Eucharistia

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

“Strawberry Fields Forever” was what I thought when I looked at the berry farm from a nearby hill. I was an illegal immigrant from Panama. I had come to the US to study English Language and Literature at Mickey Mill University. I was 45 and going bald in my freshman year. In Panama all you can do is money laundering or working on the canal. Neither option appealed to me. I wanted to teach English Composition. Even though I was a little old, I knew I could complete the degree and live out my dream.

I was so grateful for the student visa. I’ll never be able to repay America for the chance it has given me.

But it was all a ruse. I left Mickey Mill behind after one day. I had been planted in the US by my government to start a movement to sell the Panama Canal back to the US. The Canal had become a white elephant. It was hemorrhaging more money than Panama could cover. Panama was headed for bankruptcy.

Now that Trump had been elected, I might be able to turn things around. Biden wouldn’t even talk to me. I had been in the US illegally for 6 years. I begged my government for envoy status so I could operate more freely. They refused. They thought I needed to stay under cover. I was getting paid. It could’ve been worse. They sent a bag man once a month with a pillowcase filled with Panamanian balboas. I converted it to dollars at Newark Airport and nobody asked any questions.

After a month of trying, I got a meeting with Trump. Although I spoke English, he had a translator translate what I said into a New York City accent. I didn’t how it sounded to Trump, but I had to live with it.

We started. I said, “Do you want to buy the Panama Canal?” The translator sad “Do youse wanna buy the friggin’ Panama Canal?” Trump said, “Yeah, sure. How much?” I said “$650 billion dollars.” Trump said “That’s too fu*kin’ much. How about 625?” I said “Ok.” The translator said, “Fu*kin’ A!” The deal was done. We sealed it with a handshake—his tiny hand was disconcerting, but I didn’t flinch. Trump told me my check was in the mail. I didn’t believe him, but I went along with him anyway.

The check arrived in Panama two weeks later. It bounced. We tried to deposit it five times, each time Trump’s Secretary assuring us there were sufficient funds. It was like throwing a tennis ball at a wall and having it bounce back and hit you in the face.

Not since the days of Manuel Noriega, aka Pineapple Face, had Panama seen such militarization. Tanks rumbling. Troops marching. It is rumored we are going to invade the US and force Trump to pay what he owes. Every Panamanian over 12 is eligible for the draft. Iran is supplying drones free of charge. North Korean seamstresses are working overtime to supply uniforms.

POSTSCRIPT

After a successful glider invasion, Panamanian troops are occupying the US border from Texas to California. Under Trump’s command, the US military is in disarray, with troops standing by on the Canadian border, as Trump’s horoscope supposedly advises.

Finally, we got a check from the US that cleared. We’re going to play nice and welcome the US back to Panama. We are also considering withdrawing from the southern US border. We are grateful for the aid proffered by Iran and N. Korea. We can never repay them.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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