Ep 15: The Climate Has Changed

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is, of course, coincidental.

Finally, Will wolfed down the last bite of the enormous slice of pizza, then—slurrrrrp—drained his ice-cold soda in one long pull. Too stuffed to stand, he slouched sideways against the bench, long legs stretched across the booth until his feet disappeared into the shadows beneath the opposite bench, making him look like a long baguette.

Then it hit him. He snatched up his phone—to check Teams. His manager, Mark, took his duties very seriously, especially the sacred duty of supervising his team members, like a border collie watching its flock. He might message Will at any moment and expect a prompt response. Sometimes during lunch, just as Will finally reached the front of the line to order, his phone buzzed: “Can you come over?” He would have to immediately abandon the line and hurry back to the office, only to find that Mark had an offhand question about some minor detail that was neither important nor urgent. Half of Will’s attention, talent, and brainpower at work went into watching out for his boss. Today, however, seemed to be Will’s lucky day. All the middle and senior managers were in a meeting.

No message from the boss yet. Good.

Mark’s status showed “Away,” which meant the meeting was still going on. Good.

He could steal ten more minutes. For a working stiff on a slow Friday, it was practically a blessing from heaven. Really, really good.

Beyond the window to his left, the Hudson stretched toward the Atlantic. January weather was visibly getting worse. Leaden clouds sank lower and lower, devouring what remained of the sunlight. The gold dancing across the waves had dimmed and vanished, and the harbor darkened into a sheet of metallic blue-gray. Amid churning waters stood the Statue of Liberty, her raised torch disappearing into the mist.

Besides Will, only a few customers remained in the pizzeria. The owner sat behind the counter, squinting hard at the register screen. Apart from the tap-tap of her fingers, only the TV hanging overhead could be heard.

“Those immigrants, there are so many of them, like locusts. They came in uninvited… They take our jobs, pollute our bloodline, commit terrible crimes. They make babies like rabbits. They are murderers, rapists, drug dealers… They’re a danger to our community… We should make it very clear: This country doesn’t welcome them…” Above the headline POTUS RAMPS UP MASS DEPORTATION PUSH, President Downit thundered in his usual jumbled, rambling way, and his voice sounded very much like the strained grunts of a man battling severe constipation on the toilet. He had a gnarled, old-fashioned face, heavy brows set in a permanent look of arrogance, and thinning gray hair combed straight back. His chin jutted forward. His palms flipped upward again and again, as though fanning a great flame between his hands. A vivid scarlet tie was fastened at his throat.

Hearing the president’s all-too-familiar rhetoric, Will rolled his eyes practically into orbit before lowering them back to his phone, where he had just opened—he could swear, even before God, that he had done it entirely without thinking, purely subconsciously, not even realizing what he was doing—he had just opened Brothl, the most popular gay dating… no, the most popular gay hookup app.

A grid of men instantly flooded the screen: hot, handsome, topless, with age, height, and distance neatly displayed beneath each profile. Almost every one had a phone raised for the practiced mirror selfie, abs tightened, jaw tilted to its most flattering angle, like a peacock on full display. Will scrolled and scrolled like an addict, rating them one by one. Brothl had apparently upgraded its algorithm again. Men of his type were carefully promoted to the top rows, and the feed itself seemed impossible to exhaust no matter how far his thumb traveled. This app knew his taste better than he knew himself. Scattered among the hottie profiles were occasional picture-less “black holes.” They belonged, in Will’s extensive field experience, to those too hideous to show themselves. Because, in this narcissism-soaked gay community, if a man was satisfied with any part of his own body, anything at all—his face, his muscles, his butt, even his feet—he would flaunt and peddle it hard, like a real-estate agent hawking a property. Unless…

Suddenly, a notification dropped from the top of his screen. Will’s whole body tensed. He hurriedly tapped it with a flicker of panic. Oh! It was just an emergency alert warning of an extreme winter Nor’easter that coming weekend. Not his boss. He exhaled in relief, then checked Teams again: Mark’s status still showed “Away.” Now it was getting a little weird, as it had been an hour since Will snuck out for lunch. Mark had never loosened the reins for this long, for he always wanted to “touch base,” “sync up,” or “cuddle”… no, “huddle.”

