The Swing Voter of Staten Island (11 page)

“Which means you’re potentially a detainee, which in turn means a possible terrorist,” the guard said, pressing Uli’s thumb and middle finger onto the blotter and then the card. He fanned the card till it was dry, then slipped it into the slot of a machine that looked like a black cigar box. Wires connected it to a small monitor, upon which boxy green digits appeared. “As you say, you’re not registered with either party,” the guard deciphered aloud.

“That’s why I want to talk to Mr. Rafique.”

The security guard told him he’d have to strip down to his underwear.

“Can’t you just frisk me?”

“Adolphus Rafique has survived ten attempts on his life. Twice he was shot in the head. A few years ago some guy stuck a wooden spike right through his heart.”

“How’d he survive?”

“The Indians down in the swamp claim that it’s his private
mana
. A lifetime of losing election after election yet always coming back has made him a survivalist.”

“I could use a gift like that,” Uli replied, as he started peeling off his shirt and pants. After having every inch of his naked body checked, Uli put his clothes back on. The guard stuck an adhesive pass on his shirt pocket and told him to report to Room 310.

Just inside the building, a plaque said,
THE VERITAS VERDANT LEAGUE.
What you don’t know is hurting you.

Although most of the fluorescent bars overhead appeared to be burned out, the large bay windows running along the side of the building caught the sunlight and the white marble floors made maximum use of it. Uli walked through empty halls until he spotted a young olive-skinned man dressed in loose black formal wear. He had scraggy facial hair with tortoise-shell glasses taped together over the bridge of his prominent Roman nose. Long white strings of cloth flowed from his sides.

“Excuse me!” Uli called out to him, but the man rushed away.

He continued down the hallways, from empty room to empty room, until he happened upon what appeared to be a yoga class in session. The practitioners were bent forward on one knee, arms in the air, striking warrior poses. But there was something wrong. The class looked strangely out of sync. It took him a moment to realize that everyone in the room was missing a limb. It was amputee yoga. Hearing more sounds down the hallway, Uli moved along and peaked into another classroom.

A young dark-skinned teacher was addressing a lecture hall of older students. Uli stepped into the doorway and tried to listen to the young man speaking in a thick unidentifiable accent: “… Da streme leftward gave the streme right a chance to tip the wobbly middle, and they did it. Conned away from the crucifix retards who gave away their votes on trinket issues and working-class gestures, losing their basic well-being, not to mention the future of their dumb kiddies. Billions of bucks that could’ve gone to health or education were wasted in unwinnable slapdowns half a world away, so major corporations could secretly lift their little wallets. Dumbocracy is dead, and we’re living proof of the need for a new criterion for voters based on a standard level of education and skepticism to protect the sentimentally feeble-minded … If mankind or America is to survive, we need a Smartocracy! If we can mobilize our forces, then in ten or twenty years, after we’ve returned to New York, we can try to instigate our own revolution to take power by—”

Turning abruptly, the man spotted Uli watching him from the doorway. Uli smiled as the foreign ideologue closed the door on him.

Uli headed on to a huge staircase at the end of the hallway and found a glass-framed directory that listed different departments:

DePartMeNt OF PRo7EcTEeS & DeTAiNEeS DEpARtMEnT Ov EgG6 EPiDEmIc & AcUte Ammezia Tw1n TeLePaTnY & ShAPeShiF7IhG WoWoKa Profisies—CLoseD 1ndEf1nit7Y dePaRtMEnt oF tErRORist oRgANiZaSHUns & tHeIR

maNY SPlIntERy gROvPs

At the bottom was listed, STATEN ISLAND BOROUGH PRESIDENT, Room 310.

Uli marched up the three flights. Glimpsing the tiny gold numbers on each door, he located Adolphus Rafique’s room. A heavyset secretary handed Uli a clipboard with an extensive questionnaire on it. “You got to fill this out if you want to speak to him.”

Uli looked over the form:
Name (both Nevada & New York), Address (Nev. & New), Birth Date, Employment, (Nev. & New)
. On the back of page two, under
Personal Convictions (optional)
, quirkier questions appeared, starting with,
Past and Present Gang & Party Affiliations
, and moving on to,
Personal Stands on Hot-Button Issues
, including,
Pro-life or Pro-choice.
Next was
Criminal Record
.

