#27 – An interlude of peace and tranquility

When I awoke again the pain was gone, replaced with a fierce hunger. I was alone in a hospital room, an I.V tube neatly stuck in my arm. I felt deliciously calm and was completely lucid. Everything looked incredibly clear. My sense of smell was acute and I could hear a spider spinning its web beneath the dripping bathroom sink. I pressed what I presumed to be a call button on the side of my bed. A nurse appeared. I asked for food. She nodded and went out. A few minutes later a tall woman in a lab coat walked through the door holding a clipboard.

“Mr. Thurlington.”

“Hi.”

“How do you feel?”

“Hungry. But really good.”

“Some lunch is coming. If you don’t mind, I’d like to just make a few simple tests.”

“Of course.” It dawned on me.

“You speak English.”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“What happened?” She placed the cuff of the blood pressure meter around my arm and pumped the little rubber bulb.

“You had a very big hit on the head.” She nodded thoughtfully at my blood pressure, made a note on her clipboard and released the cuff.

“Then what?”

“One moment please.” She slipped the cold disk of a stethoscope through my hospital gown and listened intently.

“Good. What is your full name?”

“Gerald Ronald Thurlington.”

“Where are you?”

“Medellin, Colombia”

“Where do you work?”

“At the Medellin Academy.”

“How old are you?”

“29”

“What year is it?”

“2005”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“What color is this?”

“Red.”

“This?”

“Green.”

“Good.” She jotted some more notes down on her clipboard and then got up to leave.

“Your friend, Catalina is coming. She will tell you what you need to know about why you are here. You are very lucky. She will be here soon. As will your lunch. Good day.”

She was as good as her word. My lunch arrived minutes later. I wolfed it down and was draining the last of my orange juice as Catalina arrived with an armful of flowers.

 

“Gerald. I’m happy to see that you are at last awake.” She leaned over to give me a kiss, rendering me useless and stupid.

“What happened?”

“I have to ask you the same question.” She lowered her voice. “There is big trouble I think. It is important that you no talking with anybody until we make sense.”

“I’m in big trouble?”

She looked away for a moment and I could see that she was searching for a way to avoid the truth.

“Yes. But we will make this good. Now please.” She took a thin black notebook and an elegant silver pen from her purse. “Go slowly. Tell me exactly what you can remember.”

#26 – hhhmmmm…

The cell was a claustrophobic, filthy, fluid-spattered box. I awoke facing a bucket that stank so badly my first conscious act was to vomit into it. The pain in my head was crushing, the throbs coming in intervals that seemed to match my heart rate. I wasn’t sure where I was or why I was there. Bits and pieces flitted around my brain like moths around a lamp. The bar. Running. The kids. The theatre. I looked at my wrist but my watch was gone. Checking my pockets, I found everything else gone. The cell that I was in seemed to be in the middle of a larger room, although I couldn’t see much of it. I could see part of a desk and some chairs. The sound of men’s voices and laughter came from somewhere out of sight but not too far away. The smell of cigarette smoke simultaneously made me crave one and caused me to retch into the bucket again. I crawled over to the bars, once painted green and now chipped and peeling. I dragged myself up despite the pounding protests of my head and yelled out:

“Hola! Hello! Hola!”

The voices stopped momentarily. Then one spoke. A round of laughter ensued. Then there was more talking. I tried again.

“Hola! Hello! Hola!”

