks, and sandwiches. There were two wide windows showing the spacious interior, and all the young people sitting at the tables and booths. Between these windows was the automatic glass door where all types of people came in to order some of the best pizza found in a franchise-building. Behind all the tables were two counters with a flap between them keeping people from going where they weren’t supposed to. Behind one counter was the window to the kitchen. Between them was a single hall leading to the back of the establishment.

   Arnold entered the Pizza Deli and brought out his apron, putting it on as he assumed his place behind the counter. Over the weekend he’d been shown the ropes of the place, so he knew a little about what he was doing.

   Behind him, his manager raised an eyebrow. Her nametag read “Janie.” She didn’t seem like someone who’d put up with any shenanigans, and he’d caught her checking out other women a couple of times, but barely talking to men. She seemed to stick to talking to the males who staffed the joint. He guessed she was pretty: blond, a little shorter than him (not even an inch,) with a slim build to her.

   “You’re cutting it a little close, new guy,” she warned.

   “Sorry, it’s Monday,” Arnold said as people lined up in front of him. “Which means the protestors are out.”

   “Ain’t that the truth,” Janie exhaled, and started walking away. “Probably using their outrage to avoid contributing to the economy.” There was a ping from her pocket and in a flash her phone was in her hand. A few movements of a thumb, and the device was back in her jacket’s pocket with a look of disgust.

  “What’s up?” Arnold asked, quickly setting up the register. Was him being late really that bad? Had he forgot deodorant or something?

   His manager pointed a finger out at the city. “Selfish, ignorant a*sholes. Another ambulance got held up by the demonstrations. Third one this week. A child died in the back of it this time.”

   Arnold hadn’t remembered seeing an ambulance, but the protest was so big and noisy, it didn’t surprise him that he could miss something like that. Had nobody bothered to move for first responders? Even Arnold wasn’t that lazy. Was the issue of liberals claiming their virtue to get their way so important that innocent children had to die? Wasn’t it supposed to be the extremists who killed kids? Arnold watched Janie head into the back through the hall next to the kitchen, then he turned to face the growing line in front of his register.

   “Okay,” Arnold said, taking a breath and looking at the first person in it. “What’re you in the mood for?”

   “I wanna meatball sub, dude,” the guy said.

   “Okay.” Simple enough. Arnold nodded and entered in his order into the touchscreen register seamlessly set into the counter. He’d never had much experience with computers (or much else in a workplace, for that matter) but the interface was so simple, he’d actually have to try to mess up.

   A receipt projected out of a slot next to the screen, then out came a copy of the order. Arnold handed over the receipt and gave the order copy to a runner, a guy who took orders to the back kitchen. They were hired as a manager’s idea to the boss as a solution for the city government’s demand to create more jobs. There was the technology in place to just send a message to a large screen in the kitchen, but this was the small solution to the shrinking problem. Who was Arnold to argue with the mayor?

   The next person came up to his counter and Arnold gave her a smile, though she looked extremely grumpy. Grumpy, and smartly dressed. A combination that spelled ill for the good start to his day.

   “Oka--”

   “No bullsh*t,” she barked crudely at him, “I want a latté with the works and it sure as hell better not be decaf!”

   “Uh, I don’t think we serve that kind of stuff here,” Arnold said, trying to swallow his annoyance and getting a little red in the face. He checked the options in his register just to make sure. There was no latté on the menu. Plenty of all-natural juices, bottled soft drinks, and regular coffees, all of which were found in the corner behind the counter to Arnold’s left, but nothing artsy. He gave her his best apologetic smile. It wasn’t a good one.

   “Alright, blush-boy,” the woman said, suddenly all smiles. However, her tone betrayed her ridicule. “How about this? You make it yourself, or I speak to your manager, and have you fired? To tell the truth, that’s my favorite hobby.”

   Arnold had no idea if she’d do it, but this was just one of those times the customer wasn’t always right. What he was about to be reminded, though, was there were some really irrational people out there, and they loved to create hysterical scenes based on some imaginary transgression against them.

   “Miss, I--” Arnold began as politely as he could.

   That seemed to be the entirely wrong move.

   “MISS?” She screeched. “How DARE you assume my gender-identity!”

   For a second, Arnold was caught completely off-guard. He had no idea how she’d shifted gears so quickly and gone from asking for coffee they didn’t serve to yelling at him over pronouns. What a jump. Especially because she presented herself in every way as a woman, with no ring on her left hand. The problem, in fact, was he was coming at this from a logical and (to give him a little credit,) somewhat business-minded angle.

