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The Selfish American

There was once a selfish American named Sai. In a country filled with egocentric characters, Sai stood out from the crowd. They weren’t evil per se – just incredibly self-centered, self-absorbed, and self-seeking.

One day, Sai went on Etsy and ordered an expensive sweater stitched from premium cashmere. Unbeknownst to Sai, the seamster behind the cashmere sweater came from Gadopa, a small village in the war-torn country of Guammalmorandra. When asking the seamster how long the order would take, Sai received an answer of three months.

‘Any way you can do it in two?’ Sai inquired.

‘Doubtful,’ the seamster replied. ‘My country’s at war. It’s a miracle I can still keep my Etsy business afloat amidst the chaos.’

‘Bummer,’ Sai mumbled while browsing Etsy’s Terms and Conditions page. ‘How about two and a half months? Better for your schedule?’

Sai waited for the seamster’s reply, but it never arrived.

Two and a half months came and went. Sai remained sweaterless. Ever resourceful, they contacted the seamster.

‘Hey, hope the war isn’t too distracting today. What’s the status of my order?’

‘I’ve made your sweater, Sai. But I can’t send it. Our postal system is inoperable. Izeana blew it to pieces.’

‘Shoot,’ Sai replied. ‘Hurricane?’

‘What?’

‘Uh, Izeana. Hurricane?’

‘Not even close. Izeana is a neighboring country driven by a power-hungry dictator. Don’t you watch the news?’

‘Once. My local station interviewed me in front of a Petco. The owner got shot or something – I don’t know. Anyway, I went home and told everyone to tune in, only to find out the bastards never showed my clip. I’ve stayed away from mainstream media ever since.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ the seamster remarked. ‘I can’t send you the sweater. The best I can do is offer a full refund.’

‘Well, what if I just came and got it myself?’

‘You want to come here? To Guammalmorandra? For a sweater?’

‘Cashmere.’

‘Regardless! The country is in shambles, and my village is at the center of the conflict! Mangled corpses line our streets, their flesh rotting to the bone. There’s no food, no water, and the air’s barely breathable due to the smoke emitting from heavy machinery.’

‘Noted on the air quality. I’ll be sure to pack a mask. I just need your name and address.’

‘Fine. Be my guest. My name’s Kilgour Dormeuli. I live at 073 Bend Road, Gadopa Village. Best of luck, you selfish American.’

‘Sweet, thanks for the info. By the way, does United fly into Guammalmorandra?’

Sai waited for a reply. It never came.

—

Later that week, Sai visited the Albany International Airport. They approached a United ticket window with zero luggage.

‘One round-trip ticket to Guammalmorandra, please.’

A young woman working the ticket window appeared dumbfounded.

‘You can’t travel to Guammalmorandra. It’s-’

‘Smoky? Don’t I know it! No worries – I brought a mask.’

Sai reached into their pocket and retrieved a single KN95 mask, practically falling apart at the seams.

‘No,’ the young woman reiterated. ‘It’s a war zone.’

‘I’ve already been briefed about the smoke.’

‘…What?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Look,’ the young woman scoffed. ‘The U.S. Department of State issued a level four travel advisory for Guammalmorandra.’

‘Eh, not too shabby.’

‘How do you figure?’

‘They gave it four stars, right? That’s a pretty decent rating for Tripadvisor standards.’

The young woman’s eyes began to twitch.

‘Not Tripadvisor, you buffoon,’ she hissed through gritted teeth. ‘TRAVEL ADVISORY.’

There was a long pause.

‘Is this because I don’t have a passport?’ Sai cheekily asked.

Immediately following their remark, airport security grabbed Sai by the shoulders and tossed them out of Albany International.

—

With tourism off the table, Sai pondered other ways to infiltrate Guammalmorandra. They didn’t have to contemplate too long, for behind the scenes, the United States military was eager to join the fight. Sai never bothered to learn why the United States military wanted to get involved. They assumed it had something to do with money.

Sai visited an army recruitment center to express their interest in front-line combat. Once there, an elderly Korean veteran took down Sai’s information.

‘So, you wanna go to Guammalmorandra?’ the elderly veteran inquired.

