Part 2: They Are a-Changin’

When the speeding pickup was first spotted by the cameras, coming the back roads towards the City from the mountains to the north, taking the turns at well over 100 kilometers an hour, a signal was broadcast over the NeuralNet to one Franklin Slotin. Slotin was a good man and a decent Officer of the City who had two things working against him: first, Slotin had no familial connections to higher-ups in the City Council, nor to any of the numerous bureaucrats who could have ensured his movement up the ranks, thereby condemning Franklin to the lower echelon of the police force. Second, Slotin was frankly quite boring, and though he had an immaculate record, an achievement virtually unheard of amongst the nannies, he was all but a phantom, an afterthought to his superiors who could have spoken but a word in his favor and gotten the man an assignment inside the City proper. He often spent the evenings after his shifts, complaining to his wife over dinner, about how dull his days in the outskirts were, how he had half a mind to complain to his supervisor and request a reassignment. His wife, a woman by the name of Candace, had taken up the habit of not listening to her husband’s problems, and would simply give him a cursory “Of course,” or “Why not?” whenever he paused. It came to be that when that signal from the Monitors of security cameras to the Feed of Officer Franklin Slotin, the most interesting thing that had ever happened to the man would occur.

The camera in Slotin’s cruiser and the three that had decent angles on the pickup would all see and preserve what happened. Three of the Monitors viewing the scene as it transpired were only partially paying attention, and the one who was actually doing his job did not have a good view of the exchange between Slotin and the driver. He noted the record the Officer pulled up, that of Stockton Davies, an offender of note in certain circles in the City, but that was all. The microsecond’s worth of delay between Officer Slotin’s Feed and the Monitor did not give him enough time to directly contact Slotin before the man’s connection to the NeuralNet was brought down, delaying the inevitable.

Were it so that the Monitor had sight of Slotin’s soiled front-side, perhaps he would have laughed at the tableau. Instead, he made the request for backup, but the delay gave Stockton Davies enough time and speed to out race the cameras, the bored Monitors, and the nannies to the City, where his own signal overtook the NeuralNet’s feed.

All it took was the time to walk three blocks towards the center of the City for the NeuralNet to be brought down, and though for several minutes Stockton celebrated amongst the zombified citizens, he was still quite a few kilometers from the famed intersection of Empire Boulevard and Trade Street, the epicenter of the City and the seat of power for the bureaucracy and industry, and that far out, the remnants of illicit, family unfriendly enterprise had refused to give way to the so-called Destiny of Progress the Mayor had decreed when he first was elected some ten years prior.

Standing before a strip club that promised “Full Nudes” despite the ordinances forbidding such practices and a perfectly suitable public house, Stockton chose to spend some time in the pub.

“My dear sir,” Stockton said upon entering the establishment, meaning to request a few glasses of bourbon be poured in his honor, but he stopped when he spotted the bartender in the corner, curled into the fetal position and crying at his disconnect from the NeuralNet. Besides the bemoaning tender, the pub was empty. “I apologize,” Stockton said. “I’ll just serve myself.”

He walked to the end of the bar and patted the man on the head as he passed. He picked up six shot glasses and set them in a line on the bar. From the rows of liquors he picked out two, one from the top shelf, an arcane brand of mescal, and from the bottom the cheapest, fullest bottle of bourbon. In two of the shot glasses, he poured the mescal, saving the rest for the bourbon. Stockton was about to go over to the other side of the bar, when he stopped and picked up a beer glass, and from the tap drew himself a stout.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the inconvenience,” he said to the dispenser, dissolved in tears as he was. Stockton went to the opposite side of the bar, but stopped short of sitting down to enjoy the drinks of his labor. Across from the entrance, between the doors to the water closets, was a jukebox, a three-by-two-foot long black box connected to a repository of songs from throughout the history of recorded music. 25 cents per song, it demanded. Surprising himself, Stockton was able to find in his back pocket a lonely 25-cent piece displaying the profile of President William McKinley. Depositing the coin in its intended place, Stockton said, “Great allocater of aural pleasantries, could you, by chance, play the tune ‘Kisses Sweeter than Wine’ by Jimmie Rodgers?”