Before he could even finish reading it, an older man with a slightly wandering eye peaked into the waiting area. “Mr. Rafique’s ready for you.”

When Uli entered the borough president’s office, Rafique shook his hand and took his blank form, then asked, “Why do you look familiar?”

Uli shrugged and said, “I didn’t have a chance to write anything—”

“My eyes are shot anyway,” Rafique said. “Just have a seat and tell me about yourself.” The man tossed his old suit jacket against the back of his chair.

“Well, I found myself walking outside of JFK, chanting about killing Dropt, without a clue of how I got here. Though I’m beginning to remember some things, I suffer from general amnesia—”

“I just heard over the Crapper radio station that they blew up Cooper Union,” Rafique said. “I don’t suppose
you
killed him.”

“No.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Do you remember meeting a tall blonde in a fashionable miniskirt?”

“Ahh, the lobbyist,” he sighed. “She gave me this.” Rafique exposed his hairy wrist—a brand new digital watch. On it was the Feedmore logo: a brown-skinned baby suckling a light-skinned breast. “Also a big coffee mug.”

“May I ask what you talked about with her?”

“It started out as an intellectual discourse on conservatism versus liberalism, and the next thing I know she’s trying to unzip my trousers.”

“Then what?”

“When I explained that I was a Buddhist celibate, she offered me bullets, provided I override my constituents and throw my presidential vote to the Democrats.”

“It makes complete sense that she’s trying to get you to vote for the Democratic party,” Uli said.

“Uh, yeah, I already figured all this out,” Rafique replied.

“If you vote Republican, I can get you an unlimited supply of water-purification pills—”

“Ever taste water after purification pills have been dropped in it? Yuck!”

“Look, if Spencer Tracy is reelected—”

“Ronald Reagan,” Rafique corrected. “Not that it matters, cause there’s no way he’s getting reelected.”

“Why not?”

“I heard over a homemade radio that a bunch of Iranian students recently grabbed the staff of the American embassy in Tehran and have been holding them hostage,” Rafique explained. “Reagan hasn’t taken any action and the American people don’t forgive things like that.”

“Not true,” Uli replied. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew this: “When a Democrat doesn’t use military force, people regard it as weakness. When a Republican doesn’t use force, it’s viewed as restraint.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Adolphus Rafique said, amused.

“The point is, if Reagan is reelected to office, he’s going to cut all excessive government spending. He’s going to shut this place down and dump everyone in some Jersey ghetto—Orange or Newark, probably.”

“How exactly do you know that?” Rafique asked him.

“It was Plan A,” Uli answered without thinking, then froze. The dam of amnesia apparently had hairline fractures: He began remembering snippets of administrative and congressional hearings on what to do with the New York refugees. His mind flooded momentarily with flow charts delineating costs and projecting expenses. Congresswoman Chisholm and Senator Javitz from New York cosponsored a bill. Television pundits and critics from both sides of the aisle were arguing heatedly on all the political talk shows. Everybody was for Plan A because it didn’t involve isolating anyone or suspending any civil rights. The plan was simply to transport the displaced New Yorkers to several economically distressed cities in the Garden State, where housing stock was plentiful yet dilapidated. Mass-produced trailers could take up the slack. That way the federal monies would help the struggling local economies as well as the newly afflicted homeless population. For a while it looked like the plan was going to fly. However, it required first passing a local referendum in New Jersey. That was when a coalition of lobbyists let loose a paranoid television and radio barrage demonstrating how such a plan would turn eastern New Jersey into a permanent ghetto. The referendum failed, and just as quickly the lobbyists initiated what became known as America’s First Rescue City, where unfortunate people could slowly get back up on their feet without dragging down surrounding communities.

“Look,” Rafique said, “you seem fairly smart, so I’ll simply say that we Staten Islanders want to live in peace. Over the years we’ve had marauding gangs from both sides attack our people and use our borough as a dumping ground. We’ve had our food trucks hijacked and the water pipes from Jamaica Bay shut off. Hell, even after we built the canal that rescued Manhattan, we’ve still been attacked by the Crappers. We don’t have the same resources as the others. That’s why we need those bullets.”