“I have signed an executive order granting law enforcement officers sweeping new powers. Our hugely expanded ICE will chase them down, catch them like rats, and throw them into immigration jails across the country! We will kick them out… deport them all.” Another burst of presidential thunder sent Will’s eyes rolling upward. In a tight close-up, President Downit’s face filled the TV screen. His eyebrows were almost vertical. His mouth curved downward in the classic shape of an “overturned boat”—a sign of great misfortune in traditional Chinese physiognomy.

As Will tried to study the face more closely, his phone rang.

“Hello? Yes, this is he… Oh, a job opportunity? Yes, absolutely. I’d be interested. I actually have over six years of experience in the industry… Mm-hmm… Well, about that—would this company be able to sponsor my work visa? … No, I already have the visa. They’d just need to take over the sponsorship. It should be pretty easy, right? … Oh. I see. Okay. Okay, yeah, the climate has changed. I understand… No worries. Thanks for calling.”

Hanging up, Will checked Teams yet again. Mark still showed “Away.” Now that was a record. A thread of worry crept in. Why is this meeting taking so long? Is something going on? Sure, working under Mark’s micromanagement was a pain in the ass. But he needed this job. His life in this country depended on his work visa, and his work visa was chained to this very role.

Anyway. Time to go back to the office, whatever is going on. Will stood up, cleared his tray, and set it atop the recycling bin. Just then, two hulking vehicles screeched to a stop outside the pizzeria.

Moments later, five men burst through the door. One wore a neck gaiter pulled over his face, and the other four wore balaclavas, leaving only their eyes visible. Their belts were loaded with gear of all kinds. For a split second, Will thought they were a gang of armed robbers, until the word POLICE stamped across their gear suggested they were part of the hugely expanded ICE.

“DON’T MOVE! Everybody stay where you are!” The man in the neck gaiter swept his gun across the room.

“Get out!” the owner yelled at the top of her voice. “Get the hell out of my store!”

The man lunged forward, yanked a stun gun from his belt, and planted himself at the counter, blocking her way like an iceberg. “You say one more fucking word and I’ll fucking Taser you!”

She froze.

The rest of the gang barely looked at her and headed straight for the back, then rushed downstairs into the basement, as though they already knew exactly where their target was. No badges shown. No warrant. No asking for permission.

Minutes later, a young Latino man was hauled out, each of his four limbs gripped by an agent, his back scraping along the floor like a captured animal. Wasn’t he the shop hand who worked here? Will had seen him a few times, though he had never learned his name. This guy’s English wasn’t great, but he was warm and good-natured. Whenever the words failed him, he would simply grin, a little embarrassed, flashing two neat rows of white teeth.

“He has a work permit! He didn’t do anything wrong!” the owner cried, trying to rush out again.

The neck gaiter man immediately advanced on her with his imposing bulk. “Move again and I’ll fucking Taser you!” In those few seconds, the pack had already dragged the shop hand out the door.

The customers watched the entire ordeal in stunned silence, their mouths hanging open in disbelief. Seconds later, Will came to his senses. He pushed open the door and stepped outside. Braving the cold air, he saw the ICE men shove the shop hand against one of the vehicles. One balaclava kicked him hard behind his left knee, then his right, forcing him to his knees. Another seized both arms and wrenched them behind his back. The poor guy screamed as they snapped handcuffs around his wrists. Inside the vehicles, three other men were already seated, all handcuffed and dressed too lightly for the below-freezing weather, their faces drawn and gray.

“Bee San!” Safely out of reach, Will hurled the insult after them—loud enough to make sure they heard.

Bee San, the most vicious insult in the Shanghai dialect. English was too kind, too mild, and too watered-down to offer an equivalent strong enough to match the full weight of Bee San, which rolled “worthless creep,” “small-time punk,” “pathetic clown,” and “contemptible little man” into one, then multiplied the whole thing by two!

It was the first time Will had watched ICE take someone away right before his eyes. The entire hunt lasted only a few minutes. Somehow, it felt like a century. On the way back to the office, the scene kept looping through his mind. 

Animals. Scum. How could the supposedly decent, kind, friendly soil of America—the so-called “Beautiful Country”—grow garbage like this? Will cursed silently. (Reference Read: America, The Beautiful Country)

If he had ever studied European magic at Hogwarts, he would have waved his wand and put the Cruciatus Curse on them right then and there—watched their legs buckle, their bodies convulse, and their limbs thrash against the ground in agony.

