Swimming in Dystopia Pt.3

November 20th, 2021

I toss my empty ginger ale can into the recycling bin and turn back to the owner of the falafel restaurant:

“Merry Christmas in case I don’t see you before the new year.”

He forces a smile and responds, “Merry Christmas, brother.”

This tiny hole in the wall Middle Eastern eatery- halfway between a stand and a restaurant- used to be my go to place for lunch back before the world spiraled into a dictatorial catastrophe. The owner, a springy Lebanese man with jet black hair, has become a friend of sorts. We don’t know each other’s names but we’ve shared pictures of our families and talked about life on more than one occasion. These are my favorite types of friendships: no names, just beautiful anonymity; genuine appreciation for another human being from afar, free from the gory details that present themselves when you get too close.

We meet eyes one last time and I can see uncertainty in his face. His back is quickly deteriorating- a product of long hours standing on the restaurant's hard cement floor. He’s been opening earlier and closing later, struggling to keep his business alive during the ongoing and exhausting pandemic restrictions. He has the unfortunate circumstance of owning a restaurant on one of the most expensive real estate blocks in the world: downtown Vancouver’s Robson Street. With a rent bill that comes in at well over ten thousand dollars per month, it’s been nearly impossible to keep his business operational and take care of his family. So here he is; slowly crumbling under the thumb of a radical leftist government hell bent on protecting him from himself.

Long term sacrifice for short term survival.

I exit and fantasize about someday having enough money to give him double what his business is worth. Time to retire, old friend. Live out the rest of your years worry free. This one’s on me.

But in reality the clock is ticking over my head as well. The walls are closing in and he just so happens to be getting crushed first. I’ll be next- my bones piled on top of his, pulverized in the name of safety, punished for our lack of total surrender.

Still anonymous.

I take a deep breath of the frigid November air and make my way up the busy street. Clouds of steam emanate from my mouth as I walk toward the roaring crowd a few blocks away. Shoppers pass in the opposite direction, steam pouring through the masks strapped tightly over their faces. I wonder if the visibility of their breath is any indication to them that their mask is merely decorative; nothing more than a signal to others that their morals are in line with the government authorized dogma.

Perhaps that’s the entire point.

“Hey!”

A voice calls out to me before I can cross the street and disappear into the melee of human activity.

I turn and smile at the sight of a co-worker. She’s running errands with her boyfriend.

“It’s been so long! What are you up to?” she asks in a thick Australian accent.

Usually I’d lie in response to her question. I’ve spent years carefully crafting an easily forgettable persona at my workplace. I’m employed by a major Hollywood studio; a behemoth pillar of virtue in an industry steeped in neomarxist ideology. Any opinions or perspectives that run counter to the critical theory cult are quickly met with pitchforks and angry villagers. I’ve learned to bite my tongue. In fact, I’ve almost gnawed it right off on a few occasions.

But this time I tell the truth. We’ve been working from home for a year and a half and the lack of physical interaction has created a disconnect that makes candor a more comfortable burden to bear.

“I’m heading to the protest against vaccine mandates” I tell her, matter of factly.

Her eyes grow wide and she nods emphatically, as if trying to convey a message she’s too afraid to vocalize. Her boyfriend tells me his twenty something year old cousin had a stroke after his double dose. She confides in me that she felt like her skin was covered in third degree burns for two weeks after her second shot of Pfizer. Neither will be taking the booster. No way, Jose.

We make small talk for a few more minutes then part ways. I walk toward the crowd and think about the interaction. I make a mental note of it. Lately I’ve found honesty to be infectious. We all want to talk about our experiences, to scream our skepticisms and doubts at each other, but the societal pressure to “follow the science” has been stronger than our urge to acknowledge reality.

Truth is a brushfire. Courage is the kindling.

I arrive at the protest and walk into the horde of frenzied bodies. I’m immediately met by Curt: an old friend and training partner at the MMA gym we frequented in years past. He’s a scrappy fighter with a huge heart; short in stature but one of the toughest human beings I’ve ever known. It’s these traits that led to me affectionately giving him the nickname, “Honey Badger.”

