We the People

Nicole picked up a cherimoya and pretended to examine it while sneaking glances at the wizen shopkeeper. His stares were bold, so she turned a cold shoulder to him—a weak attempt at hiding from his judgment. She perused plums and pomegranates as if it were her birthright to buy his wares.

The hole-in-the-wall souk was never busy like the rest of the market. The emptiness of it was usually inviting, but anxiety was starting to rouse Nicole as she continued her hunt for less bruised produce under the keeper’s watchful eye.

For the first time, she noticed the upper walls were outfitted with ornately carved mirrors, each clouded by one too many sandstorms. She assumed their purpose was to help flush out people like her.

Nicole briefly gave in to human nature and studied her reflection in one of the dirty mirrors. Her head covering was not wrapped traditionally, and she touched it apprehensively. She could never risk asking a local to teach her because the ombre-red locs stuffed underneath would betray her.

The face mimicking hers had less pigment than she remembered, but her light, tawny skin blended well with the people, and she was mostly ignored as ambiguous. 

Nicole settled for the imported bananas.

When she approached the besotted man to pay, he ignored her items and leaned in to examine her face. Nicole kept her eyes trained on the floor and did not flinch. She asked in his native tongue for the cost, ignoring his blatant infatuation.

In broken English, he replied, “Welcome—American.”

He pushed the fruit into a small plastic bag back toward her.

Nicole’s heart dropped when she eagerly locked eyes to study his meaning. A flash of kindness blazed between them, but a thoughtful frown joined his eyebrows together. There was genuine concern marked in his expression. 

She knew it would be her only warning.

She thanked him for the bananas with a gracious nod and disappeared into the crowded street.

Even though her appearance was equally modest, the native women recognized their own and pivoted away from Nicole like a school of fish to a predator. 

She spied a cab at the nearest roundabout and lifted her hand to hail it. The driver nodded, marking his availability, but something about him set her on edge.

Nicole inhaled the bigger picture. 

The driver’s relaxed arm hung out the window and tapped casually against the side of the car to a loud Levantine classic. He was not overly sweaty or anxious for her to get in like drivers usually were by this time of day. There was no sea of yellow nearby, which was odd. The drivers usually congregated in clusters, sharing stories and cigarettes in their downtime. Over fares, they would fuss and argue, but there was no one to challenge him today.

The scene wasn’t right.

Nicole backtracked, and the cabbie noticed. He got out of the car and began following her. 

She zigged and zagged through the market, moving as fast as she could without running, hoping not to draw more attention. 

After weaving into a narrow alley, Nicole slipped into a housing compound behind an unlocked gate. She rushed through their grove of olive trees and scampered over the low concrete wall adjoining a secondary street. She knew her way downtown and withdrew until she reached her quarters above a furniture maker’s shop.

The owner, wielding a hand plane, shaved down the leg of a wooden settee. Without looking up, he greeted her with a downcast smile and thick accent, “They come looking for you, my daughter—it’s time.”

He pointed behind a finished dining table to his right. He managed to save some of her belongings from being stolen or destroyed, and she was indebted. 

He had taken her in all those months ago and never once questioned her status, and Nicole trusted him like family. She longed to hug him in gratitude, but his culture would not allow it.

She retrieved the backpack and placed her hand over her heart before leaving. They both knew she would never return. 

“Wait. Before you go, there is news,” he blurted out as Nicole set out to discover the next chapter of life. 

Without bothering to rise, he handed her a newspaper written entirely in Arabic.

“What does it say, Siddiq?”

“American students found in Paris—hiding in the catacombs. My friend whispers of a cave somewhere in Dubai with survivors left,” he answered. 

He reached behind and grabbed a rusted Nescafe can camouflaged by his workbench. Fishing out a few dinars, he handed them out to her. 

“I will not take your money.”

He waved the bills at her until she reluctantly accepted. 

“Bless you, my friend,” Nicole said in his language.

He cleared his throat in approval and returned to work, sweating under the Middle Eastern sun. 

Nicole would miss the man more than she was willing to admit. She thought there was safety here, but reality checked her for being an outcast no matter where she went—the United Nations bounty hunters made sure of it.

Nicole was backpacking across the Bavarian Alps when the UN sanctioned nuclear war on the United States almost a year earlier—two weeks of camping delayed her from seeing the news.

During that time, the bounty hunters descended on the rest of the world, scouring for American stranglers lucky enough to avoid their nation’s first round of destruction.

The UN rallied quite successfully for the end of American dominance and wanted its history to die with it. ‘Oppressors of the world order,’ they deemed the entire lot—as if all its citizens were the scourge of the earth. After enduring enough of that country’s tyranny, the other nations, in unity, pushed the button for destruction as the first and last resort. 

Nicole thought there was sanctuary in her mother’s native land since she claimed dual citizenship. However, when reviewing her case, none of that mattered to the German government. Ruling that she was born and indoctrinated in the States, she was sentenced to partake in its annihilation. Officials turned her over for processing despite the incessant pleading of her relatives.

With the unexpected help of a sympathetic guard, she barely escaped her fate.

Stuck in a perpetual cycle of running, Nicole now trekked with her back to the setting sun towards the country’s eastern border, hoping to catch a passing bus. As she walked, her bag felt heavier than she anticipated. She imagined Siddiq only had time to pack a few abayas and scarves for her.

Curious, she stopped by a rock outcropping and opened the backpack to see what was weighing her down. She rummaged through her meager belongings, touched the bottleneck of a litter of Coca-Cola, found a few packets of instant coffee, and felt the thin plastic wrap of a half-kilo of giant sunflower seeds. 

She laughed at Siddiq’s going away presents.

Like most people, he stereotypically thought American creatures were in love with their sweet coffee, even sweeter cola, and favorite pastime, cracking sunflower seeds. 

A white, dusty bus sped her way.

Nicole quickly stuffed the offerings back into her bag and put her hand out. The bus squealed to a stop, swinging its door open to new beginnings.