This time the voices kept on talking. Standing became too much of an effort, and I slumped back onto the filthy concrete. More bits and pieces of what happened started to trickle back into my memory. I remembered the bartender, the thug, and the old crone. I remembered making a run for it. And I remembered Alex. God knows what the Medellin Academy was making of my disappearance. Mulling this over inside my battered brain, I began to feel very paranoid. I had abandoned my post as an escort/supervisor/teacher and had wandered into a brothel. I then drank alcohol, stiffed a prostitute, ran into the street and then… and then… somehow wound up here. It didn’t look very good. This in turn got me thinking about my conversation with Catalina. If the school wasn’t happy with me, they wouldn’t simply return my passport and fire me. No. There would be “very big penalizations” I looked around me. My first taste of prison life was not so sweet. I pulled myself up the bars again and called out with a renewed sense of purpose:

“Por Favor!!! Hola! Por Favor!! Hello!” My shouts went ignored for a good ten minutes, but I redoubled my efforts, a sense of panic beginning to overtake me. Finally, a young policeman came around the corner and peered at me through the bars.

“Que?”

There are three types of police here: the officers who carry sidearms, the regulars who carry automatic rifles, and the greenhorns who are issued billy clubs. This little fellow, not a day over 17, twirled a club.

“Por favor, es necesito hablar con una persona en Ingles. Ingles por favor.”

Probably not even two or three months from whatever tiny piece of land that he had been raised on, this innocent young peasant with an acne ridden face and totally uncomprehending eyes repeated himself.

“Que?”

“Ingles por favor.”

“No hablo Ingles.”

I tried a new strategy.

“Conosais el Medellin Academy?”

He shook his head.

“Por favor. Yo quiero hablar con un officer… el Jefe. El grande Jefe. Por favor.” I was pleading now, in full panic. I needed to talk with his boss. I had dropped to my knees and was groveling with tears in my eyes before the bewildered, pimply youth. Staring at me as though I were a feces eating freak show attraction, he simply shrugged his shoulders and walked away. I crawled over to the bucket and heaved into it again. I did not feel well. My thoughts seemed to be unraveling very quickly. Things were becoming very unclear. I tried to piece it all together. Was I in some kind of car crash? Was I dreaming about the brothel? The more I thought about it, the more unreal it seemed. I curled up and closed my eyes. The sound of the men’s voices blended with the sound of flies that circled the bucket. I was very tired.

 

What followed was vague. I have dim recollections of food and water on a tray being slid through a slot at the bottom of the bars. I remember how thirsty I was, and how I planned for a long time my strategy for getting to the glass of water until before I could make it there the tray was removed. I remember my dead father walking into my cell. I tried to explain that it wasn’t my fault, that I hadn’t done anything wrong, but he was silent and only took the vomit pail and left an empty one in its place. I started traveling through space at some point. It was a terrific feeling, being free of the pain in my head as I swooped through various alternate universes and discovered the secrets to incredible mysteries I have subsequently forgotten. I finally found peace in realizing that I was part of the earth, that I was a stone. I lay like a stone and tried my best to be a good stone, heavy, eternal, and unyielding. At one point I was awoken by demons. There were three of them and they were circling around my head. I could smell them more than I could see them, their hot, putrid breath wafting into my nose like the vapors of hell. I called out to Jesus to help me and the demons vanished. How strange I thought…. To call out for Jesus…. I then became a stone again. I was about to embark on another voyage of time/space travel when I felt myself being shaken. The pain in my head rushed back, thumping low and deep from the very center of my being.

“Gerald.”

I had grown to love the space travel. I could feel myself taking off and did not want to be interrupted.

“Gerald. Wake up.”

The feeling evaporated. The delicate alchemy of take-off was thrown out of whack. Unhappily, I opened my eyes. The light was like fire and I snapped them shut again.

“Gerald. I’m here. Everything is all right.”

A sweet, delicious smell graced my nostrils. I braced myself and opened my eyes again. Her face loomed right above mine; a halo of light encircled it. An angel. I knew her… Jet-black hair falling down and brushing my face. Dark eyes stared into mine, full of care and concern. Yes. Catalina. I laughed. It wasn’t space travel, but it was better than demons and my dead father. I reached up to touch her face. The eyes melted. She was glad to see me. I was glad to see her. All was well with the world. I think I lost consciousness again at about that point.

