Alcatraz
By: Peter Stewart
Donald Trump is serving a five year sentence at Alcatraz. A nickel at The Rock. Ironically, or literally as the younger gen says, a prison of his own making. Jack Smith has done yeoman’s work. The Supreme Court refuses to intervene.
To swing a clock hand from where he stands on the left is the Golden Gate Bridge, Marin County, and Angel Island, above is the East Bay with Oakland, the cranes of the Port are prominent, to the right the Bay Bridge, then the South Bay and Silicon Valley, six o’clock the City by the Bay, San Francisco.
He looks at his map and tries to memorize the street names close by; Chestnut, Gough (rhymes with cough, not goo), Van Ness, Divisadero. Lombard, the crookedist street.
It is beautiful in a harsh way, foggy and cold most days. The sun rises over the East Bay, and sets on San Francisco.
The young guard who is a patriot comes by the cell.
“This could be the night Mr. President.”
“Thanks McDermott.”
Trump is ready. A regimen of push ups, yoga, planks, sit ups, and jumping jacks, and lack of ice cream has him at 219 pounds. The weight that quack doctor, after some negotiation, said he was. He hasn’t gotten any taller.
“After this we’ll bust Pam and Kristi out too,” the guard beams.
“Yeah, maybe not Steven Miller, that guy scares me.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
An hour later the signal comes from Fisherman’s Wharf. The tide is right. McDermott quickly unlocks the door and enters. Gets Trump into the wetsuit, booties, gloves, hood.
“These are your fins, put them on at the last minute, wade out backwards, and God Bless you.”
“Fight, fight, fight,” he responds, this gets the kid going every time.
They make their way to the beach at the South end of the island. It is the coriolis effect, you are going to swim straight but wind up going in a curve. If he doesn’t hit Aquatic Park, one of the piers or even the baseball park would be okay. He enters the Bay, fuck is it ever cold, give a few kicks and paddles, feels pretty good.
He doesn’t see the wave from the passing freighter coming. He is pushed so far down he doesn’t know which way is up. Just when he is ready to take a breath of water he comes up, coughing.
Now he has an ice cream headache. Is a bit disoriented.
A burning car at a sideshow in Oakland looks just like the light. He sets out again in earnest. Does it feel like he is making any headway? A little.
Time takes a backseat when survival is the goal. He isn’t sure how long he swims. In the light of the moon he can make out a bridge tower. Treasure Island. His back is sore. His teeth are chattering.
The tide and his efforts bring him down to the city of Fremont. A large Afghan community resides here. The last hundred yards are harrowing. He is close to giving up and makes a final push, staggers onshore.
As the sun rises he collapses next to a bike path. A jogger sees what she thinks at first is a sea mammal. Then seeing the blue face she screams. She puts two fingers to the neck and gets no pulse. The end of an era.
No, that was too easy, don’t do that.
He staggers into an upscale neighborhood by the Bay. The sun hits his wetsuit and warms him slightly. A police cruiser comes by. An officer jumps out, cuffs him and throws him in the car.
“My family had a large soybean farm in Nebraska,” the cop lectures him, “A big beautiful farm. Now the bank owns it and we are spread all over the country, only some of us have jobs.”
Closer, but not quite it.
He staggers into a neighborhood of pastel colored houses. Rings the doorbell of a house with a Mercedes out front. It is the home of Abdul, who fled Kabul as a boy under the Russian occupation. He owns a Recreational Vehicle dealership. His wife answers the door in a hijab. Good, Trump thinks to himself, I think these people have some sort of cultural rule about not turning down a traveler in need. Sure enough she gets him a towel and makes some hot tea. Lets him change into Abdul’s Cal Bears hoodie, sweatpants, socks, Nike high tops. A baseball hat with the name Yosemite on an arrowhead. He looks at his hand which has a faded written number on it.
“Would you call my friend and tell him I got lost and give him your address?”
Trump is watching the street as a black SUV comes barreling into the block and pulls up.
“Thank you Sitara!” He says as closes the front door and walks out into the street.
Author Bio:
Peter Stewart lives in the mountains of Northern California with his wife Kirsten and dogs. He is a surfer and Volunteer Firefighter. His work has been featured in Quibblelit, Pato Journal, Written Tales, Manic World, and Coming Up Short.
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