“Your selection is unavailable,” the display read.

“No? How about ‘Outlaw Scumfuc’ by GG Allen?”

“Your selection is unavailable.”

“Really? How does today’s youth get by without the classics? How about, and forgive me, I know it’s cliché, but how about ‘The Times They Are a-Changin’.” The chords from an acoustic guitar started playing over the outdated digital speakers and Stockton, with a smile, returned to the bar and took his place before his beverages.

“Thank- thank God,” the tender said as Stockton upended the first glass of mescal onto his tongue.

Looking at his watch, or where a watch would be had he been the sort to wear one, and if it were still possible to buy one, Stockton said, “That was quicker than I thought it would be.”

The NeuralNet was back online.

“Not too much time now,” he said, quickly finishing the last shot of mescal before downing the stout much quicker than he would have appreciated.

The City, having for several long minutes been as still as a cemetery had devolved into a chaotic rush, as if someone had been throwing rocks at a hornet’s nest. Communications were back online, and orders were being barked about, and a press conference was being organized. For a five block radius, every nanny was ordered to make haste to a little pub on Pledge Avenue, the one beside Well’s Dance Hall. It took but a minute for the first nanny to enter the pub, his eyes focused on the man holding the shot glass like communal wine.

“Did you know,” Stockton started as the nannies surrounded him, “that in 1931, the President of the Dominican Republic, one Rafael Leónidas Trujillo Molina, or Truji, as I like to call him, ordered the execution of every person of Haitian origin’s residing in the Republic’s borders?” He picked up the next glass, held it to his lips for a moment of religious contemplation and said, like a prayer, “Sláinte,” then tipped it back and downed the lovely liquid quickly and gently placed the glass on the bar. “Would you like a drink?” he asked the closest nanny, who reacted in the negative to the offer. “More for me, my good man.”

“Well, Truji did this for a number of reasons. Firstly, good old fashioned racism. For some reason, that I believe has to do with the colonial segregation of the people who would go on to become the Haitians and the Dominicans, there was a good amount of tension between the two. Antihaitianismo, they called it. Another reason was the perceived theft of crops and cattle in the borderlands. Well, ol’ Truji, I guess he just plain didn’t like Haitians. So what did he do?” Stockton paused, as if to allow a response from any one of the nannies. “Weren’t you listening? I just told you, he ordered their executions.”

“As in any such occurrence, the exact amount of the departed cannot be correctly ascertained, but the number ranges from 15,000 to 35,000 dead. The offenses were committed by the military, police, and Dominican citizens, and the acts were committed with guns, knives, machetes, and clubs. Some Haitians were rounded up by the military and explained they were simply being deported, though they were in reality taken to some isolated place and murdered. 15,000 to 35,000 killed, simply because they were the wrong ethnic group. Dominicans called this el corte, the cutting, while Haitians referred to the events as kouto-a. The stabbing. 15,000 to 35,000 murdered in the span of five days. 120 hours. 7,200 minutes. 432,000 seconds.”

Stockton picked up another shot glass, and was about to take a drink, when he paused. “Do you know how the Dominicans identified who was Haitian during these events?” None of the nannies present answered. “Well, the Dominicans would hold a sprig of parsley and ask, ‘What is this?’ If the person being asked responded with, ‘Perejil,’ they would be left to their lives. If, however, they said, ‘Pèsi’ or ‘Persil,’ well, I’m sure you can imagine what happened. That is why outside of Haiti or the Dominican Republic, these events were called the Parsley Massacre. 15,000 to 35,000 people were killed because they couldn’t say ‘Perejil.’ They ever teach you that in school?”

The closest nanny was silent for a moment, and perhaps would not have spoken a word, but his proximity to the questioner all but condemned him to speak. “Where is the Dominican Republic?”

“You never can tell what yesterday will bring,” Stockton replied. He picked up the final shot glass and said, all but a whisper, “Salut,” before having his drink. “All right, boys, I’m ready for whatever the day brings. Feel free to rough me up, I’ve been known to take a punch or three, just keep them to the body,” he said, patting his stomach before holding his hands forward, palms up and ready for the cuffs.

“Leave me with my beauty.”