   This woman was anything but logical.

   “You are a ‘Miss,’ correct?” he asked slowly.

   “Yes!” she hollered.

  There was a pause again as he tried to work out what the problem was. The corners of his mouth repeatedly changed positions up and down before finally settling in a confused smile.

   “So… so then, what’s your deal?”

   “My deal,” she started, stressing the word, “is when men like you project the world as you think it should be onto honest, hard-working women like me, shoving me down into ‘my place’ with your glass-ceiling!”

   Yep, she was an intersectional feminist, the most irrational creature on the planet.

   Arnold took a deep breath and his smile disappeared. “Listen, this isn’t one of your little Star-f*cks stores! We’ve got PIZZA! And you know what else? SANDWICHES and WRAPS! All in the style of various pizzas. That’s IT! You’re the moron who came in here asking for a latte, then got all offended. If you don’t like it, take it up with the woman who owns the place!”

   The woman was seething and stomped away straight into the hall that led to the manager’s office. Obviously not everyone was aware this was a new age, and the customer wasn’t always right anymore. Arnold sighed, knowing he was screwed, but it was too late for the “I should’ve done that better” pep-talk. The next person was already tapping a manicured fingernail on the counter. That didn’t really go well with the rest of his look, which was short and slim, his hair not as combed as it could’ve been. He wore a shirt tie-dyed with the colors of the Pride flag, though, so Arnold figured that explained his flamboyant nails.

   “Sorry,” Arnold said. “What are you in the mood for?”

   “I’m in the mood to see a register-boy grow some balls against a total feminazi, and I finally got what I wanted!” The boy smiled at Arnold and giggled.

   “Oh, well... I--”

   “Don’t worry, I hear that NPC comes in every week just to see if there’s a new guy and makes it her duty in life to get him fired,” the boy went on. “She goes everywhere and does it, so she wasn’t kidding when she said it’s a hobby. I think it’s more like an addiction. She needs serious help.”

   “Wow, no life,” Arnold chuckled. “Is there anything I can get you?”

   “A personal pan pizza, please. Six-inch… like me.” The boy gave him a wink.

   “Okay…” That was so gaudy, Arnold almost had to decide whether he was flattered or sexually harassed. He let it go and repeated the same process as before, the customer walking out of line to sit at a table, patiently waiting for his number to be called at the serving counter.

   Arnold couldn’t help but watch the boy was he walked away. His body was dressed in a tight, colorful fashion, overall. His legs were clad in skin-tight yoga pants that hugged curves Arnold didn’t think a boy could possess and prompted the slightest of jiggle with each step. The stranger’s hair now looked short and messy in an intentional way, and he walked as if he kept a stick up his rear. He had almost no shoulder-sway at all, the motion almost completely in his hips, which were a little wide.

   Was Arnold just assuming? He tried to remember if he’d seen an Adam’s apple. He couldn’t remember. Maybe this was just one of those many people in New York that tried to make themselves original and stand out, or maybe this was a she in the process of becoming a “he.” Maybe even vice versa. Or maybe she was just a lesbian. Arnold shook his head: did it really matter? What were the odds he’d ever see him/her again?

   God, the world was so confusing, for no good reason.

   The orders came and went, even the boy/girl’s, as did the customers. The unique individual stayed at a table to eat. Arnold kept remembering observing the tight pants that’d cupped the customer’s heart-shaped rear so perfectly, both the cheeks and even hinting at the tightness of its crack. With that shape, he/she had to be a girl. Arnold went on with his work, shaking the image out of his head, though it snuck back in repeatedly even after the boy/girl had left.

*           *           *

   Francis stared at the television screen in disbelief. How could it have been possible in any way for Trump, the Orange Hitler of the West, to have risen so far in the polls? The election was only a few months away, and Donny-boy had been gaining public support like crazy as the most illegitimate “President” in America’s history ran for another term, completely neglecting whatever responsibilities he observed to instead hit the campaign trail and alienate the country, again.

   How could white people be so ignorant? Was it willful? They’d seen him reign his tyranny over the country for almost four years. How could Caucasians still ignore what damage he’d done? The country was on the verge of collapse. The rest of the country saw it, how could the thirty states projected to vote for him again turn away from that simple truth?

   Obviously, the red on the campaign map was in the middle of the country.

