The bizarre realities of today's America are often difficult to discern from the fantastic and the treacherous. It is to the innocent, not so much a matter of conscience as of consciousness.

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 (Subtitle:  Things are seldom what they seem, but sometimes they Are)                                                                                                                                     

      Coming up US 301, about ten miles north of Starke, I noticed that the needle of my gas gage was bumping atop the empty mark, which seemed strange since the red warning light had not provided the customary signal.  But then, a lot of unusual things have been happening nowadays, don't you know.

     But Damn!  I had thought I could make it back to Jacksonville without refueling, and here I was in rural Florida, out of gas, at 8 p.m. Saturday night.  And the question then became, could I make it to a gas station, and what were the consequences if I couldn't? 

     Where was help to be found, considering that the Baptists were probably all still busily cleaning up after their church suppers or seriously discussing how especially to celebrate Jesus tomorrow, while even the kids of sufficient age to be of possible assistance were absent from the public scene,  and doing whatever teenagers do with one another beyond the observation of their parental masters, who themselves – to their publicly expressed horror – know exactly what kids do, having been guilty of the very same secret pleasures once upon a time, but long since having realized that such behavior was, well, best forgotten, and anyway atoned for by their now churchly perspectives, and certainly not to be remotely contemplated as involving "our Melissa!"

      My contemplation of Melissa's perils was banished by the sight of a roadside sign:  Caution – Adolpho Speed Trap – 3 Miles Ahead, a warning apparently sponsored by the good folks of Triple A.  And one might hope that where there is a speed trap there may also be a gas station, may God save us!

      Then more signs:  Reduce Speed Ahead, then:  Speed Limit Strictly Enforced. 

      I slowed down just before coming upon the white car parked next to an abandoned building, with its parking lights on but motor running, and yes, Police painted across its fuselage.  And there beyond, dimly lit, was the unmistakable silhouette of a gas station!  Praise be!

      Pulling up to the first of two gas pumps, I exited my thirsty vehicle while fishing through my wallet for my Visa card, and then inserting it into the slot provided.  Imagine my reaction to reading  the pump's electronic message:  Authorization Denied.  Damn, what now to do!

      I pivoted in place at the sound of the station's door opening, and was immediately struck by the competition of my senses on the one hand seeking rescue from my dilemma, and on the other to deal in some equanimity with the bizarre image strutting toward me.  There was this man, I could only suppose, in a suit and a shirt the equal to any off Brooks Brothers' racks, a light blue foulard necktie featuring American flag repetitions, another American flag as a lapel pin, and wearing a mask!  Some mask, can you believe it, featuring a furrowed forehead, knitted eyebrows, narrowed eyes, protruding ears, and a smirk!  Yes, as God is my witness, this figure that paraded a half step past me to stop abruptly, then to execute a military style left-face to confront me, was wearing a mask of George W. Bush!

     "Yer uhh access was uhh denied," emanated somehow curtly despite the inarticulations from behind the mask's smirk.

     "Yes," was all I could summon, still stupefied by the sudden lack of confidence in my sense of sight.  Could it have been, I wondered, that extra martini before departing Tampa earlier?

     "Is yer uhh curosity uhh challenged as to why?" again from the mouth slit.

     This time, despite the disabling of my articulation, I did manage two syllables:  "Uh, yes," all the time thinking yes, it was the martinis, or perhaps this is some kind of a very hard-wired dream.

     "Well, mister, our uhh surveillance got you."

     "Your surveillance got me?" I managed.

     "Yep, it uhh sure did, catches 'em evry time."

     "What, how?" was all I could offer.

     "It's uhh 'lectronic.  Uhh radar."           

     "Speed detection?" I hazarded.           

     "Oh no.  That's the job of the uhh sheriff down the street.  This gear is very uhh so---  uhh sophisticated.  Reads the signs on yer uhh vehicle, an' notes the signs not on yer uhh vehicle, uhh bumper stickers an' such.  Then crosses those uhh readins against a uhh data base of 687,000 uhh bumper stickers an' such, known to be both good or bad.  Then dependin' on what it uhh finds, it disallows yer uhh petrol an' alerts uhh whoever's on duty."           

     "What?  Why?"           

     "Mister, you tryin' to uhh make a uhh fool outa me?  International terrorism is why!  Those terrorists, they're everywhere, threatening America, our churches, decent folks.  Where have you been?  Maybe hidin' from uhh reality?  You really shouldn't be uhh puttin' me on now!  You wouldn't be one of those uhh perverted librals, would you?"           

     At this juncture I came to grips with my situation:  I was a stranger in a small town in rural Florida, was out of gas, at night, and at the mercy of a bizarre nonetheless threatening presence of a person dressed in a president suit and wearing a George W. Bush mask, a person who could provide me with the necessary petrol to get home or perhaps prevent that happy ending and consign me to God only knows what fate.  I decided to play his game.           

     "What," I asked, "was the result of your surveillance of my car?"           

     "You know what's uhh on yer car, mister, and what isn't.  The Obama's the One! bumper sticker of course uhh clued our uhh computer to register Possible Muslim Fanatic, and then of course there where the absences."           

