Strange Scenes: Actionable
In 2017 I'll be making weekly posts of excerpts, flash fiction, experiments and other brief passages that I'll be calling Strange Scenes. Some of these will be new and others will be taken from archives and old notebooks.
The plan is to post these directly on my website come January but I have a few seasonal pieces I'd like to get out ahead of the holidays.
Today's is brand new and has some potentially dangerous fun at the expense of our President-Elect. In the spirit of partisanship, I took a satirical look at the Democratic Primaries a few months ago in Season of the W.I.T.C.H., available on Amazon.
ACTIONABLE by Gregory Adams
"EXCUSE ME, WHO DID YOU SAY WAS CALLING?" His incredulous tone was plain in Tom's is own ears. A small part of himself, the part that was taking all of November's surprises very seriously while the larger part of him did its best to laugh it off, said tone that shit down.
"This is Special Agent Brad Connelly of the United States Secret Service," the caller repeated. "Am I speaking with Thomas Taylor?"
"Yes, this is he," Tom replied, now using his most courteous, most professional tone. In his twenties, he had worked as a Customer Service rep for a major utility company and knew he gave great phone. He now put that well-rehearsed and nearly automated part of himself in charge of this conversation while his higher brain functions began to think this thing through.
What was this? his rational self asked. Some kind of joke? A misunderstanding?
"Mr. Taylor, it falls under the purview of the Secret Service to investigate any and all possible threats made against the members of the Executive Branch and their families. This obligation extends to the President Elect. That is the nature of my call today. "
Tom looked around the small office where he worked as a salesman for a bathroom renovation realtor. Just four other cubicles, all occupied today, but all heads were down over workstations. No one was paying attention to him, but no one was avoiding him either. It was becoming clearer that this wasn't some kind of prank, and that small, paranoid part of himself began to grow larger.
"Mr. Taylor, something has come to our attention, a social media post you have made, and our directives makes it necessary to have you come into our office for a discussion."
"Facebook?" Tom said, but that was his instinctually evasive self-preservation ducking the issue. The word Twitter appeared in his imagination with the severity of a thunderclap.
"You own, use and post to the Twitter account TTJabberjaw?"
"This is about…" he sputtered as his self-control slipped, but then he got it back. "Yes, that is correct."
"And on December 5th, 2016, and 8:54 PM did you compose and send the following: 'On Christmas morning, let’s all join hands and sing outside Trump Tower and make Trump's little black heart grow three sizes that day."
Tom stifled a giggle at the absurdity of the moment, even as his less easily amused fight-or-flight response brought out a cold, delicate sweat on his forehead. "Yes I did," he replied, still conversational, still suppressing any concern as paranoia.
There was a long pause, long enough for Tom to feel a flutter of panic. Why did I admit to anything? I should get a lawyer! But of course such ideas were ridiculous--it was a harmless tweet, not even one if his best. He only had 250 followers or so; many he assumed were robots.
Tom's discomfort in the lengthening silence, and his sense that this was some kind of Kafkaesque idiocy that would soon be resolved, joined together to shove more words out of his mouth: "It was a joke," he said flatly.
"It's too late for that, Mr. Taylor," Agent Connelly said. "Whatever your intentions in making the statement, it has been brought to our attention, and we have to treat every threat with the utmost seriousness. "
"How is that a threat, exactly?" Tom thought he could hear the agent's teeth grinding; a sound that he found oddly comforting. His heart went out a bit to Agent Connelly, the hard-as-nails man forced to literally make a federal case out of idiocy. This would soon blow over. "I'm referencing the Grinch, there," Tom explained.
"Cardiomegaly," Agent Connelly said.
"What?" Tom asked.
"Cardiomegaly," Agent Connelly repeated. "An enlarged heart. An often fatal condition. And you admit to an effort to induce that condition on the President Elect?"
"Wait, what?" Tom felt his pulse quicken. "I mean… you know what The Grinch is, right?"
