The future parents of John and of Andy have this in common: they aren’t native New Yorker New Yorkers. It’s what they became. From godforsaken places in the middle of nowhere where they were starving and bingeing on films, they applied for naturalization. Within a few weeks, they’d gathered the necessary pieces to compile their dossiers, completed the appropriate forms, appended their signatures to the official documents and addressed the whole thing To Whom It May Concern. After reviewing their cases, the Commission for the Study of Migratory Flow summoned them to undergo a medical examination, as well as to enlighten the authorities about their motivations and political convictions and to inform them of their skills and professional qualities that could benefit the city. Finally, one hand over their hearts, the other raised with the palm open, they swore they would settle in the big city with, certainly, the goal of living there, but above all, to work there.

It was the glorious era when the arrival of migrants still gave rise to public ceremony. The goal was to welcome you and to wow you. On that day, it was nice out like summertime – it wasn’t actually summer, but it was just like it. The weather was nice, hot, conducive to a general euphoria. A system of heat-producing streetlights by Scialytic covered the public space with the lighting of an operation table, eliminating any shadows and generating an artificial warmth.

Everything was hot, everything was illuminated. No shadowy areas, no dark streets, no way to escape the reign of the all-illuminated.

Crime, which as we all know likes to do its dirty work in the shadows, was to take a hit.

Maximal lighting, security for all. Now that’s a slogan.

So, on this first day, with a feeling of maximum security, the migrants celebrated their arrival to the city. They were invited to parade around on decorated floats typical of public revelry – it was like being at a carnival or a parade celebrating the homecoming of military or sports heroes. Except not. The heroes of the day were the new arrivals.

In front of the floats, a freelance actor bustled about. For a fee (the amount of which would forever remain confidential), it was his duty to set the mood. An operation that came down to three points: 1) chanting into a megaphone, 2) encouraging the passengers to repeat in unison, 3) waving at people.

Strange waving, intransitive waving. But what human could receive these waves, and if need be, respond, since the city was empty, given it was Sunday and its inhabitants had stayed home to watch the game or left for the weekend to get some fresh air? Empty city, no one on the streets, no one in the buildings, miles of deserted sidewalks, a spectacle without spectators, and everyone on these floats waving their hands.

What is the meaning of this ceremony? How can these gestures be interpreted? Why all the waving? What good does waving do when there’s no one to see you wave?

Nevertheless, even with insanity looming on this hot afternoon, John’s and Andy’s future parents executed their waving with an enthusiasm worth mentioning. They were waving for the sake of waving. Because it was part of the protocol. Because these waves carried with them an ­inaugural force that it was proper to deploy before living in this great city. And, to accompany their waving, they blew kisses.

Positioned along the route, loudspeakers set the tempo of the party. It was a party with a lot of bass. A party without bass isn’t really a party anymore. There’s something missing: the bass is missing. The sound of full-on bass is good for slapping you with a migraine. For that matter, Mr. Andy, a man prone to the slightest little pains (which he will die of) couldn’t escape it. He endured the consequences of these boom-booms that make for the best migraines, which is unfortunate because the day was turning out to be very, very long.

The hours came and went without the slightest sign of exhaustion from the freelance performers. Still so much bass and waving to generate. The parade dragged on. Enough is enough, for god’s sake, let’s get this over with, John’s future parents complained. We’re not going to go down all of the streets and all of the avenues, are we? Andy’s parents chimed in (as fate would have it, the two couples were occupying neighbouring spots). Can’t we just finish this parade, go home, and have some peace and quiet? all four said in unison.

For a long time, they awaited a signal. Nightfall, for example, or a drop in luminous intensity – something to indicate the late hour and the beginning of the end. Alas, nothing came to slow down the parade or disrupt the protocol. Night didn’t fall.

Or rather, under the effect of the Scialytic lamps, the night was lit up, and the moon and the stars were shoved behind a vault of artificial light.

At the end of twenty-four hours of non-stop parading, the floats dropped the families off one by one at their assigned housing.

I’m beat! sighed Mrs. John, plopping on the couch.

I’ve had it! exclaimed Mrs. Andy, wondering if it was worth it to shampoo her hair.

Finally home! Mr. John let out, cracking open a beer.

I need a pill or I’ll die! Mr. Andy shouted, opening the medicine cabinet.

At these words, without a fuss, John’s and Andy’s future parents crawled into bed, closed their eyes and crashed.

And, no later than the next morning, each of them went to work.