America the Beautiful

The Quaker Meeting House had sat empty since Reconstitutionalization three years prior. An unkempt, overgrown lawn and increasingly feral flowerbeds surrounded the small, white-walled building, which, with its quaintly shingled sides now flaking, and picturesque little stone chimney graffitied, was slowly being swallowed by the forest it abutted. Even in its current, uncared for state, it bothered Jack to see Todd and his friends throwing rocks through the windows. He always lingered after school so as to avoid walking home in the presence of the older boys. Usually, he had the wherewithal to keep an eye open ahead for them as he walked, but had been distracted by issues with his favorite music channels and had not seen them standing in the knee-deep grass. He’d been too busy trying to figure out why many of his favorite songs seemed suddenly unavailable on any streaming service.

Jack was well aware of the crackdown on what the powers that be called “degenerate media,” and with the gutting of the first amendment it wasn’t uncommon for artists, both established and up-and-coming, to find their catalogues taken down. Under Reconstitutionalization, any art considered even remotely subversive had been erased from all mainstream outlets. Those still bold enough to speak out had resorted to subtle poetic metaphors to outwit the censors, but sometimes they were too bold. A week before, the rapper Rat King had dropped a track called “President PDF File,” and when the deeper meaning behind the rhymes had been sussed out by the establishment, a purge had ensued, leaving only the most inoffensive fare. A Classic Rock & Roll station Jack enjoyed seemed to be broadcasting mostly Elvis and Glen Campbell. He couldn’t find any even remotely new music.

The sound of glass shattering made Jack look up from his phone, and he realized, to his dismay, that he was less than twenty feet from the trio of troublemakers. He was especially chagrined to see them, tonight of all nights, expecting that they’d be in rare form, as it was Halloween-Eve, a night on which the Devil seemed to get into certain types of boys. Sticking his phone in his pocket, Jack shouldered his backpack and attempted to sidle past without drawing their attention, but was unsuccessful. Oafish Teddy blasted a rock completely over the roof, missing the meeting house entirely. He spun in shame and caught sight of Jack. Teddy, who was dim-witted by all accounts, maintained a sycophantic devotion to Todd, despite being the low-man on the three-headed totem pole and subsequently, a frequent target of the alpha-bully’s unpredictable temper. “Hey, Jack Off!” yelled Teddy.

Knowing it would be worse if he ran, Jack ambled toward the group. “Here, Jack Off, bet you can’t hit a window,” said Tobey, a real psychopath and Todd’s main enforcer, whipping a rock towards Jack’s face, too fast to be caught. Jack ducked as the rock bulleted overhead. “Whoops,” added Tobey, laughing.

As Jack stood up, the boys approached. Todd snatched Jack’s phone from him and unlocked it by pointing the retinal scanning camera at Jack’s eyes. “Let’s see what Jack Off is into,” he said, starting to scroll through the device.

“Give it back!” shot Jack, sounding more forceful than the sheepish, pleading tones he was accustomed to using with Todd.

“Calm down before you get hurt,” said the older boy, “I’m gonna take a look through here and see if there’s anything my dad would be interested in. We know all about your family’s connections to ATB terrorists. We’re keeping an eye on you.”

Todd’s dad was the town’s head Social Watchman, tasked with reporting citizens engaging in subversive behaviors to county officials in a ladder that went to the top of the government. After Reconstitutionalization he’d managed local implementation of the heavy-handed national crackdown on “Undesirable Religions,” and had personally overseen the shuttering of the Quaker Meeting House, Christian Science Reading Room, Mosque, and Unitarian Church. This position gave his son relative impunity for his antics. Locals victimized by, or witnesses to, Todd’s petty crimes knew better than to report him, lest they find themselves summoned to the Patriotism Center for a Fealty Test or inquisition session.

“Glenn Campbell? This phone is dry AF. Jack Off is definitely hiding something. Gentlemen, I think we may have caught ourselves a subversive,” said Todd, “Tobey, make sure he’s not wearing purple underwear,” he ordered, without looking up from Jack’s phone.

