A short tale of progressive dystopia
The moment I learned your opinion really doesn't matter until your foot is on someone's throat
1
An older, silver-haired woman with a prosthetic leg and a walker enters the office. Noticing no one else is in sight—presumably on their needlessly-long “lunch breaks”—she approaches me in earnest, and looks up at me with these kindly eyes.
“Hi sweetie, would you happen to know if Congressman [redacted] is in today?”
My fifteen-year-old self stares back at her blankly, and I give her a protocol-programmed response.
“I don’t believe he is, but I can take a message”, I tell her. I know, however, that he is in fact down the hall, behind the second door to the right.
Her eyes are still kind, but they’re now clouded with a darker disappointment.
“I’m from the Disabled Veterans of [redacted location], and the Congressman’s promised to meet with us three times this year, but he’s never showed up. I was wondering if there’s any chance we could see him today.”
Feeling rather guilty about the fact that I just lied to a disabled veteran, I tell her another lie—that I’ll go talk to the scheduler to find out where he is. Walking down the hall, I open the second door on the right. I look up at the Congressman.
“There’s a lady here from the Disabled Veterans of [redacted location] group, who says they’d like to meet with you.”
He gives me a blank stare.
“Tell her I’m not here. We’re leaving in an hour, so have the notes ready by then.”
I walk back down the hall, and I lie to the woman one last time.
“I’m so sorry, but he’s out today, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back”.
She thanks me weakly. Defeated, she walks out.
2
An hour later, the Congressman and I head out. I hand him his notes. I’m not sure where we’re going, but I can’t imagine it could be that much more important than disabled veterans. When we arrive, however, everything starts to make more sense.
We get out, and a valet takes the keys. Mind you, this is not a meeting space. This is a personal home, with a valet. And home isn’t even the right word—this is a mega-mansion, which I later found out was worth a cool fifty million. When I enter through the backyard, my shock grows.
An unfamiliar man, presumably the owner of the house, greets me and asks me who I’m with. I tell him I’m with the Congressman, and a slow smile breaks across his face. He explains that they’ve been friends for many years, and winks at me. He tells me to help myself to the rows of food to the right of the fountain, and that it’s been prepared by India’s finest chefs, who he flew in for that day. I thank him.
I head over to the standing tables, and I start to notice the people in attendance. Almost every major political figure in Los Angeles—senators, ambassadors, prosecutors, city council members, members of the state assembly, and so on—are all there. But even more strangely, I notice the demographics of everyone else who isn’t a politician. I see a sea of older, extremely good-looking brown people.
Confused, I shuffle around awkwardly for a few minutes until I spot someone who looks around my age. There’s a gorgeous brown-eyed girl standing near the ballroom entrance, and she stands out given everyone else. Being the ultimate women lover that I am, I head over to her.
We start talking, and she says that she’s with that Assemblymember over there (that’s cool, I guess), that she’s a sophomore at Michigan (that’s so fire, I tell her), and that she’s twenty years old (fuck, I think to myself). She then drops some dystopian-ass intel.
“Oh yeah, aside from the politicians, those are all of Bollywood’s most famous actors and actresses.”
Never again did I believe in the myth of grassroots change.
— SJY, 06.20.24