Merlot never understood why his mother flinched at being called "American." It wasn't an insult—he wasn't accusing her of war crimes or suggesting she lived under a bridge. She wasn't interested in applying for citizenship, not after learning how easily it could be snatched away if she "misbehaved." Merlot argued that Uncle Sam had every right to disown a "bad" apple if it kept the rest of the barrel intact. She argued a nation couldn't disown someone who'd already bought in—loyalty wasn't for sale twice. For Merlot, the price was worth it; refuse Sam's rules, and you earned statelessness.
Uncle Sam wasn't cruel; he was efficient. Nothing said efficiency like reminding everyone that belonging came with a receipt—and a threat. She pointed out that above the 49th parallel, since 1961, misbehaviour wasn't a fast track to statelessness. Uncle Sam didn't hand out love—only rules, receipts, and the occasional threat. His slogan wasn't "Make love, not war," it was "Start war, cancel love." He had nodded approvingly, watching Ricky shove people into battle. A battle Merlot couldn't escape, because he didn't have bone‑deep bastard studs in his heels. He didn't even get to blow out the candles on his twenty‑first birthday before the draft notice arrived. When he finally came home, he hit the bottle—the only friend Uncle Sam hadn't sent to the front lines. Maybe if Sam hadn't drafted him, he wouldn't have learned to drink with military precision.
Merlot wished she'd started acting like part of the family, even if it was the kind that drank too much, fought at holidays, and left its veterans to rot. Her visa was about to expire—was she trading a land of "huhs?" for one of "ehs?" Merlot assumed she'd stay; home was home, even if she refused to call it that.
Freshly discharged from the hospital, she needed a cane to walk. Merlot thought she needed another week of care; her insurance thought she needed to get lost. Now she was limping around her third-floor walk-up with a cane and a grudge, in a building that treated elevators like luxury yachts. He'd brought dinner from the Chinese restaurant down the block—a small comfort in a city stingy with kindness.
Afterwards, he headed home. Finding a parking spot for his e-bike had felt like hitting the lottery—if the prize was "not getting towed." Back at his apartment, he glanced out the grimy window. Traffic snarled endlessly through the streets of New York.
On the table sat his manuscript—The Sangria War. Felix, his protagonist, was desperate to escape conscription. Merlot understood that desperation intimately. But unlike Felix, Merlot had already bled through the jungles of Saigon, watched friends vanish into the green silence, and returned to a country that welcomed him with bureaucracy and indifference.
He sank into the sagging couch, reached into the pocket of his grey sweat pants, and pulled out a fortune cookie—cold, cracked, and vaguely greasy from the lo mein. Work hard. Make dreams come true. He snorted. "Sure," he muttered. "Tell that to Felix." He slipped the fortune into the corner of his notebook on his desk.