a goat story

I grew up in one of those Eastern European republics that no one in your country knows the name of. We used to be a part of the glorious Soviet Union until your country sent us into a financial death spiral. There were many problems after that. I am quite confident that you have heard of them. There was capitalism and it’s cousin corruption. There were new titles for the same leaders. I was a boy but I was able to vote - many times in the same election. There were also roving armies of goats. Sentient goats. You have not heard of these, because when the troops would find them they would not report that they existed because it was too difficult to comprehend. How could goats rise up in organization and cause this damage? It was upsetting and it was unreported and now you in this country do not believe me when I tell about where I have come from. 

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After the communists left my father wanted to begin a life as a great capitalist. He had read books about the men of industry in America and became inspired. We would begin a life as farmers! Great farmers that feed the people, because everyone needed food. To my father this constituted a foolproof business plan. 

Land was not as easy to find. We took possession of a parcel through assertive means. It was not fertile enough to support our dreams but father pressed on. He plowed the field. We lost many tractors to unexploded ordinance that became exploded when it touched the tractor. My father determined that the field had been a testing range for the Red Army, or perhaps the scene of a terrible battle unreported to us in the cities. 

He took to crafting birdhouses from the scrap iron of shells and tanks in the dirt. This helped clear the land and provided us with crafts to sell in the local market. I would take the iron birdhouses in a wagon behind my bike to the market and they would then be taken from me by large men. I was young and I certainly did not understand capitalism. This was nothing like the books they had tried to read us in the school. 

One day the goats came to the farm. Father was plowing the field and the goats crested the nearby hill and he yelled at me to run in the house. The goats made noises I did not understand. Father waved his arms. The goats did not leave and instead they kicked and beat father. They threw him into the cracked wooden fence that lined half the property and made more noises. Eventually men in blue NATO helmets came over the same hill and fired their weapons in the air and the goats dispersed and father lay in blood in the field. I left the house and tended his wounds. We went to the doctor but the doctor requested money, and we did not have money. 

Father no longer made birdhouses. He would stay in the kitchen for hours. When he left the house, he collected various nuts from the remaining trees. Then he painted the nuts to resemble American presidents. After painting for hours he would take a hammer and violently crush them. I would watch our local television station report on the wonders of the free market and he would crush Presidential acorns on the table screaming DEATH TO THE PIG TAFT DEATH TO THE TRAITOR WILSON CRUSH HARDING IN ETERNAL SLEEP. 

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One day it was decided that I would travel to America to make a real fortune. My father placed me on the hulking battleship turned passengership and told me I would accomplish two things in the new country: I would become rich, and I would assassinate Chester Alan Arthur for crimes against humanity. I boarded the ship and one of my cabin mates handed me a fiery liquid that placed me into immediate dizziness followed by sleep. 

When I got to America, I was enrolled in one of your public schools. I told my teacher about my dual assignments from the homeland and she told me that Chester Alan Arthur was dead for several decades and I was relieved. I would write father and tell him that I had succeeded and he would feel great pride in his son. 

We were released to go in the yard and I became confused. My classmates asked me if I wanted to join them in a game of baseball. They handed me a bat. I had seen these in my home country. I assumed that I knew how to play the game from these experiences. So I took the bat and I swung and I smashed the other children in the face and I swung until they no longer cried. 

——

That is how I came to live in this cement and steel and iron hotel that you Americans love to build. I watch the cable television and work in the kitchen and enjoy my days. Occasionally we see the sun and we are pleased. 

It reminds me of my family before the Soviets left and I am left to wonder what is so different about this capitalism.