I struggle to imagine what a day in the future looks like in the era of revolutionary proposals like the Green New Deal. On Thursday, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez released an inspiring, passionate video showcasing her vision of the future under our newly diversified congress and radical, world-saving programs such as her own.

I decided to take a step into her new future and highlight how policies like these might manifest themselves. In a short fable, I take a snapshot of my life, cast into the near future, in my corner of the world, in the Green New Utopia. Take a look.

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Five a.m.

It’s still dark out, but I’m up to cook breakfast. A new recipe today, black bean sausages and toast. Meat has gotten really expensive lately. I leave my apartment as soon as I can but not before checking Reddit. These days, it’s mostly a news outlet with cat videos sprinkled throughout. I close it, dissatisfied with what I’m reading.

Walking out of my apartment to the elevators, my steps echo in the empty garage. There are just a couple of cars that I can see, the last hold-outs. One of them is my pickup, covered in a thick film of Texas pollen and dust. The federal, state, and city registrations have all expired now. I can’t pay the carbon fee anyway.

The sun is only just rising as I make my way to the DART station a couple of blocks from my place. I pass by the corner lot that used to be a Tom Thumb gas station. The price sign still read, “Ethanol Premium: $7.85/gal.”

I brought a new book on economics I’d like to read while I wait for the train. The line is long today; longer than usual. I find my place in the queue and sit down on the unforgiving concrete curb. I can see the platform, but I’m not close enough to read from the screens yet.

I count silently: seven… eight… nine… as each train passes and minutes march by. Someone talking beside me notes, about the DART, “it wasn’t built for this many people. I waited for three hours once, after we went out to eat.”

The line, rather a mass of people funneling decrepitly into one area, advances until I’m finally on the platform. The sun has risen now. I pick up my book and dust myself off to find a sharp pain stab through my wrist. Again? I’ve been waiting for my surgery for six months. I hurt it in an accident at the gym, and my wrist brace does little to help. I’m not even sure when I’d find the time to get to the procedure - the surgeon they assigned me is an hour and a half away. There’s no rail between here and Waco.

Another train arrives. Looking at the number of people in the crowd ahead of me, I doubt if this one is mine. If I don’t make this one I’ll probably be late. I luck out and squeeze in while the doors close behind me. Someone breathes on my neck under the cold, LED lights. I stare blankly at my phone, scrolling through Facebook as I do most mornings. A lot of my friends have been removed; I have no idea how I’ve avoided the same fate for this long. In fact, I knew a guy who was charged with incitement for a post he made.

There’s a sudden jolt forward and the lights go out. Everyone grumbles a low murmur as the train comes to a halt. I’m surprised it took this long for the first outage. I thought about when they first started building all the wind turbines. They filled the banks of the Trinity and the roofs of the skyscrapers with solar panels in a city-wide effort to go renewable and it was great. I didn’t really notice that my bill had gone up a little, and it wasn’t that big a deal. Then they closed down the powerplant in Garland and the outages began, and haven’t stopped since.

There’s silence on the train. Someone coughs and someone sniffs. I glance out the window, into the clear, empty sky over the roofs downtown. There are few planes that fly into Love Field, ever since Delta went under. A couple of Amazon drones hover near the tops of buildings toward their pads. I remembered the exciting novelty of those when they first came out, but since the green consumer tax was implemented, it’s really only big businesses and the “penthousers” that can afford to use the service.

The lights come back on as a whirr of machinery rises and the train lurches off again. It’s 8:50 but I have a few stops to go yet. A mid-rise building comes into focus as the train rounds a corner. The New Vista Apartments, the marquee reads.

That apartment building was the third in Texas (the first in Dallas) to grant applicants housing by their Oppression rating. The federal reparations program pays for the building and subsidizes its residents' rent. I looked at living there before I found out about the application requirements. I’m glad I ended up not being able to - the police are called there constantly.

The New Vista is in a part of town where the color-only buildings are. There were riots a number of years ago after a concert when Antifa fought citizens and police with pipes and clubs over bigotry. After Dem’ candidate Roberts made it a campaign issue in 2028, the city council caved to the rioters’ pressure for equality and granted that suburb “white-free.” There’s really been a number of progressive changes in our community in the past few years.

I wonder if I’ll be able to visit the gastropub in that neighborhood for much longer, though. When my girlfriend and I go down there we receive some harsh looks and we’ve been shouted at. I’m afraid it will turn violent soon in this political climate, and I can’t carry a gun any longer within the city limits. I’m sure I can find another cool pub.

I’m in the middle of imagining the future in that ‘burb when my phone vibrates. A notification from the IRS reminding me my UBI has been deposited. I’m relieved. I used to get more, but when they re-appraised it last year both my Oppression rating and decent relative health factor ate into that sum. I tried submitting a false ancestry report, but I got nervous last minute.

By the time I arrive at work, it’s 20-after. Shame. I sit down and open my laptop only to browse Facebook again before I start the day’s work. A former co-worker, Jordan, made a tear-filled post about having another fight with her partner, Brailyn (formerly Bradley, by dead-name), who identifies as “femme-dominant.” You know how you have those people on your social media you keep around for entertainment? It’s kind of depraved, but I’m afraid of the dramatic saga I’d miss if I unfriended her.

Jordan and Brailyn have been on and off, romantically, for three years or so and Jordan is the  classic over-sharer on social media. She keeps us abreast of all the dramatic, ever-changing private developments of her life. Last week, after little deliberation, Jordan decided to abort. This will be her fourth, at only 23 years old.

Three months ago Jordan delivered an infant on a promise from Brailyn that they were going to stay together. The child still remains unnamed and un-gendered. Last week she shared that she was surfing MedStream to find a practitioner to take care of her inconvenient issue.

When she was satisfied with her selection, both local and free, the screenshot from her confirmation read, “We respect your decision to choose what is best for your body without judgment. We take great strides to make sure your problem is handled with dignity and the subject is treated in a humane way when disposed of.”

She captioned, indignantly, “This is how it should be, guys.” Her call. After all, who am I to judge? I thought about saying something at the time, but it’s too late now. Oh well. I close the browser and silently begin my work.

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