Uncharted Waters

October 30^th, 2022

Most days begin and end in ordinariness. There are days, however, when a life-changing event comes rushing with incredible speed. Little did I know I was about to experience the latter.

With a sense of outrage, I first crumpled the letter, compressing it in my fist. It was the confirmation I’d been expecting. Everyone my age was getting one. Unfolding the crimpled document, I smoothed it to reread. Nothing in the letter had changed.

They expect me to volunteer. To give up my life. Will I do that … for … my country? Really? Apparently, they do. Regardless, my appointment is this afternoon at 4 o’clock. It’s there, in black and white, on my appointment notice taped to my front and back doors.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

October 25^th, 2022

Robert J. Parent

1496 Heavner Court

Adel, IA 50003

Dear Mr. Parent

According to Executive order 15312 signed by the President of the United States, you are to report for selection at your nearest processing center located at the Dallas County courthouse, room 213.

Please check the following to make sure we have your details correct.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At this point, details seem trivial. My Social Security Number, check. My birthday, January 31^st, 1940, check. I couldn’t stop my eyes moistening when I looked at my mother’s maiden name, Wainwright. Also, check.

How could I not smirk, reading the harsh penalty for failure to report? Did someone actually write that without irony? I wonder.

Wouldn’t it be fun to report for my selection and pull the pin on a hand grenade? Since I don’t have said hand grenade, I can only shrug. Whatever.

Let me be honest. I’m in uncharted waters here. Reading the letter, I have to admit something.  I’m afraid. Very afraid.

Like most, I’ve lived in seclusion since a nationwide quarantine was finally issued. Now, we’ve become accustomed to National Guard and regular Army troops patrolling streets. I’m used to passing through temperature monitoring stations. My only antidote for loneliness? Skype, Zoom, Duo, and a vivid imagination.

Marsha, my wife, was one of the first to succumb to the virus. She died in May 2020. Since I couldn’t be with her, I only have virtual memories of her passing.

I bottled up my grief after enduring my final farewell. It was an emotionless service streamed split-screen, my pastor on screen-left, and some guy from a funeral home screen-right.

The pastor said, “I hope you feel God’s love.”

It didn’t.

“Looking back, I sometimes wonder if wasn’t for the best,” said my brother on a Skype call. Unnatural robot-like audio made him sound otherworldly. “Marsha was lucky,” I said, instantly regretting those words.

In the months following Marsha's death, I’d thought about killing myself more than once. Who wouldn’t?

I couldn’t do it, kill myself. I still have stories to create. I can always be of help to others.

Like millions around the country, I became a virus update junkie, unable to resist daily city, state, and national news conferences, even if the latest update provided little substance.

That is, until June 23^rd, 2022, a Thursday. It used to be my favorite day of the week, a day named in tribute to Thor, the Norse God throwing lightning bolts and thunder through the skies.

Details of the Executive Order leaked out about something called selection day. “Each person over age eighty can expect an appointment,” the White House Press Secretary said.

I remembered the word selection used during the Holocaust. The virus now an excuse to have another “selection,” I recall thinking?

I remember watching the now-infamous White House press conference. Long-faced people stood behind the Vice-president as he spoke, projecting his usual blank stare.

“This pandemic is not abating. Our enormously great President signed Executive Order number 15312. After a lengthy discussion with medical ethics experts, all persons over 80 will no longer be eligible for health care, inpatient, or outpatient,” the Vice President said.

“The cost of providing Covid-19 has become an unbearable burden,” he continued

“The President’s unprecedented decision safeguards the backbone of our economy. We must protect workers at all costs.”

“To assure compliance, the President has declared a national emergency and implementation of martial law. The Executive Order states our world-leading military can use lethal force, if necessary.” The Vice-President looked up from the podium with an impassive face.

“Is it true the President has been tested positive,” a reporter shouted.

“He hasn’t made a public or online appearance over three weeks now,” another reported shouting a follow-up question.

When the reporter’s free-for-all scrum came to an end, the full impact of what I’d heard left me feeling sucker-punched.

I turned the TV off. I’d heard rumors of such a move for weeks. With the unprecedented come-from-behind election win, the country continued a roller coaster ride of uncertainty, much like the four years previous.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Considering my options, I set the notice aside. I needed to drive to three nearby ATMs. It would take all three to exceed the limit set for cash withdrawals. Today is Tuesday, and I have until Sunday, my selection day. I have to do a mitzvah and give away all my money.

I remember when it felt like somebody if I had a thousand bucks in my hand. Not today.

The first two ATMs were drive-through. The last ATM I stopped at was a walk-up. I put on my gloves. An abundance of caution? I grew to detest those words.

As I retrieved my cash, I sensed something. I turned to see a group of thuggish looking young men standing a few yards away.

Something was off. Those men gave me what Marsha would have called the stink-eye.

“Look how old he is. How old, do you think?” one said.

“He’s fucking old,” another said.

“He’s just a candidate to suck up our healthcare, a hospital bed that could save someone worthy.”

That threat sounded more than implied.

