A Citizen Encounter in 2059

A CITIZEN ENCOUNTER In 2059

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"I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND TO THE AUTHORITY TO WHICH I’M SWORN ONE PEOPLE UNDER CHRIST WITH PIETY AND ORDER FOR ALL"

These are the words. Above the mantle in every household. Engraved in the rims of the drinking fountains in the schools. On the evening news before the broadcasting, they are spoken. There is a man that knows these words and every verse after. He is a man built beyond the expectations of man. He is Detector Rylan Schulz, active duty eleven years. An official Detector all of three years. He acts always with the knowledge of the breadth of his nation’s patriotism. His steps greet the street he stands upon with no regard for volume, and the pavement meets his boots with a clamor. He folds his hands behind his back as he navigates the common-road. There is another rhythm of boots against the pavement. A percussion of steps with politeness in mind. They are not the boots that Rylan Schulz wears. He stops and listens to the echoes of steps sailing down the common-road. They make the sounds of a working man’s boots. Not a factory worker. Not a constructor or a ditch digger’s boots. There is no steel in the toes of these boots. These are the sounds of boots that have never touched filth. Boots that sit beneath a desk. A man turns a corner and appears in front of Rylan Schulz. He’s walking toward the Detector in a pattern of steps that fails to deviate. His hand secures his briefcase with confidence at his side. Rylan can see the polish on his boots. The man in these boots is a man of experience. He lives in this town. Rylan can appreciate this fact. This town is the kind of place you don't want to wake up in. The man approaching the Detector is called Buck Hughes. This is his neck of the woods. Buck has brushed shoulders with every nightmare you've ever had just walking the streets. He's bumped into every hustler, every low-life, every sidewalk-sally you can think of. This town, it's the kind of place that doesn't get talked about on the evening news. It's the kind of place where everybody knows about everyone else's business, but nobody has a problem keeping their mouth shut. There's a tweaker in every nook and cranny of this town, and Buck Hughes has tossed the change in his pocket at each and every one of them. The men regard each other in their own way. The dispassion in the eyes of Buck fascinates the Detector.

'Citizen.' The words tumble down from the Detector's mouth like boulders. 'Have you no eyes or no sense?'

'Apologies officer,' Buck replies without a shred of excitement in his words. 'If I'd expected to see an authority of such stature as a Detector, I would not have failed to recognize your position over mine. I would have removed myself from your path without question, officer I assure you.'

'Are you blind? Can you explain this failure of yours to recognize the robes I wear? This crucifix on my breast, the gun on my hip, am I to believe you have never seen these things before?'

'I cannot explain it, officer, I can only apologize.'

'Recite, citizen.'

'What will you have me recite, officer?'

'Is it not obvious? Recite the ordinance that you have bastardized with your absence of recognition.'

'Class-threes are not required to memorize the ordinances.'

'I am not addressing a class-three.'

'How can you be sure? I've produced no identification, how can you know my class position?'

'That briefcase does not contain a hammer and nails. You did not purchase that coat with a goat farmer's pay. Are you prepared to tell me otherwise?'

'No, officer.'

'Then I have no reason to believe you are anything less than a class-two. You may proceed with reciting, citizen.'

'Ordinance nine, section four,' Buck does not blink as he speaks the words. 'Thou shalt honor the presence of the authorities who act on behalf of the Lord.' The Detector does not speak. He stares at the citizen before him without certainty of how to proceed. The communicator on his wrist steals his attention away from from Buck. A woman's voice calls out to Rylan.

'Suspects encountered, sir. Awaiting orders.' The Detector does not break eye contact with Buck as he raises the communicator to his lips.

'Detain and relocate to holding cell.'

'Sir,' says the woman. 'The suspects are in company with noncombatants. How should I proceed?'

'Detail the noncombatants.'

'They're negroes, sir. What should I do?'

'How many,' the Detector is peering into Buck's eyes who has still yet to blink.

'Three, sir. A female and two children.'

'What are the genders of the children.'

'One male, one female, sir.'

'How old.'

'Nine and six respectively, sir.' The Detector is silent, but only for a moment.

'Shoot them. Detain and relocate the suspects.'

'Understood, sir.' The communicator falls silent. Buck is forcing every muscle in his body not to contract. The disgust in his eyes does not go unnoticed.

'Has my respect for protocol disturbed you in some way, citizen?'

'No, officer.'

'Have I acted within the boundaries of the laws that the Lord has blessed our nation with, so that we might remove ourselves from the degenerates of a godless society?'

'You have acted in accordance with the laws of our Lord as they have been interpreted.'

'As they have been interpreted, or as they are, citizen?'

'As they are, officer.'

'You are free to go, citizen. God bless you.'

'God bless you, officer.' Buck stands and shivers as the Detector leaves him behind. He watches with hate in his heart and anger boiling his blood. He knows the time will come when the hate and anger will boil over in him and every other soul in this town. Every hustler, every w***e, every class-three citizen without a penny to his name will congregate in their hatred of the authority. One day things will change.

Reviews

[Wez Hardyn]

A nicely paced examination of repressed rage. Also a righteous justification of the positive aspect of hate - the hatred of authoritarianism and the cruelty it always represents.

[JayG]

You're reporting the action as if you're watching the screen and telling the reader what's appearing, with occasional explanations as to the meaning or importance of actions. And when you read the story, because you come to it already knowing the characters and situation, each line points to images, memories, and story residing in your mind. So it works,

As you read, you can see the scene and the expression on the characters faces, plus the emotion in their voices. But when the reader comes to the writing, each line points to images, memories, and story residing in YOUR mind. So for the reader there's no context and no images.

But readers are with you to be entertained. They want an emotional, not informational experience. And that takes a set of writing skills very different from what we're given in school.

In this your characters are plot devices. Humans hesitate, rephrase, and change expression. They evaluate what's said before responding, and speak with intent, hoping to evoke a specific response. But your characters simply lob dialog back and forth like a softball, according to the needs of the plot, not their own purposes.

Can that seem real? Will the reader identify with the protagonist and hope they succeed if they don't know the character's view of what's going on?

It's not a matter of good or bad writing, or even talent. It's one of having the proper tools for the medium we work on. In our schooldays we wrote endless reports and essays to prepare us for the needs of our future employers and the style of writing they need. But did your teachers spend any time on the use of the dialog tag, how to handle a scene goal, or even what a scene on the page was?

Spending some time digging out the tricks the pros take for granted would be a wise investment in time.

Your local library's fiction writing section can expose you to the views of publishers, agents, teachers, and successful writers. And knowledge, I've found, is a pretty good working substitute for genius.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/