"I know that cardiomegaly leads to congestive heart failure," Special Agent Connelly answered. "I know that heart failure is the number one killer of men of over 40 in the United States. I know if the President Elect's heart tripled in size, it would almost certainly be fatal." The moment now felt both dangerous and absurd, and Tom gagged on a spontaneous laugh as the Special Agent bore down harder: "And I know about US Code Section 879. I know that we can put you in prison for 5 years, and we can fine you into oblivion for even making the threat…"
"It's not a threat!" Tom exclaimed, on his feet now. Prison? "It's a cartoon, a Dr. Seuss cartoon!" Helpless, he gave a weak laugh. He heard something on the agent’s side of the phone: a weak, but almost recognizable tremor of sound, like a bar of a well-known song, heard through the din of a large crowd.
"Do you think this is amusing?" Agent Connelly shouted. Tom had no idea what Agent Connelly might look like, but he saw the man in his mind's eye nevertheless: standing, yelling into the phone, legs apart, red-faced in anger. That odd quavering tremor of sound came again; louder, clearer, until Tom recognized it as a voice.
"Is he there?" Tom asked. "Is Trump there?" There was a crowd gathering around him; his workers had left their desks and were standing in an uncertain circle. The intern, Jaycee, had her phone out and was filming, what to them, must have seemed a complete breakdown.
Agent Connelly issued a denial, but his foreground bluster failed to conceal the half-rabid blithering Tom could still just make out: "TELL HIM ABOUT MY WONDERFUL HEART, BUT PERFECTLY NORMAL HEART, THE HEART HE WANTS TO SWELL UP…"
"We need you to come into the office," Agent Connelly said with strong insistence. "This afternoon." He gave an address that Tom didn't write down. That sour, bitter, choking-on-even-the-smallest-insult- soliloquy carried on beneath and around the agent's directive. "Come to us, or we'll come to you,” Agent Connelly said. “The first way is more pleasant. I hope to see you soon. "
The agent hung up. Tom sat down, shaking.
Brian from accounts pushed an Android phone in front of Tom's face. "Look at Twitter!" he said.
Tom couldn't bring himself to look but glimpsed his own handle flowing by on an endless chain of tweets. The President-Elect had called him out. This was only just beginning, and it would likely be worse that he could imagine. He wondered if he had even one more breath of anonymity when his phone buzzed; he saw it was the same number. Tom wondered if it was Agent Connelly calling again, or the man himself; the man with the normal sized, wonderful heart.
The plan is to post these directly on my website come January but I have a few seasonal pieces I'd like to get out ahead of the holidays.
Today's is brand new and has some potentially dangerous fun at the expense of our President-Elect. In the spirit of partisanship, I took a satirical look at the Democratic Primaries a few months ago in Season of the W.I.T.C.H., available on Amazon.
ACTIONABLE by Gregory Adams
"EXCUSE ME, WHO DID YOU SAY WAS CALLING?" His incredulous tone was plain in Tom's is own ears. A small part of himself, the part that was taking all of November's surprises very seriously while the larger part of him did its best to laugh it off, said tone that shit down.
"This is Special Agent Brad Connelly of the United States Secret Service," the caller repeated. "Am I speaking with Thomas Taylor?"
"Yes, this is he," Tom replied, now using his most courteous, most professional tone. In his twenties, he had worked as a Customer Service rep for a major utility company and knew he gave great phone. He now put that well-rehearsed and nearly automated part of himself in charge of this conversation while his higher brain functions began to think this thing through.
What was this? his rational self asked. Some kind of joke? A misunderstanding?
"Mr. Taylor, it falls under the purview of the Secret Service to investigate any and all possible threats made against the members of the Executive Branch and their families. This obligation extends to the President Elect. That is the nature of my call today. "
Tom looked around the small office where he worked as a salesman for a bathroom renovation realtor. Just four other cubicles, all occupied today, but all heads were down over workstations. No one was paying attention to him, but no one was avoiding him either. It was becoming clearer that this wasn't some kind of prank, and that small, paranoid part of himself began to grow larger.
"Mr. Taylor, something has come to our attention, a social media post you have made, and our directives makes it necessary to have you come into our office for a discussion."
"Facebook?" Tom said, but that was his instinctually evasive self-preservation ducking the issue. The word Twitter appeared in his imagination with the severity of a thunderclap.
"You own, use and post to the Twitter account TTJabberjaw?"
