Michael entered and noticed the smell of unwashed bodies. He was escorted to the ‘office’ Moore had set up, and the first thing Michael noticed was the huge picture of Moonbeam in the same motif that was used for President Obama in the 2008 election, except Moonbeam’s had the word ’Equality’ on it. He glanced down and saw the very rotund body of the watch captain, wearing the uniform of a Brownie officer that was at least two sizes too small. He looked at Moore’s face, noticing the sheen of sweat, and the receding hairline of a man that wasn’t aging well.
Moore looked at Michael through porcine eyes, asking, “What do you want?”
Michael, used to the bad manners by this time, said, “I need travel papers for my wife, her sister has taken ill and there is fear that this one may be terminal. Cancer, you see, and she wants to see her sister while she is still able to recognize her. She only has a few months to live.”
Moore shook his head, “That is a shame Mr. Garabaldi, I am sorry that your wife’s sister has taken ill.” The words sounded sincere, but the body language said different. “Where does your wife need to travel to?”
Michael replied. “She needs to go to North Carolina, near Charlotte.”
Moore shifted in his seat, “I can get the papers for you but they will take time to process.”
Michael grimaced a bit, he knew what was coming as he said, “I would appreciate it if there is some way that you can expedite the process.”
The watch captain narrowed his eyes and shrugged, “If you are willing to make a donation to the poor and downtrodden, I might be able to push the paperwork through.”
Michael inwardly snorted, wondering What would be acceptable to help the poor and downtrodden?
Moore smiled “Well you have a seventy inch TV that you purchased almost a year ago. That would work well to assuage the feelings of the poor of this area.”
Michael nodded, resignation on his face, “Okay, I will bring the TV this afternoon.”
Moore smiled again, as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out the paperwork, “Go fill this out and bring the paperwork and the TV at the same time.”
Michael kept his face deadpan as he took the paperwork, turned around, and nodded to the Hispanic kid who was happy Moore had humiliated one of the few Anglos that still lived in this area. Stepping outside of the house, he drew a breath of untainted air and walked past the charred remains of his neighbor’s house back to his house.
Michael closed the door and looked at Myra, “I got your paperwork, but it cost us the big TV”.
“How do they know what kind of TV we have, and when we bought it?”
Michael walked over to the coffee maker, got a cup of hazelnut coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table, “Probably one of the neighbors, they might have seen me bring it home and pull it out of the car so I could park. They have this place set up where half of the people spy on the other half for extra food or favors.” He picked up a pen and filled out the paperwork, making sure that he included a return date, even though it wouldn’t be used.
Michael walked over to the TV, looked apologetically at Myra, and unhooked it. He carried it to the garage, then pocketed the remote, and put the travel paperwork in the other cargo pocket. Picking up the TV again, he carried it down the street feeling the eyes of his neighbors on him every step of the way.
He kept looking around to make sure that one of the roving gangs of ‘youths’ didn’t jump him to snatch the TV. He made it to Moore’s house, knocked on the door, and the same leering Hispanic kid answered. The kid’s eyes lit up like Michael remembered his son’s eyes would light up at Christmas when he was little.
The kid opened the door, “Come in gringo, you can wait in the hallway while I let Señor Moore know that you’re here. “ Michael waited for the expected minutes as the smells and sights bombarded him, from the nasty carpet, to the revolutionary posters adorning the walls. It showed the world that Moore was a true believer in the cause.
He knew better. The fat bastard was in it to line his pockets. Why work when you can terrorize people, and get your graft and jollies that way?
The door opened and he was motioned into Moore’s office of the. “Ahhh, Mr. Garabaldi… I see that you are well… good, good… do you have the paperwork, and the offering for the poor?”
Michael nodded, “The TV is on the landing and here is the remote. I hope this goes toward assuaging the poor in our area, and righting the scales of Anglo privilege.”
Moore nodded sagely, “Wise words Mr. Garabaldi, I will be glad when the stain of inequality is finally washed away and our society can flourish.” He motioned for the paperwork, looked at it, and put it in the inbox. “Thank you for your offering Mr. Garabaldi, you may go.” As he motioned his hand imperiously in dismissal.
He walked home in the gathering dusk, and when he saw a glow a couple of streets away, he snorted, Another Retribution Raid, just an excuse for the thugs and trash to rob and loot under the guise of social justice. Somehow only the Anglos were ever targeted. It was just one more sign that whites weren’t welcome in Cali unless they are a member of the intelligentsia, and were ‘down with the cause’.
Michael got home, locked the door, and told his wife, “The paperwork is turned in, but the way it works, it will take months to process.”
Myra hugged him and he gathered strength in the physical contact of the only person who really cared about him, the only person with whom he could let his guard down and be himself.
Summer turned into fall and Michael continued the daily grind of working at the airport, and avoiding as much contact as possible away from work with people. He was working a 767, getting it ready for a Hawaii hop, and had just finished servicing the three hydraulic systems, when he saw his pilot friend, Dave, doing his walk around. Michael smiled as Dave broke away from his walk around, “Hey Michael, you putting your nasty fingerprints on my clean bird again?”
Michael chuckled “Of course, I gotta make sure that it matched the fingerprints on your car.”
Both laughed, and Dave asked, “How is it going?”
“Well, I put in the paperwork several months ago for Myra to travel to visit her sister. Just waiting for the Cali bureaucracy to decide if she is a flight risk. This stuff takes months unless you have connections, and I don’t have any with the local party apparatus.”
Dave nodded, “You hear of any job openings in the system?”
Michael kicked a wheel chock, “Still bidding on anything to get out of here.”
Dave glanced around the nearly empty flight line, “You noticed that there are fewer airplanes coming in here.”
“Yeah, I have noticed the fifty percent drop in our flights coming in, and there are fewer mechanics working the airplanes. People either ain’t coming to work, or are starting to leave, or they’ve found something else. The United Concourse will be a ghost town before long.”
“I’ve heard rumblings from the headshed that they will be diverting more flights away from LAX, and landing them in either LAS, or SEATAC. It’s getting difficult to get basic services here; you noticed that we don’t fuel here anymore, didn’t you?”
Michael nodded, “We heard about bad fuel.”
“The company doesn’t want lawn darts, bad for the stock you know,” Dave replied. Both men chuckled at the gallows humor and Dave continued, “All the planes land with more fuel, meaning we have to land heavy.”
“Well, that explains the overweight landings in the log-book.” A truck drove to the back of the airplane and the platform raised the box in the back to allow entrance for the cleaning crew.
Dave gestured at the truck, “That is the other problem; the cost of the pillaging by the ‘barrio bunch’ is starting to effect the bottom line. There is only so much loss the company is willing to eat, before they cut bait.”