#25 – Trouble

A block away I turned around and snuck a glimpse.  The crazy bastard was still following me!  I picked up speed and darted around a corner, desperate for somewhere, anywhere to hide.  I spotted what looked like a bar.  The entrance was unmarked.  I ran in.  It was deserted, but thank god, it was a bar.  Or at least it had a bar.  I spied the men’s room in the far corner and raced in like a rat into a hole.  The stench was atrocious.  Breathtaking.  It reminded me of a time when I had inhaled straight ammonia as a kid and it had knocked me out.  Breathing through my mouth, I waited.  And waited.  After I judged a safe amount of time had gone past, I walked out into the blessedly fresh air of a beer soaked, smoke-fugged dive.

This time, the place was not empty.  A short woman in a green dress stood behind the bar.  She was the fattest Colombian that I had ever seen.  She seemed surprised to see me. For a second my heart stopped as I saw another figure with his back to me sitting at the bar.  But it was not Alex.  This man wore a leather coat.   His shoulders were huge.  He looked over his shoulder to follow the gaze of the bartender.  His head was shaved bald.  Turning his head he revealed a nose like a cauliflower.  With both of them staring at me, I thought that having used their rancid bathroom I would probably be expected to buy a drink.  No doubt, it would be the prudent thing to do.  So I calmly walked over and pulled out a stool at the opposite end of the burly thug who never took his eyes off me. 

“Cerveza, por favor.”

The bartender looked at me strangely, then shrugged and bent to get me a beer from the wheezing, tubercular fridge.  Rolls of fat surged into view as they poured out from the tight confines of the green dress.  Thick bushes of hair from under her arms explained another smell that I had not been able to place.  The burly thug at the end of the bar did not take his eyes off me.  His shaved head bore an imposing map of scars.  The mutilated nose had suffered countless maulings.  I drank the first swallow of my beer.  It was warm.  I took another long swallow and then fished out a few peso notes in order to pay and leave. 

At this point an older woman came in.  She wasn’t exactly elderly, but she was definitely pushing her luck with the Colombian dress code.  Her withered breasts were cantilevered up with the help of a kind of structurally enhancing undergarment that made it seem she was wearing a spinal brace.  Her skirt was tiny, with two sticks poking out of it, marbled throughout with a map of blue veins.  She sat two stools over from me, exactly equidistant between the thug and I.  She said something to him in Spanish, but he only grunted and turned away.  She then turned to me.  Her face might have once been pretty, but was now haggard, slathered in layers of makeup.  She said something that I did not remotely understand.  I rose and placed the peso notes on the bar and turned to leave.

“You are American, yes?”

It was the bartender.

“Canadian.”

“Aha.  Canada.”

I turned again and took a step towards the door when I was stopped again by the bartender’s voice.

“She wants if you will buy her drink.”

I turned again and eyed the sorry looking trio who were all staring at me.  One of the problems with being in a foreign country is that you’re never really sure what the right thing to do is.  I didn’t want to buy the old crone a drink, but it certainly looked as though the brute and the bartender both thought I should.  Sighing, I reached into my pocket and fished out a couple more bills.  I place them on the counter and again turned to go.  Yet again however, I was stopped by the sound of the bartender’s voice.

“She can no drink by herself.  Is very bad.”

Again, I surveyed the three pairs of eyes that were watching me.  Clearly, I was expected to keep the old tart company as she had her drink. 

“Fine.”

I sat down again.  Another luke-warm beer was placed in front of me.  Some kind of vile looking liquor from an unmarked bottle was poured into a streaked glass for the crone.  Yet again I fished out money and placed it on the counter.  It sat there untouched.

