“I am here to see America,” Johannes announced, then added, “and to use an automated teller machine.”
We were disappointed to discover that Johannes, who was midway through a meandering hitchhiking trip from New York to Los Angeles, actually was not referring to our nation but instead meant the United States. However, upon being informed that he was now in a different country altogether, Johannes was delighted. He was especially interested to learn that our nation was so young. Johannes wanted to take a tour, so Pete Christie and Bob Tupper, who are both retired and to tell the truth never really have much going on, offered to show him around the country. Johannes tossed his banjo and his duffel into the bed of the pickup, flashed peace signs at some of us walking by, and climbed into the cab, already chatting away. Pete and Bob spent the afternoon bringing him around: down to the town hall, to check out the signed Resolution To Secede hanging framed on the wall; over to meet Belle Clanton, who had recently been nominated for president, and who took a break from brushing the horses in her stable to talk with him a while; out to the coop behind the Garza place to see the heritage turkeys, pretty much extinct beyond our borders; out to the cellar at the Dylan place to hear the finer points of making cactus wine, our specialty; out to the skeleton of the abandoned stagecoach in the gulch, said to be haunted by a family of pioneers murdered by a couple of bandits for a pair of horses, where he claimed to feel some totally paranormal vibes; out to the plains, to the cluster of mounded burrows dug in the sandy soil by the ancient train tracks, where he got to feed peanuts to the prairie dogs, exclaiming with joy whenever a prairie dog nibbled a shell; down to the flooded quarry, where some teenagers who had cut school were busy swimming, and where after stripping nude he quickly mastered the art of the cannonball under the tutelage of Riley Whipper; to inspect the border signs that Walt Ho was building in his pole barn, with painted lettering on embossed wood, that would eventually proclaim Welcome To America; to examine the national flag that Bev Whittaker was stitching in her sewing room, a navy banner with a gold star, already fondly known as New Glory; down to the ice cream shop, shaped like an ice cream sundae, to treat him to an order of the famous “trough of ice cream” (see: MAP OF AMERICA, DINING AND SHOPPING #3). Johannes was amazed by everything. To be honest, there were some of us who had been feeling slightly insecure about our new nation, and his enthusiasm gave us a much needed boost of self-esteem.
Evening found him knocking back tequilas at the saloon, chanting drinking songs with a crowd of regulars, his arms around Pete and Bob.
“I love this country,” Johannes shouted.
Johannes, whose tequilas had been on the house, finally staggered over to the teller machine back by the restroom to withdraw the cash that he had planned to get when he had originally arrived that afternoon. When he tried, however, he was refused. Those of us in the saloon tried to help him, gathering around and taking turns pushing the buttons, but no matter what we did, his card just got spit back out. The screen suggested he contact his bank.
After crashing on a sofa at the Whippers’, Johannes returned to the saloon the next morning, eyes bloodshot with a hangover. Ward cracked an egg into a glass, threw in some worcestershire and tabasco, flicked in a pinch of salt and pepper, and slid the drink down the bar. Johannes drank the prairie oyster down with a gulp, set the glass back onto the bartop, and then stared into the glass with his elbows on the bartop and his hands in his hair, explaining the situation with an expression of despair. He had been on the phone with his bank since sunup. He hadn’t realized how fast he had been blowing through money. His savings account was empty. His credit card was maxed. He had hit the limit for cash advances.
He had spent the last of his money, he realized, on a box of twinkies.
“I am very fucked,” Johannes said.
Ward put down a dishrag.
“You want a job?” Ward said.
Johannes glanced up with a hopeful look.
“Here?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I do not need a visa?”
“Heck no, amigo, just grab an apron.”
And thus our first tourist was also our first immigrant. Johannes eventually fell in love with Riley Whipper, left the saloon to be a full-time parent, and has since become a naturalized citizen of our country. Having authored a series of nationally acclaimed limericks, Johannes is currently the poet laureate of America.
