Hell is the George Bush International Airport

I do not know where Heaven is, but I have seen Hell. It turns out Hell is in Texas, which is something that many of us had long suspected.

Specifically, it is in Houston. Also not a surprise.

But more specifically, Hell is inside the George Bush International Airport.

Ah: We found it. Hell is an hours-long "security line" snaking through a never-ending, undecorated corridor, a dirty-white and dirty-black and dirty-blue liminal space with a drop ceiling. Hell is carrying your luggage along, an inch at a time, staring at the backs of hundreds of other damned souls all carrying their own luggage, all looking at the backs of hundreds of other damned souls doing the same.

Over bad speakers, Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" plays. It plays forever. It never ends.

On sparsely placed monitors, former Homeland Security Kristi Noem drones on mostly unintelligibly, squeezing the words out of her reconstructed mouth. She is no longer in charge, but there is no newer video to play, and the monitors would not play it if there was. Noem, uncanny, lives inside the boxes now. Her soul, her visage, that sneer of cold command—they are trapped inside the boxes, forever. She drones on about immigrants. She reminds you that you may carry only a certain amount of toothpaste through the checkpoint, and no more than that. You will spend eternity with only that much toothpaste: use it sparingly, and wisely.

Periodically, small packs of ICE agents wander by. Their job is guns. They are there to watch, and to have guns. They do not know the rules about toothpaste, and will not answer your questions. They do not know how to interpret x-ray images. They do not know whether Puerto Rico is American or foreign soil, and do not care. They are just there to watch you, and to have guns. They look satisfied.

The real security agents—if there are security agents—are not paid. They may not exist. They may be a figment of Hell's collective imagination, a story passed from soul to soul, like tales of witches. Because there is no end to the hallway, and there is no security checkpoint.

The hallway extends from the George Bush International Airport in Houston, Texas, to eternity.

Always the same Lee Greenwood song.

Always Kristi Noem, droning on about the greatness of your nation.

Always the men with guns milling about.

There are no planes. There are no air traffic controllers; there is no runway. There is no terminal C. You will never reach the security checkpoint, because it is an illusion. It is an image painted on fog. You can only reach it if the Lee Greenwood song ends, but the Lee Greenwood song will never end.

The long hallway is the most patriotic place in the whole of the country. It is named after a president, and sings songs of raw jingoism, and a woman who disfigured herself to enchant a later president will tell you what security means, because she knows and you do not. And when the men with guns wander by, you know that you are in the most secure liminal space in the entire liminal world.

And you step forward another foot, and set your bag back down, and you think you can almost see the flags waving at the security checkpoint you will never reach—because it is only an image painted on fog. It is Houston's Guernica, surreal and horrible and ephemeral.

And the goddamn Lee Greenwood song is still playing. It should have ended by now. It should have ended hours ago. It should have ended yesterday.

What day is it? Is it tomorrow? Where were we going? What did we pack in our bags? Was there a wedding? A funeral? A long dreamed-of trip? Is it yesterday?

We could turn back, but would the men with guns let us? Would it be suspicious? If we all turned around to face the other direction, what would happen? Could we escape?

No. The hallway only leads to more hallway. It took hours to arrive here; even with an eternity before us, we could not find our way back out.

Nobody smiles. Nobody is dressed for this non-weather in this non-place. Nobody got up this morning thinking it would be their last day in the physical world, or chose their breakfast knowing that it would be the last thing they ate before standing in a hallway, listening to Lee Greenwood praise their country forever. Eternal vigilance. Eternal banality. An eternal smoky salute to a flag long-forgotten. We are free.

There is no second video. We will never see the end of the line, or know if there is one. There are only pictures of the middle of the line. Never the front; never the end. There will be another one sent out tomorrow, via an anonymous source using anonymous means, and the song will still not be over, and Noem will still be trapped in the little boxes, uncanny and smirking and seething.

God Bless the USA.