For somebody who was so desperate to have a drink, the old girl didn’t seem very thirsty.  She sipped at the liquor like an enfeebled sparrow.  I took a good swallow of my beer.  The silence was terrible, broken only by the muffled roar of engines from motorcycles and busses in the street.  Not even a fly buzzed within the bar.  I took another swallow of beer.  I debated whether or not I would rather still be stuck with Alex, or be here.  It was a draw.  I drank another big swig of my beer.  The sparrow sipped at hers.  The brute eyed me mistrustfully.  The bartender stood arms crossed behind the bar, clearly waiting for something.  What?  More painful minutes dragged by.  When I figured that I had put in my time in keeping the “lady” company, I drained the rest of my bottle, tapped the bar with the cash on it, and again got up to leave.

“Where you go mister?”

“I’m leaving.  I’m late.”

“But you have date now, no?”

Things started to come into focus. 

“No.  I don’t want a date.  I have a wife.”

“No you have date now.  You buy drink, you have date.  Is how you say, a deal?”

“You have really good English.  Where did you learn?”

My pathetic attempt at flattery was ignored.  “You pay now.  Then go with Marta.”

I looked over at Marta.  A lascivious grin had spread across her fissured features.  She licked her lips at me and then sipped at her drink leaving a red, waxy smear of lipstick clinging to the rim.

“No.  I’m sorry.  There has been a mistake.  I just wanted a drink, and I thought that I was being nice in buying her a drink.  I didn’t realize it was a deal.  No deal.  Mistake.” 

“No mistake.  Deal.”  The bartender nodded at the thug.  He stood up and stared at me with a furrowed brow, arms crossed. 

“Okay.  How much?”

“Ochenta mil.”

“Sorry?”  I wasn’t very good with numbers.  With a sigh, the bartender wrote a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.  80,000. About forty dollars, but a fortune here.  Certainly more than I had.  I pulled out my wallet and counted the contents.  22,000 pesos.  I put the money on the bar.

“This is all I have.”  I showed my empty wallet.

“Plastic.”

“Sorry?”

“You go with Federico to bank.”

“No.  Listen.  You’ve got my 22,000.  Plus the money for drinks.  It was a mistake.  This is not right.”

Although I was reasonably sure that Federico spoke no English, he nonetheless seemed to take offence to what I said.  He moved a step closer to me and uncrossed his arms.  He started doing hand exercises, warming up his scarred paws.

“Okay.  Bank.  Okay.”

The bartender and Federico had a brief conversation, all the while looking directly at me.  I could pick out odd words, but nothing made sense.  My heart was pounding and I was starting to go into full panic mode.  I had heard stories of people being taken to bank machines by thugs just like Federico and getting not only their accounts cleaned out, but also their Visas maxed out on cash advances.  They would take you out to the bank machine and you would take out money.  If you didn’t feel like it they would take you to some sordid hole and knock the shit out of you and play with your head until you were ready to try again.  As I was looking through my wallet, a lot of plastic had been on display.  I was a gold mine.  I had not only a Colombian account and a Colombian Visa, but Canadian accounts and a Canadian Visa.  Federico and his boss were not going to be content with their 80,000.  I was about to get rolled for everything I had.  Before my brain knew what my body was doing I was running for my life.  On my way out the door I knocked over a cigarette cart.  A flurry of Spanish invective followed my ears but I was on pure adrenaline and not stopping for the world.  The sidewalks were absolutely packed with people.  I knocked more than a few over before jumping onto the street.  In a blind panic I somehow dodged trucks and motorcycles, a barrage of horns blaring in my wake.  Up ahead, across a busy four lane road I saw two policemen, smoking beside their motorcycle.  With a final burst of speed and nerves I slalomed through a nightmare of screeching tires and tons of hot metal and sprinted that last few yards.  I yelled for help.  They yelled something back.  Suddenly two assault rifles were pointing directly at me.  I dropped to my knees onto the filthy pavement, hands in the air.  They yelled at me further and I lay down, prone.  Thank god for all those episodes of “COPS” that I had watched.  I kept yelling “No Hablo Espanol!!  Yo Soy Canadiense!!!  No Hablo Espanol!!!”  The last thing I remember was a searing, painful blow on the back of my head.