HUMANITARIAN OPPORTUNITIES
Though we honestly don’t mind when foreign agencies cross our borders, we have to say that we really did mind earlier this year when Corey Buber, an autistic entrepreneur with a chubby smile and a mild stutter who at the time was only nineteen years old, was abducted from our soil by federal agents of the United States. Crossing into our nation in the dead of night, and having made no request for extradition, these agents stormed into his house, raided his room in the basement, tasered him when he attempted to flee, and spirited him away to Texas. Currently being held in Houston, Corey is still awaiting trial, charged with operating an online piracy ring, possession of several million stolen songs, possession of several thousand stolen movies, and possession of psilocybin mushrooms, none of which are crimes in America. Visitors interested in contributing to the Fund To Free American Citizen Corey Buber From Illegal Detainment In The United States are encouraged to make deposits in the donation box at the town hall (see: MAP OF AMERICA, SITE OF HISTORICAL IMPORTANCE #1, PLACE OF GENERAL INTEREST #29). Corey’s parents would also like to note that the agents left behind extensive property damage, including a turfed lawn and a busted door.
THE SUMMIT
Although our sovereignty is not yet recognized by the United Nations, nor by any of the member states of the United Nations, our nationhood is supported by multiple political parties in Catalonia, and we’ve received encouraging notes from diplomats belonging to the countries of Venezuela, Cuba, Afghanistan, Sudan, and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Emphatically, America does not officially identify as a “micronation,” finding the “micro” to be somewhat disparaging, preferring to be called simply a “nation,” but nevertheless, early on we did recognize the political realities of the situation, which was what led us to contact the various micronations of the world, in the hopes of forming an alliance, and was what led us to organize the first international summit of the United Micronations.
Just imagine, dear visitor, the grand scene of that momentous gathering, which has since been reproduced in countless paintings and recounted in multiple ballads. Belle Clanton, who earlier that spring had been elected president of the republic, hosted the summit at her hacienda, a bright white adobe with a rustic fountain burbling in the courtyard and flowering vines hanging over the walls. Ward Hernandez strode through the gathering in a tuxedo, serving caviar and gravlax and foie gras to a colorful assembly of besuited figures from across the globe, including representatives of the micronations of Sealand, Liberland, Akhzivland, Forvik, Elleore, Talossa, Seborga, Murrawarri, Filettino, Uzupis, Atlantium, New Utopia, Freetown Christiania, and Hutt River, who had all made epic journeys to reach this glorious enclave here in the Great Plains. As the oldest living person in America, Bev Whittaker offered a toast when the champagne was poured, saluting the revolutionary spirit of the summit. Johannes read a poem before the inaugural meal.
The summit was not without drama. Over the course of that week, Aubrey Ramirez was accused of stealing a diamond brooch by an emissary of Elleore, Daniel Curbeam got into a vicious argument about soccer with an envoy of Talossa, and Walt Ho, who is married, had a sultry affair with the ambassador of Seborga, which became a national scandal when a group of us stumbled upon him and the ambassador having a moonlight tryst in the vineyard behind the hacienda. Somebody with a lispy accent whose citizenship we never did manage to establish had a nearly fatal allergic reaction to a bee sting while giving a speech about trade pacts and collapsed to the floor mid-sentence before being revived with an epipen. Meanwhile, the prime minister of U
zupis, who apparently had a regrettably slow internet connection back home, skipped most of the summit to take advantage of the free wifi, spending the weekend in bed with a laptop, binging entire seasons of a foreign comedy show. To be perfectly honest, we had underestimated the variety of challenges involved in international diplomacy.
On the first morning there was also an incident with Sam Holliday, which only added to the tension for those of us from America.
[Exchange as recorded in the journal of Ward Hernandez, barkeeper]
We were sitting around the table out on the patio when we heard a horse neighing in the distance. Sam rode up to the hacienda a second later, squinting beneath the brim of a straw hat, reining the horse in the dirt just beyond the patio. He didn’t dismount.
“Can we help you, Sam?” Belle called.
Sam gazed at us with a fierce look, staring long and hard at each of us sitting around the table, looking each of us square in the eye, as if verifying what he was seeing, that there truly was an international summit of micronations being held at the hacienda, that we truly had organized such a thing, and then he scowled and turned and spurred the horse, riding back off toward the vineyard without saying a word.