  Trump was still in Office, and even running again, despite the best efforts of the Progressive Resistance movement. For his entire term, they’d looked for the evidence of collusion with Russia that Francis was certain had to be there. There was no question. How hadn’t they found it? Every investigation had turned up absolutely zip. Not a thing. But he knew it had to be somewhere. How couldn’t it be? Trump had been flaunting the collusion with his relationship with Putin for years. Trump had spent four years working with Vladimir Putin: they’d ended the war in Syria and had forced the Assad regime to give up their chemical weapons. Together, the dictators had cornered ISIS and destroyed it. Then, in stunning moves, Trump had forced Russia to bring its oil-prices down through archaic energy-programs. Trump had even convinced Putin to give up Russia’s claim to the Ukraine.

   It was all there in plain view, so how could the Resistance in Washington not find the proof? And without the evidence, impeachment had been a fool’s dream. The failure was lamentable.

   Francis was turned away from the constant coverage of the news by a knock at the door. He didn’t figure the potential tenant would come this early: he was expecting him this afternoon. Francis stood and went to the entryway, checking the peephole. He was pleasantly surprised. Opening the door, he greeted the woman standing in the hall with a smile.

   “You may come in, Tonya,” he said.

   He didn’t demand that she enter, as a misogynist man would with a command like “Come in.” He also didn’t address her with any of those degrading, derogatory pet-names like “babe” or “hon.” Tonya was more than an animal he could own. She was a strong, independent woman. She had a name, and he used it to recognize her equality to him.

   Her cocoa skin and frizzy hair were unmistakable. Her sizable bust would’ve been a trademark as well, were he shallow enough to judge a portion of her body over the value of her personality. She came right on inside, not needing the invitation. The couch was her destination, which she flopped down on, her long, shapely legs taking up the length of it. As Francis closed the door and came around, he gave her a look imploring her permission to sit on the couch he owned in his own apartment. With a roll of her eyes, Tonya brought her feet up to touch her wide rear, allowing him a cushion.

   “Thank you, Tonya,” he said politely as he took the seat.

   Tonya shrugged and stared at the television.

   The station had broken coverage to a commercial paid for by the network. “All of our sponsors have pulled their funding,” the spokeswoman said, “in the wake of another firing of journalists who didn’t meet our high standards. It’s now up to you, our faithful viewers, to keep us going. We’re begging you--I mean, we would appreciate your support to keep bringing you the real news about how Trump is killing Americans daily.”

   “Got that right,” Tonya commented.

   The Corrupted News Network returned to its program, and the pair watched the very epitome of diversity struggle to define Trump’s second rise. And no wonder they did. Both Tonya and Francis shared the same view: it was mindboggling that so much racism and sexism could still exist in America. And Trump had shown nothing but that. Francis, at the moment, couldn’t remember how Trump did, exactly, but he knew he did.

   “This is appalling,” Tonya said, interrupting Francis’ attention. “How could he still be allowed to run?”

   Francis nodded quickly. “I know, right? I mean, he’s such a vulgar person--”

   “‘Person’ is putting it strongly,” Tonya said, cutting him off without apology. “He’s an outright traitor to the country. He’s committed treason so many times!”

   “Yeah!” Francis agreed. “Like how he... how he... uh...”

   “Obviously colluded with Russia,” Tonya completed with a roll of her eyes. “The proof is everywhere.”

   Francis, racking his mind in desperation for something to contribute, said, “Right! Like... well, there was...”

   “Never released his taxes,” Tonya accused, ignoring that part of his taxes had, in fact, been released against his wishes for the public, and nothing nefarious had been found in them. “He’s hiding it all right there. Something’s got to be done about him.”

   “He can’t be allowed to be elected again.” After almost four years of Trump, Francis was convinced the country couldn’t take another white male in office ever again, let alone Trump. “I just wish people like Arnold were more woke to Trump.”

   “Never mention that deplorable again,” Tonya said. With her unsavory past with Arnold, it was a flip of the coin on who she was calling “deplorable.” Him, or Trump.

   “Anyway,” Francis said, awkwardly, “I just hope our new roommate will be more aware of the evil in the White House. Maybe they’ll have some new perspective to add.”

   Tonya threw her boyfriend a sharp look.

   “Or she,” Francis corrected quickly, despite how he’d aimed to use a gender-neutral term, specifically for the sake of equality.

   That seemed to appease Tonya, since she turned back to the coverage without scorning him.

   “I mean, he’s so racist!” The black woman on the panel accused. “Listen to this clip!”