#24 – Showtime

We pulled up to an old theatre in the middle of roiling, boiling, dirty, downtown Medellin. I suppose the thing that most surprised me were the armed guards. I’d gotten used to seeing private security with shotguns everywhere, not to mention police and army loaded down with heavy-duty firepower. But there was something very odd about the way the theatre was cordoned off on either side of the sidewalk by gun-wielding security guards in immaculate black uniforms. Something was lacking. German Shepherds perhaps, maybe razor wire or watchtowers. On either side of the cordon stood perhaps 100 people or more. Normal people, mothers with kids, street kids, some downtown characters, lots of regular folks. The people watching us were real people. They were gawking at us. And I supposed, looking around, that we were worth gawking at. The buses (these were for the kids, not the staff) were brand new and impeccably clean. The kids wore their uniforms casually, but they all had ipods and expensive shoes and watches, and though I’d never really noticed it before, in comparison to the people watching us, these kids looked absolutely loaded. Stinking loaded. I felt like I was on the red carpet on Academy Awards night, but instead of possessing the dubious talents of Hollywood actors, we possessed a meaningless and utterly unearned status: being rich. Our audience did not seem hostile, but were instead rather curious. Filing off the bus, the kids were indifferent to their surroundings. They were talking amongst each other and laughing, listening to their ipods and playing with their cell phones, oblivious to the gauntlet of humanity that they were passing through. Royalty without any of the good graces. The peasants that watched them might have been trees or stones for all the interest they elicited from the snot nosed bunch of piglets that were piling into the theatre. I looked around for Mavis but she had already gone in.

Inside the theatre was pandemonium. Ushers with white gloves and pillbox hats straight out of the 1930’s were trying to herd the kids into their seats. In vain. The teachers were half-heartedly helping, but it was an exercise in futility and we knew it. I went back to the lobby and stood by the door, pretending to be of some use. I couldn’t wait until the play started so that I could sneak out and go for a wander. It was two and a half hours long, completely in Spanish, and the audience was comprised of belligerent philistines. There was no way in the world I was being paid enough to suffer that kind of punishment. As I breathed in slowly and started to let my shoulders down, I heard a voice behind me that made my hair stand on end.

“Well there he is! Troublemaker number 1! HA!”

I ignored the voice and closed my eyes, hoping for a miracle, hoping that this retarded baby of a man, this oaf, this Alex, was not talking to me. But of course he was.

“Thought you could sneak out did ya? HA! I caught you fair and square! So what do you got to say for yourself, trouble maker?”

The beaming full moon of his idiot face loomed into my field of vision. I took a deep breath.

“Hi Alex.” I mean, was he really so bad? He was just trying to be friendly. He was awkward, that was all. A little bit insecure. Would it be so hard for me to be nice to him?

“Okay fella. Thirty lashes with a wet noodle! HA HA!!”

Good Christ. I smiled at him. Or did my best to smile. It might have come out as more of a grimace. I tried though. Foolishly, I went one further.

“So, how are you finding things so far Alex?”

He leapt on this tidbit, this tiniest sliver of openings, like a paparazzi on a celebrity nipple slip.

“Well, let me tell you. This school has got some problems. Holy Dinah. She’s got some problems. But I’ll tell you this, the kids are pretty easy compared to my last school. HA HA!”

“Oh really?”

“Listen. The last school I was at was a rough one. Boy, was it a rough one.” Alex stroked his chin, gazing into space with a pained look on his face like he was reliving the horrors of a war not yet forgotten.

“Yep. It was a rough one.” Either I was not prompting him well enough or he was lost in thought. I decided to remain silent.

“One time, a kid was dealing drugs in my class.”

“Really.”

“Yep. Right in my class. Angel Dust.”

“Angel Dust?”

“Angel Dust. You know, L.S.D. Smack. Real zombie stuff.” He had clearly watched too many drug prevention movies in the 1970’s and was mixing up his details. I said nothing.