“Who was that?” said the ambassador of Seborga.
Belle stared as the horse galloped off through the vineyard toward the hills.
“He didn’t want to secede,” Belle said.
“Change is hard for some,” said the ambassador of Murrawarri.
“Best just to shoot resisters,” said the ambassador of Filettino.
“He is too sexy, he would be invulnerable, a bullet could never kill him,” said the ambassador of Seborga, dabbing out a cigarette.
The primary goal of the summit was to form an official alliance, and yet finding terms that were acceptable to every micronation proved difficult, in part because the talks kept going off on tangents. Like us, the other micronations were preoccupied with achieving global recognition. The panel on whether to take an official position on fossil fuels, the panel on whether to take an official position on capital punishment, the panel on whether to take an official position on a two-state solution, all of the talks were inevitably hijacked by discussions about nationhood.
[Transcript as recorded by Pam Cone, secretary]
King Of Elleore: “We need more visibility.”
Queen Of Talossa: “We need some type of political leverage.”
Ambassador Of Seborga: “Maybe we micronations could ask for assistance from established nations that also happen to be micro. Monaco, Liechtenstein, Andorra. Singapore, Lesotho. Countries like these.”
Bob Tupper: (shaking head) “None of those countries will even respond to us.”
Pete Christie: (sounding hopeful) “Maybe if we tried again the countries would listen.”
King Of Elleore: “We must somehow be seen as powerful.”
Queen Of Talossa: “We must be respected.”
Ambassador Of Forvik: “We should pursue the possibility of becoming tax havens.”
Belle Clanton: “I don’t think that would get us the type of attention we want.”
Ambassador Of Forvik: “Then we should pursue the possibility of nuclear armament.”
Belle Clanton: “I don’t think that would get us the attention that we want either.”
Prime Minister Of Uzupis: (wandering into dining room in pajamas) “Hasn’t dinner been served yet?”
Regent Of Sealand: “The meeting’s gone long, you can probably just watch another episode and then come back.”
Ambassador Of Forvik: (slapping hand on table) “I think the only option is to create a joint space program. If we want visibility, want to be respected, then our citizens must walk on the moon. There is no other way.”
Riley Whipper: “Honestly all you really need is a semi-intelligent social media strategy.”
There were moments during the summit when we were sure that the talks would fail. Moments of defeat. Moments of despair. And yet through various miracles of diplomacy, on the final day of the summit, the gathered representatives met in the dining room to ratify a treaty, forming an official alliance. Known as the American Accord, the treaty is currently displayed in an airtight case in the very room where the document was signed, in the home of Belle Clanton (see: MAP OF AMERICA, SITE OF HISTORICAL IMPORTANCE #2). Visitors hoping to see foreign dignitaries should consult the official calendar for the United Micronations, as the alliance meets at the hacienda only once a year, on an irregular schedule.
THE LAST INDEPENDENCE DAY IN AMERICA
Even before that incident with him during the summit, many of us had been worried about Sam Holliday. Later that summer some of us drove out to his place, a group of us who had known him as children, who had gone to school with him, who had been friends with him forever, who had played wiffle ball with him in the schoolyard, who had played teeball with him, who had played football with him, who had learned to read and write with him, to add and subtract, to multiply and divide, had memorized the names of capital cities. A group of retired citizens, some wearing hearing aids, some wearing bifocal glasses, some walking with the help of canes. Standing there on his porch, we tried to convince him to come to the next meeting at town hall, but he just wouldn’t budge.
“I will not participate in that foolishness,” Sam said.
Grace Curbeam, who was cousins with him, and who knew him well, asked if he was acting out because he was still angry that his wife had died.
“This has nothing to do with that,” Sam said angrily.