The younger boy knew what was coming next. If there was one day of his life he wished he could do over, it was a Saturday in May when he had been in third grade. Beckoned to attend by an explosive blitz of an advertising campaign, Jack’s parents had taken him into the city to see a performance by a group that sang and danced. America The Beautiful put on a show about American History that began hundreds of years before Europeans arrived on the continent and ended just before the current regime seized power.

For Jack, it seemed semi-educational, but he’d mostly enjoyed the catchy songs and acrobatic dance numbers. He’d also been enchanted by the group’s grain and mountain logo, along with their appealing amber and purple color scheme. At the end of the show he’d seized an opportunity while his father was in the bathroom and his mother distracted, to purchase an ATB t-shirt with the birthday money he’d brought to the city. He was too young to fully appreciate the nuances of the performance, with its subtle calls for revolution, but he knew he was drawn to the spectacle of the whole thing.

He’d hidden his purchase from his parents for the rest of the day, though he wasn’t quite sure why, and likewise concealed it beneath his jacket when he left for school the following Monday. The day had passed uneventfully, though he’d detected concern on some of his teachers' faces and at one point Principal Clark had come to his classroom and gazed at the children, though he’d said nothing. That evening Jack had heard his mother on the phone, and after that there was a family meeting. His parents had not been angry, but seemed nervous as they asked for the shirt, which Jack had never seen again.

Within a matter of weeks, America The Beautiful had been banned. Members of the group were branded as “domestic terrorists,” but by then most of the cast and crew had fled the country. Those who remained had been tried and imprisoned. In the four years since, ATB had continued their performances abroad, gathering international attention, more so for the ubiquitousness of their advertising than for the content of their show, which was designed to inspire sympathy for the plight of people left behind in the country from which they’d escaped.

Todd had never forgotten about the shirt, and Jack had come to understand this was why his parents jumped every time there was a knock at the door. Even though it was almost always a delivery drone with a package, sometimes it meant a trip down to the Patriotism Center for one or the other. The agents never took both, always saying it wouldn’t be “neighborly” to leave Jack by himself. As he’d grown older he’d become more aware of the aura of anxiety that hung over his mom and dad’s relationship and he harbored a tremendous amount of guilt as a result. He imagined them after he went to bed at night, talking about the shirt and how much they blamed him for the current, anxious state of things.

“It’s time to check your loyalty, Jack Off,” said Tobey, approaching Jack in a crouch. What was coming next was inevitable. Jack was just grateful that there were no girls around to watch the humiliation ritual. Tobey grabbed Jack’s trousers and ripped them down to his ankles.

Jack had never owned purple or amber underwear, but had come to learn through this regular occurrence, that there was no safe color he could wear. If they were white, the bullies would claim they could see pee stains and skidmarks, even if he consumed no food or liquid and held his waste all day. If they were black, they’d declare him “depressed” and claim he needs a psychological evaluation. Once, he’d tried to appeal to their militaristic inclinations and worn olive drab. They’d accused him of “stolen valor.” Early on, he’d begun wearing a belt he’d poked extra holes in to school, relying on the leather cinched around his waist to protect him, but Todd had merely held him and unbuckled it, which felt even more violative.

With a whoosh, Jack’s pants were down, exposing his plaid boxers. “Woah Ho! We got Braveheart here! Nice kilt, Jack Off,”

“He’s gotten too smart to wear his terrorist group’s colors,” said Todd, “Check him for tattoos.” Tobey grabbed Jack while Teddy approached, menacingly.

The Quaker Meeting house was the only building in sight down a winding road which led out of town to a long decommissioned coal power plant and a few secluded subdivisions which had, at one point, gathered national attention for the levels of heavy metals in their topsoil. Jack’s pants were still around his ankles as Teddy started unzipping his jacket, but at that moment a car turned down the road. Rather than driving by, it slowed down and stopped in front of them. The window rolled down, revealing Principal Clark. Tobey and Teddy released their grips.

“Jack, if you’re going to wrestle with your friends, you’ve gotta get a belt or you’re gonna wind up with an indecent exposure charge,” offered the Principal. “Hey, what are you boys doing over here anyway?” he asked.

Jack pulled up his pants and zipped up his jacket as Todd stepped forward. “We were just talking about how this place would make a good meetinghouse for The Young Patriot’s Club, Sir,” beamed Todd, blue eyes glinting in the sun under his mop of blonde hair.

