The American Spectator

“You mean you don’t wear that uniform all the time?” she said slyly.

“Just for occasions like this,” he admitted.

“Well, I think it looks very becoming. Here, just punch in your number and I’ll send you a text.”

Newman’s fingers quavered as he touched the screen. He realized he had forgotten his own phone number.

“Listen, do you now anywhere else where I could buy a bag of groceries without going through…?” She nodded forebodingly toward the security gate. “I only have to pick up a few things.”

“There’s nothing much left,” said Newman. “There’s a couple of little bodegas in the Mexican part of town. One of our boys’ parents owns one.”

“It’s so ridiculous, isn’t it?” she said, eyeing the monolith. “Have you seen those new guides they have in there now, telling people what to buy? ‘Don’t take this, don’t eat that. It’s not good for you.’ Do they think we’re a bunch of children?” Newman had never heard anyone talk this way.

“I have a tough time convincing these guys there was a time you could shop without explaining everything to the TSA,” said Newman. She flashed him a significant look.

“Well, listen, I have to run,” she said, stuffing her iWorld back in her purse. “But do get in touch. I’m serious about forming this new group. Somebody has better do something. Have you heard this story about how they’re going to start asking Chinese orphans to register with the government? They say it’s just to show the Chinese there aren’t that many of them, but you know where that’s going to lead.”

She suddenly turned apologetically. “Oh, I almost forgot. My name’s Marilyn Hu,” she said, offering her hand. “We’ve got so many addresses these days we forget to use first and last names.”

“I’m Newman. Ed Newman,” he managed to say.

“Very nice to meet you, Ed. Do get in touch.” And she scurried off.

Newman watched her trot toward the gate. Then he turned to assemble the boys. A light rain had begun to fall and it was time to go. Already he was starting to miss her.