Paranoia   by Matias Travieso-Diaz

Sometimes paranoia is just having all the facts.
William S. Burroughs

One of Henry’s daily routines was to surf the internet’s social sites in search of interesting stories to read and – although he knew this was a long shot – search for lost friends and relatives. He ignored the barrage of political palaver and the innumerable solicitations that offered to sell him stuff, make him rich, or restore his health and looks to the days of his youth. “I am pushing ninety. Unless anyone can prove that he has rediscovered the Fountain of Youth, I have no use for commercial come-ons” he told himself.

He was addicted, however, to mental teasers. He did crossword and jigsaw puzzles, played Scrabble, Sudoku, and chess, and tried to solve mathematical riddles if he found them online. He would spend hours on word association games or trying to identify the logical solution to a problem. He justified all the time and energy he spent on these activities as a way to protect his mental faculties from decline. Some day he would sit in front of the TV and watch inane serials. But not today, he promised himself.

He was at his laptop one afternoon as a storm raged outside, trying to distract himself from the wind and the torrential rain that pelted the windows of his apartment. As he absently scrolled down a web page, a seemingly innocent message drew his attention:

“A farmer has two horses, four pigs, and two geese. How many feet are there in the farm?”

People had suggested various solutions, ranging from “2” to “24.” The person posting the riddle, who went by the name of “Raymond,” had not replied to any of the answers being proffered. Henry, feeling mischievous, decided to have some fun and entered this reply: “Insufficient information. You would have to measure the farm to find out.”

Immediately, Raymond replied: “Please message me so you can get paid.” Henry was intrigued by the peculiar offer, which seemed to have no relation to the riddle. He posted a message to Raymond and initiated the following exchange:

[Henry]: Pay me?

[Raymond]: Do you have a cash account of some sort?

[Henry]: Cash?

[Raymond]: An account where you hold cash.

[Henry]: (Quoting from an old rock song): We haven’t had that spirit here since 1969.

[Raymond]: I can help you set up a cash account. All I need is some information.

[Henry]: What information?

[Raymond]: Where are you from?

[Henry]: I was born in Belize. That is in Central America.

[Raymond]: I need more:

Full Name…..

Home Street Address…..

State & City…….

Email Address…..

Occupation…..

Phone number…….

[Henry]: What would you do with all this information?

[Raymond]: Open a cash account and transfer money into it.

[Henry]: For what purpose?

[Raymond]: This is a new program to support and help all the citizens and non-citizens that need assistance paying for bills, medical bills, debts, home improvement, buying a house/car, or to start a business.

[Henry]: Are you proposing to give me a loan?

[Raymond]: It is not a loan. You don’t have to pay the money back. If you provide this information, I can have money transferred to you free of charge or obligation.

[Henry]: What made you think that I need money?

[Raymond]: Come on, everyone can use some money.

[Henry]: I am not in need of financial assistance, though who knows what will happen in the next three years.

[Raymond]: I understand, but I would like to send you a payment now.

[Henry]: I don’t know what the payment would be for.

[Raymond]: As I said, this is a new program to support and help all the citizens and non- citizens that need assistance paying for bills, medical bills, debts, home improvement, buying a house/car, or to start a business.

[Henry]: Look, I am approaching ninety years of age, I am retired, and suffer only from arthritis and a weak heart.

[Raymond]: Just fill in the information, it’s easy.

[Henry]: Sorry. I don’t want to.

[Raymond]: [Silence]

***

As he lay half asleep, Henry was suddenly awakened by a thought. “Why did he ask me where I was from?” The question, coming out of the blue, had made no sense. They were communicating in English, his birth language and one he mastered completely, though he spoke with a decided Kriol accent. “And what was the questioner really looking for”?

Henry, now awake, asked himself another question: “And why did I tell him?” That one was easy. He had grown accustomed to ethnic insults from people from the neighboring country of Guatemala, and from natives of other former British colonies. He had been called batiman, panya, bakra, and other derogatory names, and as a reaction he always took pride in revealing his national origin as a way of letting everyone know that people from a benighted corner of the Caribbean could be successful in the “civilized” world.

However, ethnic pride was a dangerous commodity these days. What if the person at the other end of the conversation was an immigration agent, looking for foreigners suitable for deportation? What if the request for personal information was a tool to identify and locate potential targets? Other than his nationality, he had declined to answer personal questions based on instinctive privacy concerns, but had that been enough to protect him? His website page had enough data on him that anyone desirous of finding him could do so without great difficulty.

But why should he worry? He had come to America as part of a legitimate, government-sponsored student exchange program, had gone on to receive three advanced education degrees, had worked for thirty-five years for a major corporation, had committed no crimes and was a law-abiding citizen of this country. He was more American in all respects than three quarters of the population. There should be no legal basis for kicking him out, or any logical reason the authorities would want to do so. And yet …

He had read stories of foreign-born people like him, taken from their homes, churches, places of employment, rounded up without being given any legal protection, and shipped back to a homeland they no longer recognized or even sent to a strange land thousands of miles away.

His heart began beating rapidly. He would not survive such an ordeal. He would probably be dead even before starting the one-way plane ride. It had been a good sixty years. Did they have to end like this?

He got up and walked haltingly to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.  What could he do? Who could he talk to? Most of his relatives and friends were dead or living in nursing homes. He was not devout and had no significant links to churches, social clubs, lodges, or temples. He would need to do some quick research into legal aid organizations to see if there was anyone in the city who could help him.

He was mentally going through his options when there was a loud knock on the door of his apartment. Through the living room window, he could see flashing blue and red lights.

“Too late. They found me,” he groaned. He took a couple of random steps, tottered, and fell to the floor, the glass of water crashing ahead of him.

Outside, a police officer knocked on Henry’s door again and, getting no answer, yanked on the leash of the white Afghan. “Come on, buddy. Let’s see if we can find your owners next door.” The dog shook the rain off its flowing coat and wagged its tail as it was led away.

Matias Travieso-Diaz

Image: A laptop computer with the top open and the screen light reflecting on a wall. From pixabay.com