Welcome to the Middle Ages

by David Benjamin 

 

“I don’t want to abolish government. I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”          

―Grover Norquist

 

It all started when the earth-moving equipment arrived and commenced ripping up the pavement on Maple Street. Hearing the engines roar and the crashing concrete, Frobisher forsook his breakfast and ran outside. He was shocked, of course, and assumed that this was either a grotesque mistake or an epic act of vandalism. He drew his smartphone and poised a finger to dial “911.”

“Won’t do any good,” said a voice at Frobisher’s elbow. 

Frobisher turned to behold a wizened little man with a stringy mustache, wearing a green eyeshade and wielding a clipboard. At the end of the 100 block, giant backhoes were loading sidewalks, shrubs and mailboxes into dump trucks. 

Immobilized by fear and confusion, Frobisher said, “Say what?”

The stranger said, “Smedley, Census Bureau. You must be Frobisher, 222 Maple Street, raised ranch, two-car garage and a Labrador named Bruno, right?”

Frobisher could only nod.

“You were about to call the police? Won’t work. They are—well, were—part of the government, local,” said Smedley flatly. “But go ahead, listen in.”

Mechanically, Frobisher dialed the number and put the phone to his ear. It made no sound, not even a beep. 

Smedley explained. “Technically, you should be able to get a signal, because your wireless provider is a private outfit. But if you look at your bill, you’ll see.”

“See what?”

“Every month you pay a state sales tax on your phones, and a federal license fee. So, you see, it’s government,” Smedley said. “And see here?” 

He held up the clipboard.

“Here’s your name, All your data. Totally ordinary. But read the bottom line.” Smedley put his finger on the bottom line. “You hate the government.”

The town’s real name is classified. Its DHS code name is Libertyville. Three years ago, the Census Bureau quietly conducted a survey probing the feelings of Americans about “The Government.” Results were so astonishing that the survey was repeated. But it came out the same. Although approval of the government was a marginallyt respectable 31 percent overall, there were pockets of anti-government hostility where as many as 94 percent of a local populace said explicitly that the government is a burden and a curse on their existence. They agreed vehemently with the statement: “The government and all its lackeys should be burned to a crisp and covered with a layer of quicklime six feet deep.”

“This town is one of the government-hatingest outposts in all of America,” said Smedley, “and you, Frobisher, are typical.”

Frobisher was recovering his faculties. He shouted, “Okay, sure! I hate the government but there’s no law against it. I got the rights to say what I want.”

“Well, technically, that’s so,” Smedley agreed. “But it’s the government that guarantees your freedom of speech. Do you want me to spell out the syllogism?”

Frobisher, sensed that he was losing the argument. “Okay, whatever,” he muttered. “But what’s with the goddamn bulldozers?”

It was decided, actually in the Pentagon, to choose a model city—which turned out to be “Libertyville”—to demonstrate tangibly rather than hypothetically the logical consequence of hating the government to the point where citizens would prefer that it be entirely expunged from their daily existence. 

Smedley peered at Frobisher beneath his eyeshade. “Think about it, Frobisher. Were you responsible for the paving of Maple Street in 1956?”

Frobisher looked puzzled.

“Did your forebears and their neighbors pay a contractor to lay down asphalt and concrete, put in curbs and sidewalks, install storm drains and manholes, crown the road, erect utility poles, plant that stop-sign down the block?”

“Well, no, I—”

“Look down, Frobisher. Under your feet. What do you see?”

“The road?”

“No, Frobisher. You see the government. You see your taxes at work. But you hate the government. You hate taxes even more. So, we’re liberating you from government roads, from drainage, traffic signs, sidewalks, streetlights and police protection—all that intrusion into your God-given freedoms. We’re getting the government off your back and out of your suburb.”

Just then, Frobisher saw his twins, Farrah and Farrell, trudging homeward, downcast and bewildered. “Kids,” he cried out. “Why aren’t you in school?”

Farrell sneered at his father. “What school, Pops?”

Smedley intervened helpfully. “Frobisher, you might have heard a booming sound around dawn this morning.”

“Yes, it woke me up.”

“Well, that was us. We blew up the school. It’s a shambles now,” said Smedley. “But look on the bright side, Frobisher.”

“Bright side?”

“You’ve always hated public education. No, my mistake.” Smedley studied his clipboard. “You went to public schools, graduated, attended a public university, graduated, got an advanced degree. Made a good living, family, kids, nice house, lovely street, mostly white neighborhood, no Jews at all … but now …”

Smedley ran a finger across his clipboard. “But for several years, you’ve taken to despising public education. You said ‘government schools’ were ‘indoctrinating’ and ‘brainwashing’ little Farrell and sweet pretty Farrah. Hi, honey.”

Farrah waved and smiled at Smedley. “You’re funny-looking,” she said. 

“I know,” said Smedley. “It’s a government thing.”

Smedley turned on Frobisher. “So, now your kids are saved. No public school. No communist dogma or CRT discomfort. No sodomite grooming.”

“But where,” began Frobisher.

“Private ed, that’s your ticket. There’s a nice parochial school in the next town over. But you should hurry and enroll. After today, there’s gonna be a waiting list. And they’ll probably raise the tuition. You know how those Catholics are.”

“But I would have to drive them—”

“Sorry,” said Smedley. “That would mean driving on County Highway FF. It’s a government road. As a government denialist, you could not, in good conscience, use it. Nor could we allow you. Oh, by the way, I need your driver’s license.”

“They would have to walk? That’s ten miles.”

“More like twenty,” said Smedley. “They couldn’t set foot on the road, and they couldn’t cut through the state park—government land, y’know.”

“Daddy,” wailed Farrah, “twenty miles to school? With Catholics?”

Smedley was helpful again. “There are some wonderful home-schooling packages available now. Have you heard of PragerU?” he said. “It would be like pioneer days—like Abe Lincoln, studying in a log cabin, by candlelight.”

“Wait,” said Frobisher, with a shudder of foreboding. “Candlelight?”

“Well, you’ve heard of the grid,” said Smedley. “We’re taking your house off of it in, let’s see now … Oops, five minutes ago. Kids, first one to the toilet gets the last flush left in the tank.”

“Flush?” asked Frobisher. “Oh no. You don’t mean … you can’t … ”

“Luckily,”said Smedley, “I have—right here in my rucksack—a list of very reputable porta-potty providers…”