Eventually we gave up. As we drove away, a terrible sadness came over those of us in the car. Before we’d seceded, he’d been one of us, going fly-fishing with us, playing dominoes with us, playing mahjong with us, playing backgammon with us, drinking mojitos with us, sitting around a table in a kitchen or a restaurant eating sloppy joes or slices of lemon meringue pie, but now he avoided us like a bunch of communists. We missed him, and longed for some way to win him over. To be reconciled.
A week later another group of us drove out to his place, a group of adults who had volunteered to conduct a national census and were going around collecting information from people with official forms. Sam outright refused to participate.
“You have no authority to conduct a census on this soil,” Sam said.
Becky Coots, who had worked under him as a nurse, and who still had a crush on him, asked him if maybe he could just fill out his data as a personal favor.
“I do not recognize the legitimacy of your government,” Sam said.
Another group of us drove out to his place a week later, a group of teenagers who had recently written a national anthem and were going around performing the song for people a cappella. Sam refused even to listen.
“I have absolutely no interest in hearing your song,” Sam said.
Cameron Ramirez, who had never met him before that moment, and who hadn’t been properly warned about him, tried to explain that the lyrics would move him if he would only open his heart.
“You wrote an anthem for a country that factually doesn’t exist,” Sam said.
The next day was July Fourth, which is not a holiday in America, although all of us of course had celebrated the holiday back before we’d seceded. Throughout the day, we watched footage on television of the celebrations across the border. As always, the citizens of the United States looked depressed and weary, with bloodshot eyes shadowed by puffy bags, and all appeared to be drinking heavily, presumably as a form of self-medication, to cope with the stress of having to live under a dystopian plutocracy that viewed corporations as legal persons and treated citizens like mere merchandise. We could remember looking like that, and felt relieved to be free, and pity for those who weren’t. The general mood in our country that day was one of quiet introspection. Or was, that is, until night finally fell across our town, when fireworks began exploding in our sky.
Somebody was celebrating July Fourth.
We knew even before we got there
who was setting off the fireworks. For almost half a century he had personally funded the local fireworks show every July Fourth, and we found him where he had been every year before, at the bend in the creek just out of town, which offers the best vantage for shooting fireworks off over Main Street, but that year instead of being surrounded by a crowd of volunteers, Sam was shooting off the fireworks alone. He was wearing a bright white stetson and a bright red oxford tucked into a pair of blue jeans, United States colors, and had a revolver in a leather holster at the small of his back. He stepped away from the firework launchers as we turned the flashlights onto him. He looked tipsy, and was smiling, a frightening grin that had hints of rage and desperation.
A group of us were there, led by Belle Clanton, who we knew was still furious that he had turned away the census takers and the kids who’d written the new anthem. She had been looking for an excuse to confront him, and that was before he’d dared to set off fireworks. Those of us present were somewhat afraid of what she might do.
[Exchange as recorded in the journal of Ward Hernandez, barkeeper]
Belle trembled with a righteous anger.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Belle said.
“Celebrating,” Sam said.
“This is America. Those fireworks don’t make you a patriot here. Those fireworks make you a traitor,” Belle said.
Sam’s smile faltered. He gazed at her a second before spitting into the dirt. Then he scowled.
“I’m getting tired of this game you’re playing,” Sam said.
“It’s not a game. It never has been. If you love the United States, if you love it there that much, then go live in it,” Belle said.
Her hand hovered over the gun holstered to her hip.
“You’re welcome to leave any time,” Belle said.
Sam stared at her. Water trickled through the darkness. Bullfrogs hooted in the creek. The tension in the air was terrifying. Those of us present watched him for any sudden movements, certain that guns were about to be drawn, but after a pause he simply turned away, trudging back toward the road in silence, vanishing into the darkness beyond the trees, leaving behind the rest of the fireworks, along with a flask and a lighter. Visitors can still see those crates of unused fireworks in the grass at the site of The Last Independence Day In America (see: MAP OF AMERICA, SITE OF HISTORICAL IMPORTANCE #6), although the fireworks have since been rendered unusable by exposure to the elements. And while that incident was resolved without bloodshed, most historians believe the episode was a turning point in the conflict, and was ultimately responsible for all of the drama that came later.
Why Visit America Page 33