   The screen immediately switched to the Orange Terror, who stood at a podium in front of a rally. The cameras, thankfully, didn’t show the host of racist whites gathered before him, but they were quieting down after cheering for whatever sexist p***y-grabbing remark he’d made.

   “Hello, everyone!” Trump greeted into the mic.

  The panel lost it, all trying to express their manufactured and disingenuous rage over each other. Francis caught various bits of it, barely able to tell who they came from. One woman was horrified how he didn’t specifically greet every single race in turn, “dog whistling” to white supremist groups. Another declared “Hitler said ‘hello,’ too!” 

  “We’ve worked hard to make America great again!” Trump said, gesturing plenty with his forefinger pointed skyward. “And we’ve done wonderfully! You tired of winning, yet? Believe me, I’m not!”

   The clip ended, and the screen returned to the panel of hosts, who looked absolutely horrified. The black woman was at a complete loss for words, her jaw moving up and down, trying her best to get something out. Tonya, on the other hand, knew exactly how to phrase it.

  “See what we mean? How could anyone on Earth in this current year still say such horrible things about another race?” she asked. “Especially African-Americans! Doesn’t he understand what I went through with slavery?”

   Francis racked his mind, trying to understand what Trump had actually said in that clip that was against any race, at all.

   One of the hosts finally spoke up. “And if you aren’t offended by that, then you’re a racist, sexist, Islamophobic, Russia-loving bigot, too!”

   Francis was shocked. He was racist against African-Americans? How? He was African-American! As a minority, it was supposed to be impossible for him to be racist. Did he loath himself and his own race so much that he couldn’t see Trump’s words for what they were? He needed to wake up and recognize his own self-prejudice for what it was.

  Francis decided to take his mind off the subject. He couldn’t remember the last time Tonya and he’d been affectionate with each other. He hadn’t so much as held her hand in public for at least four years, afraid it was a display of dominance of her.

   “Um... Tonya?” he asked. “May I put my arm around your shoulders?”

   Tonya glanced at him from the corner of her eye and shook her head. “Sorry, I’m just not in the mood.”

   “Whoa, wait!” Francis backtracked. “I didn’t mean it was leading to anything from there!”

   Tonya scowled a little. “I just think we need to go back to when we were taking things slow.”

   Francis leaned away, looking at her with disbelief. They’d been taking this “slow” for five years now. Any slower and they’d be in reverse. He gave up, though, knowing if he tried to push the issue, then he’d be sexually harassing her. He respected her too much for that. She was a strong, independent woman who didn’t need a man forcing his sexual agenda onto her body. He returned his attention to the news.

   “You caused this!” the black host shouted at the only white male on the panel.

   She shot out of her seat and reached under the table. Francis’ heart quickened when she pulled out a loaded Glock and proceeded to fire it three times, right into her co-host’s chest.

   “Death to white people!” the woman screamed, firing again, this time toward the camera.

   The camera fell over, the white camerawoman falling over to clench her gut in front of the lens. Her hands were red with her own blood. The African-American co-host (now turned shooter, obviously the fault of white supremacy and Trump,) walked right up to the employee as she begged for her life and put a round right into her skull, ending her pleas. Someone behind the scenes decided that was enough and ended the news report, oppressing the black anchor by denying the world her struggle.

   Tonya shook her head. “Poor woman.”

   Francis agreed. “Yeah, I know. Tragic way to die.”

   Tonya sighed and rolled her eyes. “Francis, you’re so ignorant. I was talking about the anchorwoman. Who gives a sh*t about the white b*tch she shot?”

   Francis didn’t want to say anything aloud, but he gave “a sh*t.”

*           *           *

   Eight hours later, Arnold was glad when his shift finally ended. Pricks had hounded him all day, especially at lunch, to get their orders perfect (even when the Deli didn’t serve half the crap they ordered.) What was the point of that? Already, he was considering quitting. Luckily, though, that one lady who’d threatened him hadn’t returned with the manager. In fact, she’d never come out of Janie’s office…

   Arnold kept thinking and complaining to himself as he buzzed through the 5 o’clock rush-hour, just trying to get home. He concluded, as he reached Francis’ apartment, that people just liked holding up the line, and he’d have to ask the manager to enact a new policy: if you hold up the line, the person behind you pays one dollar to kick you in the a*s.

