Fantasy?

You wake. Morning, you get out of bed, the coffee smells good.

Through the kitchen window, you see a few neighbors gathered in the street chatting. Normally, this would not seem strange on a Saturday afternoon, but at seven AM on a Wednesday morning, it’s mildly alarming.

You rub your eyes and shrug it off. Coffee’s ready and the phone rings. It’s a close friend from across town; they ask if you’ve heard the news.

Cut to the chase, the crowd in the street has grown.

There was an explosion in California last night, Martial Law has been imposed. They call it a “State of Emergency.”

You’re numb, and your head seems almost hot. A cop stops near the crowd in the street. Through his public address system he asks that everyone leave the street and get back to their homes. You turn from the window and dump the coffee into the sink. Today is your day off, you have laundry to do, grocery shopping, and the lawn needs to be cut.

You’re in the living room, it’s quiet at this end of the house, living alone has its advantages. Only now there’s no one to talk to. The TV seems like it takes forever to turn on. The public emergency broadcast system that tests itself every six months or so, is all that’s on now. The screen is bright yellow and black block letters scroll across the middle.

The phone rings and it’s your friend from across town again. You feel a bit nauseas and realize you were sleeping just fifteen minutes ago. The yellow on TV is making you sick. The death toll could be in the thousands and right now they are blaming a domestic anarchist group. The president is asking everyone to remain calm and to listen to radio and television for further instructions.

Your friend tells you dark blue busses have pulled into the parking lot of Wal-Mart were she works. They look like school busses with no lettering on them. Her manager told her they are going to pick people up and bring them to the new sports complex in Irvington. The mayor says they are afraid other groups may be ready to bomb the East Coast. They want everyone in a safe place.

You hang up the phone and go to the window. The trees twist so violently that their leaves are torn from the branches. A huge helicopter hovers where you’ve never seen one before. Some people in the street run to their homes, some stay in the street and stare at the helicopter. Leaves, paper wrappers, and dust whip around them like mini tornadoes.

Your friend at Wal-Mart calls again and she’s leaving the store through the emergency exit before the police get there. The guy who runs the pet department told her some looters had been shot at another store in Ailmare.

A twenty-four hour curfew is in effect, and you have a strange metallic taste in your mouth. The helicopter is gone as quickly as it came. No one is in the street.

It looks like it might rain. There, on the curb by a red fire-hydrant, stands a monkey wearing a suit and tie. The phone rings in your ears, but it’s the old fashioned loud ring. You open your eyes wide. The sun is bright and you’ve overslept. You cover the ringer on top of the alarm with a hand. The quiet is nice, but it seems like a warning, ominous, it was only a dream.

The phone in the living room rings and you crash back to the bed holding the alarm in your hand. Let the machine get it, you say to yourself.

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Don't think for a minute this scenario couldn't play out in the current political climate we live in. I'm sure they're working on something.

Graham