“So one time, I got mad. All this drug dealing in my class. I jumped him and pinned him down. I asked my kids to run for help.”

“You attacked a student?”

“The principal came, along with the Gym teacher. It took the three of us to restrain him.”

“You attacked a student?”

“It was rough times at that school. Rough times.”

I said nothing. It was embarrassing really. I felt badly for him. I wished that he had never come over. Why did I have to ask him a question? I was clearly expected to comment, to prompt him further, to express some kind of shock or somehow be blown away by his exploits, his feats of daring-do. After a thousand years of exquisitely painful silence, he continued. Having not yet roped me in, he was adding even more hot air to an already disgusting bit of fiction.

“So I asked him at the office, ‘Do you have any weapons?’ He shook his head no. So I reached into his jacket and pulled out a Bowie knife about that long.” He held his hands a foot or so apart. The classic big fish that got away.

“I took that knife and dropped it point first onto the principal’s desk and it stuck in there, bboooinnnggg. So you got no weapons huh? I hope you’re prepared to tell this story to the police.”

It was too painful. Where was I supposed to go from there? I felt ill. I needed to get away.

“I’ve got to use the can. Be right back.”

I wanted to feel sorry for him. It was such a grasp, such a reach, such a pathetic attempt to ingratiate himself that it was pitiable. But the pity was washed over with revulsion. That a grown man, well into middle age, nearing old age needed such school-boy bluster…. It was sick. After a few minutes dawdling in the urine-scented chamber, I left. Alex was still lingering by the door, but was luckily babbling at one of the Colombian teachers. I braced myself and strolled out past him.

“Whoa, big fella! Where are you headed?”

I just waved over my shoulder and plodded on desperately ahead.

“The show starts in five minutes!”

He was yelling. People were staring at me. Surely that would be the end of it.

“I’ll save you a seat!!!”

I was a good half a block and he was still yelling. I turned. He was coming after me! Unbelievable nightmare. I started to run.

#23 – Field Trip

A rainy Thursday morning.  The entire middle school was to get on buses to go down and see a play in Medellin.  My first South American field trip.  Elaine was in a state.  At the best of times she was haggard and frayed.  With four hundred kids getting on buses to go into the downtown core, she was a disaster.

The morning started off in the regular way.  Kids trickling into first block one by one.  Chauffeurs came late, maids let them sleep in, buses were held up by kids who weren’t ready, whatever the excuse the result was that a class that was supposed to start at 8:00 didn’t have enough bodies to start anything with until at least 8:30, twenty minutes before the block was over.  I had been reduced to letting the little bastards do whatever they wanted, the only stipulation being that they were no longer allowed to jump out the windows.  I put my headphones on and played on my computer, trying to blot out the worst of the chaos.

 

At 8:30 Elaine commenced marching through the halls, bellowing through her bullhorn.  It was a squealing, distorted call to something or other, delivered in a language that was neither distinguishable as English or Spanish.  Before I could say anything, my kids were gone, pushing each other down the stairs, and racing toward the buses.  Locking the door behind me, I met Mavis in the hallway.

“I thought we were supposed to have lists of who was on what bus.”

“Give your head a shake.”

Mavis had been quiet lately.  Subdued.  I wasn’t sure if it was just in regard to me, or if it was part of a larger picture.  I hadn’t been going to her Friday night gin-swillings lately, maybe this was a factor.

“What are we supposed to do?”

“Medicate ourselves.  Kill ourselves.  Who knows?  Let’s get on a bus.”

We cut our way through the bedlam, Mavis wielding her immense purse as a weapon, blazing a trail.  Elaine stood at the front doors, yelling incomprehensibly into her malfunctioning bullhorn.  She caught sight of the two of us as we passed and waved us over.

“Good Christ.  Let’s see what the walrus wants.”   Mavis walked over to her.  They exchanged words, Mavis nodded and returned to me.  Elaine resumed yodeling.