“Did you know Mallory?”

“The Councilwoman who was married to the former mayor?”

“She died in the explosion as well.”

“Too bad. I liked her. She stayed out here awhile, with Leary’s group.”

“She asked me to speak to you before she was …” Uli paused. “Before she was murdered, she wanted me to try to get you to change your vote.”

“If the Crappers were as honorable as they want to appear, they would’ve unblocked the sewer years ago.” Adolphus had clearly made up his mind.

Glancing at the wall clock above Rafique’s desk, Uli noticed with a start that it was five minutes to 6 o’clock. “I don’t mean to be rude, but the last bus out of Staten Island tonight is leaving in a few minutes.”

“Go ahead.”

Uli said goodbye and dashed down the stairs, through the halls, and out of the large and drafty terminal. He ran about a hundred feet up toward the dusty road before he looked up and saw it lying on its side with its long brown tail flipping in the breeze.

A large cougar, probably down from the surrounding mountains, slowly rose to its feet and stared at Uli, then started slinking over toward him. In the distance, Uli could see a rising plume of dust. The 6 o’clock bus was crossing the final stretch of roadway toward its terminus.

Uli took a deep breath and considered cutting across the rocky field toward the road to intercept the vehicle, but the cougar was still approaching. Keeping roughly forty feet between himself and the massive feline, Uli started retreating back to the VL headquarters. He watched helplessly as the last bus of the day reached the end of the road and, seeing no one there, drove in a big circle and slowly headed back toward Manhattan.

“Hold on!” Uli yelled out, and waved to the vehicle.

This only drew the big cat to him quicker.

“Fuck!” he muttered, as he pushed through the front door.

“What’s up?” a security guard asked.

“A cougar is stalking me!” Uli said nervously, looking out the door.

The guard opened a side door and asked, “You see a cougar around here?”

“Yeah, it just took off,” said a soft female voice. Uli turned to see a tall attractive woman with light brown skin standing behind him.

“That was a big one,” said an older man with white cream on his face, who appeared through the same door as the tall woman.

“It kept me from catching my bus,” Uli said. “Now I’m stuck out here for the damn night.”

A very old hunchbacked man, clearly blind, tapped up to them with a white cane. He gently placed his wrinkled palm on the tall woman’s back.

“We’ll put you up,” offered the older man with the white face.

“No, I can’t, I have a bit of a problem.” He didn’t want to go into the whole amnesia mess.

“We know about your situation,” said the woman, who looked about his age. She had long powerful legs and was barefoot.

“Besides,” the man added, “the Piggers just blew up Crapper headquarters. They’re rioting out there. Added to which it’s a full moon. Spend the night here, and let them all kill themselves.”

“Look, I just want to get the hell out of here,” Uli replied.

“Maybe you should be more concerned with why you were sent here,” said the tall woman.

“What do you know about me?”

The ancient blind man started rocking back and forth, mumbling something incoherent.

“What’s he saying?” Uli asked.

“Wovoka summoned you,” she replied.

“He said that?”

“No, he’s deaf, blind, and mute,” the woman explained, then repeated, “Wovoka summoned you.”

“For what?” Uli asked.

The white-faced elder shrugged. “We might be able to help you discover who you are, but there are no guarantees.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I really don’t believe in any Indian mumbo-jumbo. And I should also add that I don’t have any money or anything, if that’s what you’re after—”

“Since you’re stuck out here for the night anyway, you have two choices,” said the apparent chief with the cold cream on his face. “You can walk back to the city, which is a serious hike
if
you know where you’re going. Or you’re welcome to join us on a little trip while there’s still some light. It might reveal some of the mystery about why you’re here. Afterwards, we’ll have dinner and put you up for the night.”

“Where exactly is this trip to?”

“A hole in the earth’s skull, through which you can visit memories past and future,” said the tall woman. “It’s believed to be a nexus between this world and the other.”

“It’s also a really pretty rock formation,” said the Indian chief.

“How far away is it?”

“About an hour each way,” said the woman. “If we leave here now, we should make it back for a late dinner.”