   In the complex’s garage, he chained up his scooter and took the stairs to the first floor. After the long elevator ride to about the middle of the building, the doors slid open to the sounds of distress. Arnold stepped out and was greeted by a sight becoming more and more common.

   A newcomer to the complex, a man who’d fled Syria, was speaking to an ICE agent, pointing at a door that a couple of others were already knocking on down the hall. A single NYC police officer accompanied them. Both in English and Spanish they declared who they were. In broken English, the refugee assured the agents that the entire “overgrown” family was “stuffed” inside. The door cracked open and the lead ICE agent showed his badge (as if the logo displayed on several spots of his uniform wasn’t obvious enough) and identified himself. He led his back-up inside to the protests of the entire family, none of it in English.

   Arnold kept his eyes down and his nose out of it. It was the fourth time ICE had come to the building this month. New York City had been the first to cave to Trump’s demands to obey Federal Law only a week after funding had been cut to Sanctuary cities. Citizens had begun ratting out illegal immigrants faster than ICE could respond. Police had been ordered by the new mayor--the previous one who’d stood so tall against the President forced from office in the face of money drying up--to cooperate with the agents.

   Personally, Arnold had nothing against illegal immigrants. But law was law. And anyone who broke it was, by logic, a criminal. He followed it, so should everyone else in America. Nobody got a free pass. Maybe they could use this as a second chance to go through the immigration system the right way. And, of course, he was sure someone would use that to lie and say he “hates brown people.”

   Finally getting home after taking the long way through the building, Arnold opened the door and heard Francis talking from the spare bedroom. He must’ve been showing it to somebody. Hopefully some really hot chick that got lonely easily and preferred the company of white guys and didn’t constantly lecture about his “privilege.”

   Francis came out of the room laughing. “Wouldn’t that be nice. He just started today.”

   Oh great, it’s about me, Arnold thought, wondering how Francis was slandering his name now. (Man, “slandering” was a cool word; he’d have to say it aloud sometime.)

   “Oh,” Francis exclaimed when he caught Arnold rummaging through the fridge, “speak of the devil’s deadbeat, entitled brother!”

   There was a laugh from the room. Arnold looked up, surprised. That wasn’t a woman’s laugh, though it was feminine enough. Francis walked into the living room, and his colorful guest followed with a perky swing of the hips.

   After only a day, Arnold still recognized who it was. There was no mistaking the bright, tight clothing, short and intentionally messy hair, the hourglass body that rounded out after the waist with the slightest jiggle, and the womanly walk. It was the third guy Arnold had taken an order from at the Pizza Deli, who’d liked watching him stand up to the sour twit. Arnold stood right up with only having grabbed a bottled water, not believing the odds.

   “Arnold, this is Cody,” Francis said. “He has more of a right to this apartment than you do.”

   “Hi,” Cody said cheerfully. “I remember you from the Pizza Deli.”

   “Yeah, same here.” Arnold swallowed, feeling like he’d been stalked or something.

   “Well, how do you like it?” Francis asked, jabbing a thumb at the spare room.

   “It’s just to my liking.” Cody looked at him with a smile. “And whatever I don’t like, I can change.”

   They shared a short chuckle. So, great--he was possibly eccentric, but definitely an interior decorator. That was just great.

   Okay, Arnold tried convincing himself, this’ll be fine. He’ll probably spend all his time either in his room or out of the apartment. No problem. How much trouble could this little guy be?

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Christoph]

Often enough writers will come up with a fairly pedestrian story, and decide to tack on a meaning after the fact to have it feel deeper than it really is, which feels like a cheap gimmick.

You haven't done that here.

Instead, you've started with the gimmick and just barely tacked on a story.

It reads like a blog post on political correctness where the narrator, inexplicably, goes off on a tangent now and then to describe a girl's tits.

The political discussion here feels way too forced and unnatural. It's supposed to be funny, probably, but as jokes they don't get the chance to land, having no setup and feeling like they were shoehorned in wherever they might fit, with minimal thought.

If there is an attempt being made here to explore the politics of these characters in a meaningful way, it doesn't work because the people feel like cardboard cutouts, flimsy caricatures of stereotypes.

For this kind of thing to work, the writer has to not only understand and relate to both sides of the argument, but make an effort to present them both as sensible arguments from the perspective of the charcuters. At the very least, a writer has to ask his or herself whether or not any human being would speak that way.

It gets better as it goes on, as the political gimmick becomes a bit less constant. This chapter is definitely at it's best when it's furthest away from that and the characters are allowed to have other personality traits.