“What did she want?”

“For us to go and direct kids onto the buses.   What an idiot.”  We boarded the first decent looking bus we saw.  Making good use of her purse, Mavis kicked the kids out of the front seat and we sat down.

“Why did you even go talk to her?”

“I’m trying to kiss a little ass.  They’re opening a new position.  Discipline Coordinator.  It’ll be some bullshit jump through the hoops position, but it’s going to pay a lot.  What the hell.  I’m here, right?”

“Well, should we go make it look like we’re directing kids?”

“Are you kidding?  Listen.  Here’s what’s going to happen.  She’s going to make a racket with her fucking bullhorn until the school is empty.  Then something is going to “come up” and she’s not going to be able to make it.  She’ll have to “join us later.”  What that means is that she can’t handle this shit any more than we can and she’s going to drive down in her own car after the play is over.  She’ll be there for when the parents pick up their kids so it looks good.  Same as last year and probably the year before.” 

Outside the buses, it was bedlam.  Kids were running from bus to bus, trying to see where their friends were.  A few isolated were trying to herd them in vain.  At about 9:30 the buses just started pulling out.  Kids started screaming and running onto moving buses.  Ours was the last bus out.  Miraculously, nobody had been run over.  We were underway.

 

As we drove out the front gates, I noticed, for the first time really noticed, the billboard that stood sentinel at the entrance to the school.  It had a quote on it:  “Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.”  The quote was attributed to Juan Felipe Escobar, a graduate from last year.  It bothered me.  I had gotten to know these kids.  Even in grade 12, there is no way they were using words like “capacity” and “indomitable”.  Could they use the word “will” in any other sense other than to signify intention or at best the written instructions for the handling of a dead person’s estate?  My musings were interrupted by a burst of squealing and screaming that rose to a sudden crescendo from the back of the bus.  Mavis’ eyes bulged.  Without a word she pushed her impressive girth past me and stood up in the aisle, facing the rabid little animals in the rear. 

“THAT’S IT!!!”  THE NEXT ONE OF YOU IDIOTS THAT RAISES THEIR VOICE ABOVE A WHISPER HAS A WEEK LONG DETENTION WITH ME.  THAT STARTS TODAY.  YOU WILL NOT WATCH THE PLAY.  YOU WILL SIT WITH ME.  I WILL MAKE YOU SUFFER.  I WILL BE HAPPY TO MAKE YOU SUFFER.  I WAS BORN TO MAKE YOU LITTLE PUKES SUFFER.  AM I 100 PERCENT CLEAR??”

Although their inability to understand English even after 8 years of full immersion probably rendered much of her outburst unclear, there was no mistaking the universal message of its tone.  A blessed silence, or at least as close as one can get with fifty kids in a bus, descended. 

“Good one Mavis.”

“Jesus Christ, it’s going to be a long day.”

We were taking a different road down the mountain.  I supposed this was because we were headed for the downtown which was at the north end of the valley.  The sky was a faultless, clear blue.  The green of the giant mountains looked light and clean in the early morning light, cut here and there with the red of the soil.  Here and there on mountainsides the haze of a fire smudged the air as farmers burned scrub.

“God, it is a beautiful country.”

“It’s why I came back.  We’ve got it made here.”

“Except for the school.”

“Except for the school.”

Trying to put a better spin on things, perhaps inspired by the beauty of the morning I continued.

“At least we have jobs.  So many people in this country have nothing.  We’re pretty lucky.”

“Oh Please.  Can you spare me?  It’s a bit early in the morning.”

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

#22 – Passport Control

On my way out of the administration building, I decided to visit Catalina in order to get to the bottom of my passport situation. 
”Gerald!  How you are doing?  Everything is working for you good?”  She was wearing whatever perfume it was that served to render me stupid and drooling.  A short skirt and an ample glimpse of bosom almost finished me off.  Almost.