If he had mastered Taoist magic, he would have chanted the Golden Band Spell over them. Even if they had skulls of bronze and iron like the Monkey King’s, their brains would still have been squeezed until they burst and splattered like mozzarella.

If he were good at Hmong sorcery, he would have planted a Goo inside their bodies. Then, just like in those Thai horror movies: millions upon millions of tiny parasitic insects tearing through their fat bellies and pouring out in a black, writhing swarm…

Give him one superpower and this scene would have turned into a full-blown Marvel fantasy. Unfortunately, Will had spent the past twenty-odd years studying grammar, math, philosophy, and other bullshit subjects. Not one of them was of the slightest fucking use at a moment like this.

Worse still, as Will sat down at his office desk, his own curse started to kick in: the migraine. The back of his skull throbbed with pain, as though an electric current were running through it. He clenched his fist and hammered at the aching spot.

“Aren’t you going home?” A woman’s voice suddenly interrupted Will’s wandering thoughts. He turned toward the sound and saw his colleague Sarah already wearing her outerwear, stuffing things into her bag and humming happily. Her oversized gold earrings caught the light with every bounce of her head.

“What… Why?” Will looked around and found the office almost empty.

“Didn’t Mark message you?” Sarah’s incredulous tone carried a hint of a Southern accent.

“Message? Oh, shoot!” Only then did he remember Mark. He hurriedly opened Teams. There it was, a message from ten minutes ago.

Mark: There is nothing left to do. You can go home.

Wow, a 2:00 PM dismissal. This was definitely a record, a miracle! Normally, Mark would insist that the team stay at their desks until 5:30 PM, even on Fridays. In his words, the time from 9:00 AM to 5:30 PM had been purchased by the company, employees’ time was the company’s sacrosanct asset, and leaving early was robbery. Now, having successfully robbed the company of three hours, Will began humming happily to himself while packing.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Sarah asked while wrapping a long scarf around her neck.

“No, No, I’ll do what I always do.” By always, he meant doing laundry, buying groceries, cooking dinner, then mostly collapsing onto the couch, eyes glued to the screen, fingers scrolling through social media reels one after another. “What about you?”

“Oh, a lot. I’ve got a Rutgers reunion in New Jersey on Saturday. Then my daughter’s school musical. On Sunday, I go to church and praise Jesus, then cook for the MLK luncheon there. That’s food for eighty people. And then”—she raised a finger—“go pick up my mother-in-law, who’s flying in from Mississippi.”

“Oh, she’s visiting during a Nor’easter?” Will frowned.

“No, she’s not just visiting. I need her help babysitting the kids. Our nanny was picked up by ICE last week.”

“Really?” Will’s face fell at the mention of that unpleasant name.

“Yeah, she was getting diapers at Walmart, and then she just… disappeared.” Sarah drew a few circles in the air, miming something vanishing. “Our neighbor, who works there, told me what happened. Her stuff is still at our house. I pray Jesus keeps her somewhere warm, like Arizona. The ICE jails in New York could kill her,” Sarah said with a resigned look.

“Sorry to hear that,” Will said sympathetically. “Please add one more prayer to Jesus for me.”

“I will.” Sarah then looked around and lowered her voice. “Did you hear the rumor? Some say our company might stop sponsoring work visas starting next year.”

“What?” As though struck by lightning, Will’s happy mood vanished completely. “That’s impossible!”

“Oh, honey. The climate has changed. Under this government, nothing is impossible, and everyone in goddamn Washington, D.C., just lets them get away with it. At least the rumor says next year, not right now.” Sarah waved her hand. “Anyway, see you next week. You take care.”

“You, too…” Will replied listlessly. “See you next week.”

They wouldn’t see each other the following week. In fact, it was the last time he ever saw Sarah. But we shall come to this in due course.

Stepping out of the office building, Will had no appetite for anything and just wanted to take the subway home. What if the company stops sponsoring work visas next year? Where would I go? His mind started looping again as he walked along Wall Street and turned right onto Broadway toward the World Trade Center station. Passing through the 9/11 Memorial plaza, he noticed a large crowd stood braving the bitter cold, holding signs that read ICE OUT and NEW YORK HATES ICE. Will admired their courage. But he also knew it wouldn’t change a damn thing. As Sarah had said, “The climate has changed.”