We marvel at the size of the assembly that’s gathered around us; thousands of people packed into a square city block surrounding the Vancouver Art Gallery. People walk by and greet Curt as they pass. He’s somewhat of a staple in these parts- an unrepentant contrarian who hates the mainstream and prays to the patron saint of patriots, whoever that may be.

More friends arrive and we stand in a small semi-circle discussing the issues of the day. Tyler is a friend from high school whose views are directly in line with Curt’s. The connection between the two is instantaneous and I step back as the theories and ideas reverberate within the chamber of this small group. Amongst us is Shamar: a bespectacled black man with a beanie pulled down over his dreadlocks, and a pretty young Native Indian girl whose eyes stay firmly locked on Curt no matter which one of us is speaking.

The Kyle Rittenhouse verdict comes up and a lady carrying a bright yellow Gadsden flag turns around to join the conversation. I listen carefully as she outlines why Rittenhouse is innocent. She speaks with the precision of a veteran defense lawyer. I stare at the giant “Don’t Tread On Me” slogan printed across the flag and silently wish she wasn’t so predictable. Although I agree with most of her arguments, she is an amplifier for conservative talking points; a marionette for an ideology that has risen in response to the woke left and is nearly as absurd. I could throw a politically loaded dart at her blindfolded and guess with total accuracy where it would land. Much like her hypothetical opponents on the extreme left, she is painfully transparent.

I push through the swarm of protesters toward the main stage with Curt and Shamar in tow. Amongst the colorful array of human faces I spot Ryan: a gay man with a highly active gun license and an equally obliging trigger finger. He’s the antithesis of everything the new radical left has told him he ought to be. I love what he represents.

We wave at each other and exchange a nod of solidarity. There are too many people between us for a formal greeting. A simple gesture of recognition will have to do for now.

On stage a woman with meticulously styled blonde hair and caked on make-up shouts into a microphone attempting to rally an audience of half-listening onlookers. In her left hand she holds what looks like silver plated bull’s horns that are nearly as tall as she is. I’m told the made up lady with an apparent livestock fetish is Laura Lynn: an emerging star on the Canadian conservative scene. Her message is clear: Jesus will save us. Satan created Covid-19 and Jesus will end it.

More ideology. More juvenile answers to complicated questions.

I follow Curt and Shamar away from the stage to the street. We’re three bible verses short of an aneurysm and in desperate need of coffee.

We walk up the block toward McDonald’s. Masked pedestrians float like jellyfish from shop to shop, searching for items to fill an uncomfortable void that was torn open by the pandemic. I ask Shamar about race and politics, and how he feels his perspective has affected his personal relationships. I’m inquisitive about this subject in particular because I was recently told by a Native Indian acquaintance that my own Indian blood is null and void due to the political stances I’ve taken in recent years. The comment made me angry, but perplexed me at the same time. How could my own thoughts be cause for a revocation of an ancestral bloodline I was born into? Shamar feels the same way.

He shrugs and says, “Some people get it, some people don’t.”

Beautifully put. A separation of race and identity. I am not the blood in my veins, but rather, I am the ideas that are put into action and form my being. 

We return to the protest and Shamar disappears into the swelling congregation. Curt and I sit at the edge of the demonstration and discuss the Native Indian girl from earlier who is now twenty feet away, still stealing glances at him on a minute to minute basis. He likes her but finds himself in a sticky situation. He’s in a long term relationship with another young lady that appears to have run its course, but he doesn’t know how to end it.

Ordinary conversation. It’s been a while since I’ve had this.

My eyes stay on Curt as he speaks, but my mind drifts elsewhere. I’m reveling in this rare moment of normalcy; two friends talking about everything and nothing at once. Beyond the throng of dissident civilians to my left, drum circles pounding behind them, spineless masked jellyfish drifting in the tyrannical current to my right- beyond it all I can vaguely recall the bland regularity of pre-2020 everyday life.

It’s nice.