“Well it is a bit of a blight,” said Principal Clark, “I’d support that if it came to a vote. You should see if your dad could run that up the ladder, Todd.”

“It was his idea, Sir,” replied Todd, “We just stopped by to see what it would take to get it in shape. It looks like vagrants have been out here breaking windows.”

“Well good. You boys are going to make fine citizens one day. This seems like a good first step,” said the principal. If he had noticed any need for help on Jack’s face, it went ignored. As he drove away he called out through the open window, “Get a belt, Jack!” Then the boys were alone again.

Todd resumed thumbing through Jack’s phone, saying “You don’t even have any good games on here, Jack Off. A flower identifier app? You have got to be kidding me!” Suddenly the phone rang with the melody of the ringtone which meant Jack’a mother was calling. Even before being delayed by Todd, he’d lingered longer than he usually did after school looking for decent music, and now he was late getting home.

“Your mommy’s calling, Jack Off,” sneered Todd, “Should I answer and thank her for last night?”

“Do you always have to be such a dick, Todd?” asked Jack, knowing it would only arouse the bully's ire, but tired of the ordeal.

“Listen, you little terrorist, I’m onto you, and so is my dad,” shot Todd. He stepped forward and slugged Jack in the gut, easily knocking the wind out of the smaller boy. He then took Jack’s phone and pitched it, with expert aim, through one of the Meeting House’s broken windows.

“Oh crap, Jack Off!” exploded Tobey, laughing so hard he bent over, “You’re gonna get sliced TF up if you try to get in with all that broken glass.” Teddy howled as well, but Todd wasn’t laughing, merely gazing at Jack with the glassy stare of a junkie who’s just gotten his fix.

“You’re a skinny enough little twink that you could probably slide down the chimney,” said Teddy, advisatorily, “just don’t get stuck.” Jack looked up at the chimney. It was still afternoon, but the sun had sunk enough to brightly illuminate the wide red eye, symbol of the current regime, stenciled in spray paint on its side. Whether it had been put there by the authorities or Todd’s crew, Jack did not know.

“Yeah, don’t get stuck, Jack Off,” shot Tobey, “We’re coming back tonight to burn this place down, so you better not be in it, because, we don’t care about your terrorist ass.”

Furious about his phone, and feeling as powerless as he ever had among these hooligans, Jack’s interest was piqued enough to ask, “Aren’t you going to make this a clubhouse?”

Before Tobey could reply, Todd stepped forward. “We wouldn’t dare sit down where those degenerates plopped their heretical asses until this whole property is cleansed,” he said, authoritatively.

“Someday you’re gonna get in trouble your dad can’t get you out of, Todd,” offered Jack, eyeing the older boy.

“My dad got us the gasoline,” smirked Todd, “He says it’s…tradition.” Jack’s mom’s ringtone filled the air faintly, coming through smashed windows from the darkening interior of the Meeting House. “Mommy wants you,” leveled Todd, coolly, “Better go get your phone, Jack Off. If the cops find it in the ashes they’re gonna think you set the fire.” He then said it was time to go get ready.

As the trio of bullies walked away, Tobey spun on his heels and yelled, “Don’t get stuck, Jack Off! Seriously!”

Once he was alone, Jack waded through the tall grass, making a mental note to check for ticks as soon as possible, telling himself he’d just find a way in, get his phone, and go home. Unfortunately the windows, defended by sharp shards of broken glass and several seasons of thorny, overgrown blackberry and rose bushes were too high to climb through. He made his way around the side of the building, and up dry-rotted steps to the front door, which was padlocked, with a big safety-orange sticker stuck at eye level, declaring the site “Impure, and Thusly Condemned,” with a full paragraph dedicated to the various punishments awaiting anyone caught inside. This cured him of any inkling he’d had to ask his parents for help.

Slinking around the back, the intermittent sound of traffic on the main street up the road faded into silence punctuated only by the creaks, cracks, and birdsong of the forest. Jack could see a dying tree offering roof access to those brave or foolish enough to clamber up its decaying branches. From inside the meeting house he could hear his mother calling for a third time. He looked up at the chimney.