[E. M. DuBois]

You're not wrong, but some of the points I was trying to make, you've decided are bad. That's not on you, as there is only one chapter so far, and that's not a lot to go on as far as my style and what I'm trying to say.

If I'm correct, basically one of your criticisms is that the characters are, for now, shallow with just a politic tacked onto them to derive their character from? That's actually the point: there are some people who've made politics their entire personality, and those are people I'm making fun of. They're not supposed to be the relatable ones. However, I understand that in one chapter, I haven't deepened certain characters enough to differentiate who is supposed to be the relatable ones.

This will be a little more apparent in chapter 2. Now, is that a good defense? "Just wait for the next one, THEN you'll get it"? Obviously not. However, I have been warned about making chapters on here too long in the past, and I was trying to go by that.

[JayG]

• That's not on you, as there is only one chapter so far, and that's not a lot to go on as far as my style and what I'm trying to say.

Here's where you're making a major mistake. If you don't hook the reader within the first three pages, and make the NEED to turn to page four, who cares how good the rest is? No one will see it. As Sol Stein put it: “A novel is like a car—it won’t go anywhere until you turn on the engine. The “engine” of both fiction and nonfiction is the point at which the reader makes the decision not to put the book down. The engine should start in the first three pages, the closer to the top of page one the better.”

At the moment, an acquiring editor would reach for the rejection on the first line because you cannot, cannot, cannot use sound-effects in a medium that doesn't reproduce sound. The only one who knows what kind of sound to attach to those opening words is you, because only you know where he is, and why.

From start to finish you, someone the reader can neither hear nor see, are the only one on stage, because this is a transcription of you performing the story to an audience who can hear the emotion in your voice, and react to the vocal tricks. But the reader can't tell what emotion the narrator places in their voice. And since they won't know what the line says till AFTER it's read they can't even guess. Have your computer read this aloud to hear how different what a reader gets is from what you intend.

Nor can the reader view your performance. So you have literally given the reader a storyteller's script, minus the all-important performance notes. You have lots of company. Fully 50% of the manuscripts sent to me for critique were written that way (the rest were written as a chronicle of events, and neither can work). But to fix the problem you need to acquire some of the tricks the pros take for granted. There are workshops, retreats, seminars, and conferences. But before that, spend some time in the fiction writing section of the local library, picking up the nuts-and-bolts issues like what a scene on the page is, and why, plus things like why a scene ends in disaster for the protagonist, and must.

[E. M. DuBois]

When publishing "The Savior Libra," my editor had absolutely no problem with the various instances I used sound effects in the prose. Put plainly: Yes, I can use them here. Yes, I will use them in the future.

[JayG]

Sure your editor had no problems. You were paying them to do the work. And looking at the result of the editing, they've never worked for a publishing house, or on commercial fiction. Had they known what they were doing, perhaps you'd have some reviews, and wouldn't be 1,457,013 from being a top seller.

I owned a manuscript critiquing service, and have helped more then one or two people to publication. I've taught at workshops, and have convinced a total of seven acquiring editors to offer me a contract. So I can tell you that having looked at the result of that "editing," you were cheated. From line one of the story it's 100% a transcription of you telling the story aloud. That can't work because the reader can neither see nor hear that performance. SO literally all the emotional content an audience might get in a live performance has been stripped away because our medium cannot reproduce either sound or vision.

And that missing emotion is a guaranteed rejection in the publisher's office and the bookstore.

You want to please the reader. That's a given. And it hurts to learn that there's an entire body of craft that you didn't realize is necessary. I'd written six unsold manuscripts before I learned that my schooldays gave me only nonfiction writing skills. And that hurt. But like it or not, you can't write fiction that a reader will pay for with nonfiction writing skills.

No one says you have to learn the professional skills publishers and readers demand. You can write any way you care to. But you should take one thing into account:

From the day you began reading, you, and everyone you know, has chosen only professionally written and prepared fiction. You don't see the craft at work in the finished product because, as they say, art conceals art. And we no more learn the decision-making skills to writing fiction by reading it than eating teaches us to cook. But those skills are necessary. Learning them gives you no guarantee of success. But failure to learn them guarantees failure.

Do with that as you will. I'll bow out here.

[E. M. DuBois]

Thank you for bowing out, as you clearing don't understand how a reader's mind works. You realize people IMAGINE sounds in their minds, right? That's an ability peole have, and is the entire basis of how fiction works. Which makes your entire critique null.