‘You betcha. I’m young, spry, and ready to die for the cashmere.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Did I say cashmere? I meant cause. I’m ready to die for the cause. You know – liberty, justice, the rest.’

‘That’s what we like to hear,’ the elderly veteran smiles. ‘No pussyfooting.’

‘I wouldn’t dare step foot in a pussy, sir. The only surface I wish to trek is the bomb-infested hillsides of Gadopa village.’

‘Well, I just need a few details, and we’ll send you on your way.’

‘Great. Hit me.’

‘Name?’

‘Sai Williams.’

‘Gender? That’s a given: ma-.’

‘Non-binary.’

The elderly veteran’s eyes widened. He slowly looked up from his paperwork and addressed Sai with a frightened gaze.

‘C-c-could you r-r-repeat that?’ the elderly veteran trembled.

‘Sure. Non-binary.’

The color on the elderly veteran’s face began to drain. Simultaneously, his vision became impaired, and his right arm went numb.

‘I…don’t understand.’

‘It’s alright; very few do,’ Sai quips. ‘Think of me as a chameleon. Sometimes, I embrace masculine traits. Sometimes, feminine. Periodically, I dip my toe in both. And occasionally, neither. But yeah, to put it bluntly, I reject gender norms. Does that make sense?’

Following Sai’s admission, the elderly veteran went into cardiac arrest. He collapsed to the floor and held his chest in agony while visions of Americana danced in his head.

‘Bald eagles, apple pie, Kennedy, baseball,’ the elderly veteran whispered. ‘It’s all so beautiful.’

As the patriotic apparitions concluded, a final image brought tears to the elderly veteran’s eyes.

‘My god,’ he wept. ‘Denny’s Red, White, and Blue Pancakes. Yes. I remember now. They tasted like America.’

The elderly veteran saluted the pancakes before passing to the other side. Sai sat in awkward silence.

Five minutes later, a group of soldiers entered with push brooms. The group collectively swept away the corpse of the elderly veteran. In his place, a younger soldier with a backward camo hat appeared.

‘Hey, sorry about that,’ the younger soldier spoke. ‘We love our old guards, but they can be a bit close-minded. Rest assured, the army is a place of tolerance. I’ll finish your application for you.’

The young soldier with the backward camo hat observed Sai’s paperwork.

‘Okay – picking up where we left off, what’s your gender?’

‘Non-binary.’

‘That’s cool,’ the younger soldier smiled. ‘My mailman’s gay.’

—

Sai reported for basic training in Fort Moore, Georgia. They sat amongst a crowd of quivering, dead-eyed youths. Sai appeared overtly enthusiastic by comparison.

‘Hey,’ muttered a young recruit on Sai’s left. ‘What the heck are you so happy about?’

‘Oh, I’m just thinking about the cause,’ Sai lied with a smile. ‘I appreciate its delicacy. It’s soft, not unlike silk. At the same time, it’s insulating. And dense. You’d think these elements would contradict one another – but no. It’s free of irritation. The perfect blend.’

The young recruit gawked at Sai for several moments before gradually changing seats. Sai remained seated, grinning from ear to ear.

Just then, Drill Sergeant Mortem entered the facility. He looked exhausted and indifferent as he lit a cigarette.

‘Alright,’ Sgt. Mortem exhaled. ‘My name is Drill Sergeant Mortem. Traditionally, it takes ten weeks to learn the fundamentals of warfare. But we don’t have ten weeks. Hell, we barely have five minutes. The conditions in Guammalmorandra are that demanding. To compensate for lost time, I’ve devised an abbreviated training program that covers the basics. Without further ado, let’s get into it.’

Sgt. Mortem then retrieved a flimsy piece of paper from his pocket. He cleared his throat and proceeded to read.

‘You’re all sonsofbitches,’ he recited in a monotone voice. ‘I’ve never seen so many woke commies in one room. Toughen up – this is the part where you toughen up. Uh-’

Sgt. Mortem set aside the piece of paper and showcased his M17.

‘This is a gun,’ Sgt. Mortem dryly stated.

He then proceeded to load the gun with ammunition.

