Alpha Enthusiasm

As every dawn, Jim plopped into his plush leather chair, somewhat clumsily due to a proudly growing midsection (he had taught his wife well the duty to feed him). Caressing his nameplate -James Johnson, Department of Reproductive Control- he glanced over to the three gold-plated frames hanging behind him, flanked by peremptory American flags.

Two held portraits of the Dearest Leaders, both billionaires (men, of course), one pale and dark-haired, the other tawny and yellow-topped. In the center was the 28th Amendment, under which Jim’s office had been created: The right of women citizens of the United States to take up any primary role other than their divinely-ordained role as birther shall be denied by the United States or by any State. Jim gave an erect, idolizing salute- he treasured this daily requirement, it always arousing him for the day’s work.

At exactly 7 a.m. (the government ran a tight ship, running off schedule was bad for business), Jim’s assistant director marched in, an unending file of women behind him.

“There’s a lot today, sir. We’ll have to move quickly to meet our deadlines.”

A sense of achievement unraveled across Jim’s face. He was most pleased with the growing number of women dragged to his office each day, he himself having developed the registry for tracking missed menstruation. Any and all women citizens were subject.

One after another, they stepped, or were shoved, up to Jim’s desk. A bulky woman with salt-and-pepper hair tried to explain that her condition would make the pregnancy deadly; a ragged blond begged, flashing bruises as proof that her pregnancy would get her murdered; some of the others tried to rationalize as well, but to all, James repeated with alpha enthusiasm:

“Name?...Looks like you’re [x weeks] pregnant…Report to…”

About halfway through the line, a tiny, trembling woman -a girl, actually, of 12 or 13 years- crept meekly up to the desk.

“Name?...I said NAME?!”

Jim snapped his burning eyes upward, determined to find whose silence had cost him precious seconds. But his expression shifted, as if he was suddenly looking into a mirror.

“Daddy, you know my name.”

An instantaneous flood of flashbacks dampened Jim’s flame: his baby girl, a mini him, giggling as he twirled her around; teaching her to read, chuckling as she outpaced her brothers; cheering…

“Sir, we’re on a tight schedule.”

Jim studied his wounded child, then searched the Dearest Leaders’ faces hanging above. Unable to come up with anything else, he regurgitated their words with a volume hopeful of travelling from his daughter to the non-existent end of the line of women:

“I don’t expect you all to understand, your womanhood having rendered you incapable of thinking freely. But civilization must be protected from collapse. Excusals are prohibited!”

He returned his gaze to his daughter, and peering into the pools in her eyes -his eyes- he echoed, “Looks like you’re 8 weeks pregnant. Report to…”