Took a vote. Dissolved the union. There were cheers, and a brassy fanfare.
"The second trumpet is a little off," I thought.
The New York Times declared it an act of "ultimate patriotism." The Wall Street Journal celebrated the future, in which any person regardless of race or gender or class can succeed with nothing more than pluck and luck: "Less a war of all against all than a perfect, open market." Still, something bothered me. I made a phone call.
"Yes, I want to know: how I am supposed to excited about the vast unbounded future when its coming is heralded by a band whose brass section is, at best, a little wonky?"
"We are sorry sir, that is our only brass section."
"Well there are many other trumpeters out there, you know, I'm sure a good number with if not perfect pitch then at least better intonation. I mean, it's not like everyone is looking to hire a good brass section these days."
"I understand, sir, but in this future, as you rightly put it, unbound and vast -- well, this future is here, sir. We are no longer bound to each other."
"So is there nothing that can be done?" I asked.
"I don't think you understand--"
"But I need these harmonic relationships--"
"We are no longer bound--"
"--was supposed to make me feel good?"
"Sir." There was a pause on the other end, and breathing.
"You can go fuck yourself, sir," I heard him say, and then a click, and the sound of the dial tone, which was, I think, a slightly flat A#.