‘This is a magazine. It goes in here. This is the trigger. When you feel like killing something, give it a squeeze.’

Sgt. Mortem concealed his M17.

‘Well, I think that’s everything. The plan is to disperse you throughout the quieter areas of Guammalmorandra. If and when you build enough combat experience, we’ll transfer you to rougher locations. Any questions?’

Sai raised their hand.

‘Can I go to Gadopa Village? Specifically, 073 Bend Road?’

‘Afraid not,’ Sgt. Mortem replied. ‘That area’s highly dangerous. I can only send our best guys there.’

‘But you don’t understand,’ Sai pleaded. ‘I believe in the cashmere!’

‘Cashmere?’ Sgt. Mortem replied while squinting his eyes in confusion.

Sai appeared red in the face.

‘Did I say cashmere?’ they stammered. ‘Because what I meant to say…’

Sai exhaled.

‘Fuck it. I meant cashmere. I ordered a beautiful cashmere sweater from Etsy a few months ago. Little did I know, the seamster’s from Guammalmorandra. The sweater’s finished, but it couldn’t be shipped. Something about smoke. Anyway. I’m not interested in a cause. I’m interested in merchandise. Every day, I grow a little colder, wondering if I’ll ever grace my skin with such a luxurious fabric. The fact that I’m here in the safe confines of America while my sweater suffers at the hands of such unjust political violence makes me sick.’

For a moment, Sgt. Mortem said nothing. Then, he burst into tears.

‘Goddamnit,’ he wept. ‘It breaks my heart when merchandise fails to arrive at the doorstep of a loyal American consumer. Most people would settle for a refund. But not you. You’re prepared to step into the fiery gates of hell to get what’s rightfully yours. A true champion of capitalism.’

Sgt. Mortem turned to address the other recruits.

‘Is there anything more American than that?’ he asked the crowd. ‘Don’t answer! It’s a rhetorical question! There isn’t.’

Sgt. Mortem approached Sai and shook their hand.

‘You’ve got guts, kid. I like it. I’m sending you to Gadopa Village ASAP. You’ll have an entire squad of top-tier soldiers at your disposal. They’ll take you to the cashmere.’

‘Thank you, Sgt. Mortem,’ Sai wept. ‘For the first time in months, I feel seen.’

The duo shared a warm embrace as baffled recruits watched on.

—

Before the war, Gadopa Village was known for its vibrancy. Think Switzerland, but even greener. Those days of color were long gone. It’s as if God went into the Paint app and doused everything gray. Such grim displays of death and decay were enough to shatter the spirits of America’s strongest soldiers.

And then, there was Sai.

Sai approached a quaint barn house on 073 Bend Road. From their perspective, traces of life seemed nonexistent. Regardless, they knocked on the door and waited. A young boy eventually answered. He appeared mentally and emotionally exhausted.

‘Kilgour Dormeuli?’ Sai asked.

‘Uh, no,’ the small boy replied weakly. ‘Kilgour was my father. My name’s Pepe.’

Pepe began to cough.

‘Forgive me. My lungs can’t handle the smoke of war. Have you come to finish me off? Or, are you an ally?’

‘That’s a great question,’ Sai pondered. ‘I never bothered asking where we stood on the Guammalmorandra and Izeana conflict.’

‘Well, you’re American, yeah?’

‘Yup. U.S. Army.’

‘That means you’re an ally. At least, for now, while there’s profit to gain.’

Pepe peered over Sai’s shoulder.

‘Where’s the rest of your squad?’

‘Oh, they’re dead,’ Sai answered casually. ‘They died protecting me on my way here. You can kinda see their corpses if you squint through the smoke.’

Pepe squinted through the smoke to identify several slain American soldiers lying face down in the muck.

‘My goodness,’ the small child lamented. ‘You must be devastated.’

‘Yeah, it weighs heavy on my conscience,’ Sai mumbled hastily before clasping their hands together. ‘Anyhoo, it’s imperative that I see Kilgour. Can you take me to him?’

‘My father? He joined the resistance several weeks ago. Died in combat.’

‘Fuuuuuuuuuck,’ Sai moaned.