I did my best to keep my hand steady, opening the door to my Mitsubishi truck. It felt like I had a target on my back, feeling near panic as I drove away.

“What’s not to expect?” my friend, Bruce, said when we talked chatted via Duo. “I’ve heard armed militia-type groups use some very nasty tricks. Their ranks have swollen with deserters from the military. Take care, Bob.”

“You too, Bruce,” as I clicked off.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When did this all begin? I’ve been off-balance ever since I first heard about the virus. It was March, back in 2020. I was flying home from North Carolina when I heard about COVID-19, the China virus according to the President.

Facts and rumors disguised as facts have all blended. Soon rumors began to sound more like truth than truth did itself.

I kept hearing reports of the demand for medical equipment and supplies far exceeding supply. Regardless of who was pointing their finger, we’d run out of beds and equipment. Some part of me accepts the rationale of triage. If there’s only one bed available, isn’t it only logical for that bed to go for someone with a life ahead of them? 

But this wasn’t about logic, at least my logic.

I became wrapped in panic, anxiety, and depression. I never recovered from the emotions.

Perhaps I should I get a new identity and fake my age?

I didn’t allow myself to go down that rabbit hole. First, my cash reserves hovered on empty. Secondly, I didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to go about doing something like that.

Two news stories that frightened me the most.

First, a news story about the world’s democracies on a slippery slope to dictatorships: I heard about Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil, Victor Orban in Hungary, Netanyahu in Israel, and more, with Putin strutting like a drum major leading the way.

Secondly, the President of the United States joined the parade.

We all wondered about the impact this virus would have on the upcoming elections in 2020. We were approaching November 3rd. On October 19^th, a White House spokesperson announced that due to the rampaging virus and resulting financial collapse, all future elections canceled.

Om addition, the virus proved fatal to many elected officials. The House of Representatives passed supporting legislation with 139 Republicans still alive, out-voting the remaining 79 Democrats. A Republican-controlled Senate voted 97 to Democrats 52. Three Conservative Supreme Court Judges still living then declared the measure legal, their vote unanimous.

I watched that all take place in a seventy-two-hour period. It was all hailed by Evangelicals as proof that God did indeed bless America. My opinion was not requested.

It sounded to me like an echo of another election held in March 1933. A German dictator emerged, whose name would forever be synonymous with evil.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

To whom would I say my good-byes? Who cared anymore? There was no one and I was resigned to my appointment. Sunday, October 30^th, at four o’clock, according to my letter.

The day is here. Surprisingly, I slept well. I used to say I slept like the dead. That didn’t sound suitable this morning.

Local news and weather forecasts promised a bright autumn day, with temperatures in sweater numbers. I had a passing thought about whether to rake leaves or not.

After coffee, I strolled to my favorite spot, a bench in Kinnick-Feller Riverside Park. Despite the temperature, the sun felt like a heat lamp as I gazed over a field where Nile Kinnick played sports in his youth. Does anyone still know who he was? Nile Kinnick’s name is merely signage on a university football stadium. Our memory of a young Heisman Trophy winner who lost his life training as a naval aviator during World War II has faded into histories’ dustbin.

I slow-walked home. I looked at our house, One I’d shared with Marsha for so many years. So many years. So many memories.

I opened the special cupboard, the one with the particular bottle. Inside is a bottle of single-malt Scotch Whiskey I bought on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I told Marsha we’d open on our fiftieth. Alas, we were months away from that date, and we’d never open it together. I didn’t drink much. It was only a farewell gesture, after all. I have to say, though, it tasted fantastic.

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was time. I didn’t bother locking the door. Like that matters, I thought, permitting a slight grin.

My neighbor, Fred, gave a half-hearted wave. I never liked Fred and ignored the curmudgeon. It was time to go to my designated selection processing center at the Dallas County courthouse. It wasn’t a long walk, but it felt like I was walking through wet concrete. I certainly wasn’t in a hurry.

I’ve always taken pride in punctuality and walked through the courthouse door three minutes before my allotted time.

“Room two-thirteen, mister Parent,” Ralph said. He’d been a security guard here since before my memory.

I pushed through the designated room door. It used to be an office to apply for a driver’s license. Today the room was empty, except for one chair. I cringed, realizing they couldn’t even provide a comfortable chair on a day like this.

Betty, at least I thought that was her name, sat behind a glass pane. Living in a small town like Adel, Iowa, I knew just about everyone, but my memory for names was slipping away.

Betty, if that was her name, motioned to a take-a-number dispenser. Number in hand, I sat straight-backed, holding my stub. It felt odd sitting alone in an office, waiting for someone to call my number.

Surreal, as a description, didn’t come close. I know it was nerves, but I giggled aloud, looking at number eighteen as if I’d won a lottery. Perhaps in some perverse way, I had.

Then, I heard the announcement.  “Number 18, your next,” sounding tinny with a touch of static.

I stood. For the first time in years, I no longer feel sciatic nerve pain in my right hip. Best of all, I was happy I wouldn’t see the messy future.

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