“Where is Juan Abrego Cortillon?” The man asked, his voice muffled by the balaklava that covered everything but his eyes. I shrugged and shook my head.
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
He lifted it from the bottom, leaving his nose covered, but revealing a sneer surrounded by a scrubby beard the color of rat fur. He repeated the question that I had already heard clearly.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
“We need to speak to the manager,” rat-beard barked at me.
“I’m the owner of this store,” I said. “Like I just told you, the manager’s not here.”
Rat-beard turned around and spoke a few words to a helmeted camo-scarf standing behind him, then turned back to me.
“You’re saying that Juan Abrego Cortillon is the manager here?”
“No, I didn’t say that, but I’m mighty proud of you for figuring it out almost on your own.”
“Where is he?” Camo-scarf asked.
“I don’t know. Now that I’ve answered your question, I’d appreciate an answer to my own. Who are you?”
“We’re with ICE.”
“Oh,” I said, looking them up and down. “Are your uniforms at the cleaners? What did you bring? I increased my order to a hundred pounds because of the summer heat. You know where the cooler is in the back of the store, right?”
It took them a long moment to realize that they were being trolled.
“We’re with Immigration and Customs Enforcement,” Rat-beard said, “and any interference with the prosecution of our duties is a federal crime.”
“A federal crime, huh? Like kidnapping? Like arrest without due process? Like impersonating federal officers? Do you gentlemen have any kind of identification?”
“We don’t need to show you any identification,” Rat-beard insisted.
“Listen, everybody that walks in here wanting to buy a six-pack or a bottle of wine has to show identification. Do you think I’m going to ask any less of people wanting to kidnap my most valuable employee?”
“We’re not here to kidnap anyone,” said camo-scarf. “We’re just doing our job. Where is he?”
“I’ve answered that, but you two men, masked and armed in the middle of my store, haven’t yet identified yourselves. I would be well within my rights to shoot you down as thieves.”
“We haven’t stolen anything.”
“Haven’t you? Lives? Family? Dignity? Security? You’ve stolen The American Dream.”
“I’m asking you for the last time,” Rat-beard hissed, “His car is parked outside. Where is Juan Abrego Cortillon?”
“He’s home,” I said.
“No, he’s not. We checked there first.”
“He’s home,” I said. “The United States of America is his home. He fought for it in Afghanistan and got a Purple Heart for his trouble.” I looked straight into Rat-beard’s eyes. “As for you two jokers, fuck you for your disservice!” Then I gave them the only salute that their positions would ever merit.
Literature in Small Doses 