‘I scrapped his remains off the earth’s soil and placed them in a shoebox. I haven’t had the strength to bury them yet. Tell me, what business did you have with my father? Are you hoping to share resources with the resistance?’

‘Uh, sort of,’ Sai trailed off. ‘Only it’s the other way around. Your father spoke of a resource stowed in this house that’ll change the course of the war as we know it. It’s called, uh, Project Cashmere.’

Pepe looked confused.

‘Project… Cashmere?’

‘Well, as you may know, your father was a seamster. The resistance put him in charge of sharing combat strategy with the U.S. Military. These transmissions were executed under the guise of his Etsy account to avoid drawing attention from the enemy. Of the strategies he shared, Project Cashmere stood out from the rest.’

‘What is it? A weapon?’

‘Uh… I’m afraid those details are classified,’ Sai bullshitted. ‘Look, within your father’s workshop, there’s a package addressed to Sai Williams. This package contains Project Cashmere. If you wish to end this war and preserve your father’s legacy, you’ll take me to that package.’

A look of annoyance slowly crept across Pepe’s face.

‘Sai Williams? As in, Etsy user FreakInDaSheets1993? That Sai Williams?’

Sai gulped.

‘Rest assured, whatever resentment your father expressed of Sai Williams was merrily an effort to misdirect Izeana hackers.’

‘Please stop,’ Pepe sighed. ‘I know you’re Sai Williams.’

‘Oh yeah? Prove it.’

‘It says so on your uniform.’

Sai glanced at their uniform and identified a giant nametag displaying their name.

‘Plus,’ Pepe continued. ‘My father spoke of a selfish American who ordered a cashmere sweater right as the war broke out. He claimed this selfish American had plans to travel to our village and collect their order. We laughed at such a foolish declaration. And now, you’re standing in front of my house. I’m genuinely speechless.’

‘Thank you,’ Sai smiled proudly. ‘My mother always said I was headstrong.’

‘I don’t think she meant it as a compliment,’ Pepe quipped.

The small boy looked to the sky. After a few moments, he smiled.

‘You know, my father loved seaming. Despite loathing your ignorance, he appreciated your business. And I imagine he’d want you to wear his creation proudly.’

Pepe motioned for Sai to enter his home.

‘Come. Let’s find your sweater.’

Sai glowed with anticipation. Before they could step across the threshold, they received a distress call on their AN/PRC-77 portable radio.

‘Mayday, mayday,’ the transmission commenced. ‘We received intel that Izeana is preparing to bomb Gadopa Village within the next few minutes. Fall back. I repeat, fall ba-’

The transmission abruptly ended. Sai and Pepe looked to the sky. The sound of warplanes echoed in the distance.

‘Quick, there’s not much time,’ Pepe urged.

The small boy took Sai by the hand and led them inside. They passed through several rooms before entering Kilgour’s workshop. The infamous package rested neatly on a nearby table, casting a heavenly glow.

‘Can it be?’ Sai whispered.

They slowly unwrapped the package and put on the cashmere sweater. All the while, Pepe stood vigilant by a window as the threat of nuclear destruction lingered overhead.

‘It won’t be long now,’ the small child sighed. ‘I never imagined it would come to this. It was hard enough to lose my father. But my home? My village? My entire existence? Never in a million years. And yet, here we are. Ready or not.’

Suddenly, the sound of repressed weeping derailed Pepe’s train of thought. He glanced over at Sai, whose eyes overflowed with tears. Pepe rushed to comfort the selfish American.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ the small child soothed. ‘At least we have each other in these final moments.’

‘Oh, it’s not that,’ Sai sobbed. ‘It’s the sweater.’

Sai quickly modeled the cashmere sweater with a few half-hearted poses.

‘It’s way too snug. I should’ve ordered a size up.’

Immediately after their admission, Izeana dropped bombs on Gadopa Village. One of the bombs crashed through Pepe’s ceiling and landed directly on Sai’s skull, where it exploded on impact.

There were no survivors.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Torrey Kurtzner is an out-of-work writer and master of self-deprecation. Against the better judgment of his peers, he’s determined to pursue a career within the creative arts, even if it kills him.

Image generated on Magic Studio