Growing up, he was surrounded by the rhetoric that America was a grand, fabulous land of opportunity, promising people from around the world a place to chase their dreams. He spent the best years of his youth pursuing that promise—saving money, submitting school applications, taking exams, attending interviews, having coffee chats, completing internships—tackling every challenge like some Kung Fu master until, finally, he landed a stable job in this country. The rest was supposed to come naturally: a green card, a big house, a nice car, a family, and then… life would simply carry on, one orderly step after another. He thought he’d reached the other shore. Only now did he realize: No! He was still aboard the same ship—and whether that ship would ever reach shore was never his to decide. Yet he was now so deep into his American life that he could no longer imagine living any other way.

Will stepped onto the E train and waited for it to depart. Only a dozen or so passengers were scattered throughout the car. What if? What if? Will began running through his options. Living in this country on borrowed permission meant paying a heavy tax on his mind: constant anxiety over his legal status.

Soon enough, the subway creaked and groaned into motion. Maybe I should update my résumé online, just in case… And as soon as Chris gets back, I should bring up getting married—sooner rather than later…

While he wasn’t paying attention, an old woman wrenched open the door between the subway cars and stumbled inside. The lurching train slammed the door shut behind her with a loud bang. Will looked over. Under the subway car’s bleak lighting, she came shambling down the aisle, shoulders crooked, legs moving in stiff, uneven steps. She carried a grimy tote bag, bulging with God knows what. She didn't look quite homeless, but her clothes were far dirtier than those of the average passenger. Her eyes swept the car with predatory intensity, as though hunting for something.

Finally, like an eagle spotting its prey, she stormed up to an Asian student sitting at the back of the subway car. She thrust her face toward his and demanded, “Are you Chinese?”

The student shrank back into his seat, eyes wide behind thick glasses, without saying a word.

“What are you doing in this country?” She barked, leaning even closer.

Heads lifted throughout the car as passengers turned to look, and the student shrank even farther back.

Watching the scene, Will felt an electric jolt at the back of his skull, as though a sword were trying to pierce its way out. A long-dormant fierceness suddenly awakened inside him. It’s truly your bad luck to run into me! A hard glint flashed in his eyes. I can’t curse ICE out to their faces, but cursing you out? Piece of cake!

Then, at the top of his voice, Will shouted to the woman, “What the fuck are you doing here? Get the fuck out!” Now all eyes in the subway car turned toward him.

Like a zombie that had found a new target, she twisted her head and charged toward Will. “You don’t belong here! Fuck off back to China!” The woman yelled as she approached.

“What about YOU? Who says YOU belong here? What miserable town are YOU from? Which trash bin is YOUR home?” Will looked as though he were chanting some mighty incantation, sword energy practically shooting from his eyes.

The woman was obviously not expecting a comeback like this, not from an Asian face speaking fluent English. Irritated, she waved her twisted arms wildly in the air to vent her anger, then stormed closer to Will.

Coward. I dare you to touch me, Will thought to himself. Sure enough, when she got within four or five feet of Will, she stopped and dropped into a seat. Gutless weasel!

Still, she yelled, “Go back to your own country!”

Now Will even found her fury somewhat amusing. “Are you going back to YOUR own country? Where is it? Or are you going back to HELL, where you definitely belong?”

Suddenly, the train pulled into a station, and most passengers, including the Asian student, quickly fled to other cars, leaving only a few scattered farther away. Neither of the two moved. Their eyes remained locked, the air between them thick with hostility. Then the train started moving again.

By now, the woman had clearly realized she was no match for him. She glared fiercely at Will, clutching her tote bag with trembling hands and muttering over and over, “You are good! You are good!”

Will met her gaze and glared back, his eyes blazing with a cold, murderous gleam, like a majestic king cobra mesmerizing its prey. “Yes, I know.” Will arched his eyebrows slightly, staring deep into her eyes as though injecting deadly venom straight into them. “And too bad you’re not!”

For the next few moments, the car fell silent again except for the metallic clatter of the moving subway. Two minutes later, the train arrived at the next station, and Will decided to execute his exit strategy. After the doors opened, he remained seated, holding her gaze. He waited two seconds, then suddenly rose and walked toward the door with composed elegance. Then he paused and, without looking back at the woman, hissed sharply, “PATHETIC!” before stepping out of the car.

The doors closed behind him just in time.

End of Episode

Albert Aspen’s work is published simultaneously on this site and on his Substack page. If you prefer reading on Substack, please visit: Who is Albert Aspen?

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