Wyoming Saga, Part 6 / The End of the Line or a New Dawn?

"Yes, ma’am, I’m a German citizen, and I’m looking for some counsel because I’ve run into a few... issues. Deportation to a black hole of a facility that no one’s ever heard of—and likely doesn’t exist—is honestly the least of them." I was on the line with a cretin at the German embassy in Los Angeles, though calling her a “cretin” might have been overly generous. She sounded like an au pair on her gap year, possibly no older than twelve, armed with the diplomatic awareness of a houseplant. The conversation thus far had been about as productive as yelling at a potted fern, except the fern might have had the decency to stay silent instead of parroting useless platitudes in a tone that could barely pass for human.

Of course, I knew better than to expect any meaningful assistance from the German Embassy. My last brush with their so-called "service" had been during my unplanned sabbatical in an airport prison in Nairobi—a charming establishment where, for all I know, I’m still on hold on their emergency hotline, despite the minor inconvenience of nine years having passed. Their version of help back then had been about as practical as a box of erotic lingerie at a Home Depot: confusing, out of place, and utterly useless for the situation at hand.

Still, I wasn’t ready to give up—not just yet.

I clung to a shred of hope that, for once, the German taxpayer-funded embassy might extend something resembling legal guidance instead of blowing their budget on schmoozing with B-list celebrities over cocktails on Sunset Plaza. Surely, I thought, this wasn’t too much to ask.

After all, the absolute train wreck I found myself living through—the aftermath of shaking hands with the USDA’s messenger of misery himself, Dumpy Director Dick—wasn’t entirely my fault. My gullible stupidity, while glaring, wasn’t the sole culprit. No, this was a team effort, and it was about time someone else played their part.

“What do you want us to do?” she asked, her tone dripping with a practiced blend of boredom and insincere politeness. For someone who sounded like she’d just been plucked from a middle school debate team, she was disturbingly skilled at lobbing my plea for help back into my face like a professional dodgeball player aiming for the nose.

"Well," I said, the frustration starting to seep through my otherwise charming demeanour, "call me crazy, but I thought you might have some ideas. Surely I’m not the first silly sod to find himself as collateral damage after dealing with the almighty U.S. government. This is America, after all—why not sue everyone? Isn’t that the national pastime? And while we’re at it, can you remind me what exactly you do over there, apart from sunning yourself in Beverly Hills on the taxpayer’s dime? Are you paid to breathe, or does that come as a bonus?"

My patience was wearing thin, and the claws were coming out. This glorified receptionist—German or not—was proving herself a worthy contender for the International League of Ineffectual Bureaucrats. Her apathy was indistinguishable from her American peers, a bland cocktail of indifference and smug detachment that made me wonder if embassies issued standardised handbooks on how to stonewall people in need.

To her, I wasn’t a stranded citizen in crisis—I was just an inconvenient interruption.

No doubt, she was multitasking, maybe buffing her nails or scrolling through Instagram, pondering whether her avocado toast aesthetic was on point.

I could almost hear her eyes rolling as I spoke, the universal signal of a bureaucrat who’d already decided they weren’t lifting a finger to help.

An opening excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.