     "Absences?"           

     "Oh, yes, we're no fools, we know the Muslims can be uhh shifty, not uhh volunteering what we need to know uhh to defend America, however small uhh our little piece of it is right here in Adolpho.  For instance, our computer advised before I ever saw yer vehicle that it lacked any of the positive signs."           

     "Positive signs?"           

     "C'mon, mister, we're no uhh fools, you know what they are, the usual stuff to be uhh expected nowadays since 9-11, for instance, no sign or uhh bumper stickers on yer vehicle sayin' even Our God is an Awesome God, Proud to be American, Bless Our President, or even Support Our Troops, for Christ's sake!  It's a mistake to trifle with me, mister, you damned well know what they are, and you need to keep in uhh mind that yer in Adolpho, not uhh somewhere like uhh Jacksonville, but as a matter of fact we have uhh friends there too, friends uhh everywhere, and all in uhh the real God's service, not to uhh mention America's."           

     Oh, Jesus, I said reverently to myself.  All this from behind the smirking Bush mask.  Heavy, heavy insane stuff, and I could be in real trouble.  God only knows what this lunatic is capable of.           

     "Look," I said, trying the nice reasonable guy role, "is it possible I could get some gas so I could get home to my family tonight?"           

     The presidential arms shifted up akimbo, and the mask's mouth said, "Maybe, if I can uhh convince myself that you uhh aren't a terrorist, or at least not a dangerous one."           

     "I will do whatever is possible," I responded evenly, "to convince you that the best interests of America are always uppermost in my priorities, my mind and my heart."           

     "Well," he said, "you've got a gifted uhh tongue, I'll give you that.  Well now, I'll tell you what, you take that uhh Muslim lovin' bumper sticker off yer uhh vehicle, and I'll give you ten gallons of gas, and you can uhh skedaddle out of here real quick like."           

     I went to the rear of my car, peeled off Obama, and said, "You've got a deal!"           

     Bushman went to the gas pump, punched in a code, lifted the nozzle, and said, "First that'll be uhh one hunnerd dollars."           

     I looked up to the sign in front of the station which read:  Regular $3.97.           

     "Your sign says..." I started.           

     "Look here, mister, you want to uhh get your Muslim lovin' terrorist ass out of Adolpho, it's a hunnerd dollars.  This here is uhh capitalism at work, it's the American way, something you uhh traitor pussy librals can uhh never come to grips with.  You want petrol, or do I consult with my uhh good American friend in the uhh white car down the street?"           

     Clutching the reality of my situation, I ripped five twenties out of my wallet and laid them in his hand.  The mask nodded, the pump sounded its business.           

     At exactly ten-point-zero gallons the masked man released the lever and hung up the nozzle, then turned to me silently, arms akimbo once more.           

     "I need to ask you a question," I said.           

     "What?" came out of the smirking mouth of the George W. Bush mask.           

     "Now don't be offended, but I need to ask you about the get up, the suit, and especially the mask, here at a gas station in Adolpho, rural Florida -- it just isn't what one would expect.  Now please don't get upset, but frankly  it's completely bizarre, and runs counter to anyone's possible concept of reality."           

     His arms shoot up into the air, "Reality," he explodes, "what do you pussy libral Muslim lovers know about reality?  I'm telling you, very lucky man so far, we here are experts in reality!"           

     Then lowering his hands to tug at his flag-foulard necktie, then to fiddle fussily with the flag lapel pin, and finally pressing his palms at each temple of the grotesque George W. Bush mask, he blasts a scream through the unchangeable smirking aperture:  "This IS the reality of America!"           

     I didn't need to witness more.  Fearing for both my sanity and my safety, I backed myself defensively through the door of my car, turned the ignition key, and moved off down the road briskly but prudently so not to trip the radar of the "good American friend in the uhh white car down the street."           

     Passing the uninviting speeder-warning signs on the far side of town, I exhaled in relief that I had escaped Adolpho, but my mind could not shed the impact of the suit, the mask, but mostly of:  This IS the reality of America!           

     An hour-and-a-half later, having arrived at my home in the Southside section of Jacksonville, and after the customary sweet words and ceremonial embrace of a marriage of some tenure, I asked my wife to sit with me for a talk.           

     "Should we," I began, "perhaps early Monday morning, make that call to the Australian consulate?"

Authors Bio:
Rafe Pilgrim, after "a life largely wasted on hard honest work," found himself a jungle of turkey oak, scrub pine and giant palmettos up a dirt road running east of Crystal River, Florida, which neither school busses nor the U.S. Postal Service dare to assay. Sharing a house of his own design with Spanky the cat, Darla a pit bull, and a foundling of mysterious breed named Alfalfa -- all collectively known as Our Gang -- he spends his time "productively: writing poetry, working for peace, and gazing at the sky."


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Central High School of Philadelphia, University of Maryland, Syracuse University, University of Maine, Ursinus College, Air Force Intelligence (Washington D.C., Germany), Ford Motor Company, Philco-Ford Corporation, Eighth Day Gallery, Phi Kappa Phi, Romey Everdell Award for Journalism,(1988), Hole in one (1998), and struggling to find America ever since 2000.