"This is about…" he sputtered as his self-control slipped, but then he got it back. "Yes, that is correct."
"And on December 5th, 2016, and 8:54 PM did you compose and send the following: 'On Christmas morning, let’s all join hands and sing outside Trump Tower and make Trump's little black heart grow three sizes that day."
Tom stifled a giggle at the absurdity of the moment, even as his less easily amused fight-or-flight response brought out a cold, delicate sweat on his forehead. "Yes I did," he replied, still conversational, still suppressing any concern as paranoia.
There was a long pause, long enough for Tom to feel a flutter of panic. Why did I admit to anything? I should get a lawyer! But of course such ideas were ridiculous--it was a harmless tweet, not even one if his best. He only had 250 followers or so; many he assumed were robots.
Tom's discomfort in the lengthening silence, and his sense that this was some kind of Kafkaesque idiocy that would soon be resolved, joined together to shove more words out of his mouth: "It was a joke," he said flatly.
"It's too late for that, Mr. Taylor," Agent Connelly said. "Whatever your intentions in making the statement, it has been brought to our attention, and we have to treat every threat with the utmost seriousness. "
"How is that a threat, exactly?" Tom thought he could hear the agent's teeth grinding; a sound that he found oddly comforting. His heart went out a bit to Agent Connelly, the hard-as-nails man forced to literally make a federal case out of idiocy. This would soon blow over. "I'm referencing the Grinch, there," Tom explained.
"Cardiomegaly," Agent Connelly said.
"What?" Tom asked.
"Cardiomegaly," Agent Connelly repeated. "An enlarged heart. An often fatal condition. And you admit to an effort to induce that condition on the President Elect?"
"Wait, what?" Tom felt his pulse quicken. "I mean… you know what The Grinch is, right?"
"I know that cardiomegaly leads to congestive heart failure," Special Agent Connelly answered. "I know that heart failure is the number one killer of men of over 40 in the United States. I know if the President Elect's heart tripled in size, it would almost certainly be fatal." The moment now felt both dangerous and absurd, and Tom gagged on a spontaneous laugh as the Special Agent bore down harder: "And I know about US Code Section 879. I know that we can put you in prison for 5 years, and we can fine you into oblivion for even making the threat…"
"It's not a threat!" Tom exclaimed, on his feet now. Prison? "It's a cartoon, a Dr. Seuss cartoon!" Helpless, he gave a weak laugh. He heard something on the agent’s side of the phone: a weak, but almost recognizable tremor of sound, like a bar of a well-known song, heard through the din of a large crowd.
"Do you think this is amusing?" Agent Connelly shouted. Tom had no idea what Agent Connelly might look like, but he saw the man in his mind's eye nevertheless: standing, yelling into the phone, legs apart, red-faced in anger. That odd quavering tremor of sound came again; louder, clearer, until Tom recognized it as a voice.
"Is he there?" Tom asked. "Is Trump there?" There was a crowd gathering around him; his workers had left their desks and were standing in an uncertain circle. The intern, Jaycee, had her phone out and was filming, what to them, must have seemed a complete breakdown.
Agent Connelly issued a denial, but his foreground bluster failed to conceal the half-rabid blithering Tom could still just make out: "TELL HIM ABOUT MY WONDERFUL HEART, BUT PERFECTLY NORMAL HEART, THE HEART HE WANTS TO SWELL UP…"
"We need you to come into the office," Agent Connelly said with strong insistence. "This afternoon." He gave an address that Tom didn't write down. That sour, bitter, choking-on-even-the-smallest-insult- soliloquy carried on beneath and around the agent's directive. "Come to us, or we'll come to you,” Agent Connelly said. “The first way is more pleasant. I hope to see you soon. "
The agent hung up. Tom sat down, shaking.
Brian from accounts pushed an Android phone in front of Tom's face. "Look at Twitter!" he said.
Tom couldn't bring himself to look but glimpsed his own handle flowing by on an endless chain of tweets. The President-Elect had called him out. This was only just beginning, and it would likely be worse that he could imagine. He wondered if he had even one more breath of anonymity when his phone buzzed; he saw it was the same number. Tom wondered if it was Agent Connelly calling again, or the man himself; the man with the normal sized, wonderful heart.
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