“Okay.  I guess.  Actually though, I was wondering if we could talk for a minute, in private.”

A flash of concern rushed across her face.  The full mouth pouted, the dark eyes narrowed.

“Of course Gerald.  Come, let us talk in this minute.”  She turned around and headed back into her office.  I sat down and she closed the door behind us.

“What is the matter?”

“Well, it’s about my passport.”

“Ah.  The passport.”

“I know that I signed something that said that I agreed to surrender my passport to the school for my first year of teaching.  But the problem is, I didn’t really know what I was signing when I signed it.  I mean, it’s just that if I had known that I wasn’t allowed to leave the country, that I’m sort of being held hostage here, I don’t know that I would have come.”

Catalina nodded, listening to every word.  However, I was starting to understand that listening and comprehending were two very different things.   I continued nonetheless.

“I guess what I’m saying is that I want my passport back.”

“I’m sorry Gerald.  That is not possible.  It is just not done.  If it is a discomfort to not have your passport, this should have been talked about in Canada.”

“I know, I guess there was so much happening then, that I just didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Gerald.  Please listen.  Many, many teachers have worked here.  Many of them were discomforted as well.  But you see this is the rule of the Academy.  These teachers, all of the teachers here, are the same as you.  Maybe you can discuss with them.  You will feel better, no?”

“What if I want to leave?  I mean, what if something happens?”

“If an emergency happens, then we will discuss the situation.”

“What if I were to get fired?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What if the school did not want me to work for them anymore?  What if they kicked me out?”

“Oh.  No. This would not happen.”

“But what if I just stopped coming to work?  Or what if I come to work drunk every day?  Anything like that?”

“These actions would be breaking the laws of this country.  There are very big, how do you say, penalizations?”

“penalties..”

“Yes very stiff penilzation for teachers in my country.  Teachers in the private schools are of the highest standard.”

“So if I just stopped coming to work?”

“You would be against the law.”

“And what would happen?”

“You would go to the prison Gerry.  Of course, no?”  Her dark eyes looked at me questioningly, as if I were suffering some obvious lapse of reason. 

“What if I want to travel?  Over the Christmas holidays?”

“We are issued to you a travel document.  A temporary passport.”

“Canadian?  Can you do that?”

“No.  A passport from our country.”

“Can I travel freely with that?”

“You may find that it is more difficult.”

“So you’ve really got us by the short and curlies?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind.”

“Is that all of your questions Gerald?  I hope that I can make you feel better.   Is very normal here.  Is the way things are done.  You understand no?”

“Yes.  I understand.”  I rose to leave.  Catalina met me at the door.

“You must let me show you my city Gerry.  Maybe we can go, yes?  I show you all of the beautiful places.”

She was a duplicitous, conniving, deceitful jailer.  What the hell was she thinking?  That I was going to roll over and take this breach of my rights? 

“I’d love to.” 

“We will go.”

“When?”

“We make a time.  Just us.  Me and you.  Yes?”  She squeezed my hands to her chest.  I managed to blurt out an affirmation.  She leaned in and gave me a close hug and a kiss on the cheek.  Disoriented, drunk, and helpless, I found myself wandering in the hallway.  The scream of the kids echoed in the cavernous corridors.  I was late for my next class and couldn’t find my keys.

#21 – An Unexpected Meeting

Tuesday morning. I had taught two classes so far and was in the process of trying out a new strategy. Every time a student talked out of turn or was in any way disrespectful, I sent them out of the room. I was finding that in no time I had a quiet, manageable class. Soon however, I realized that I had fewer than half of my students. When I went to check on the ones out in the hall, they were nowhere to be seen. Just before the secretary came to tell me that I had to go see Mr. Gardiner in his office, I saw my pack of wayward urchins out my window. They were throwing clods of dirt at each other. It looked like Juan Mario Gomez had got some in the eye. He was holding his face and rolling on the ground. His friends were laughing at him and kicking his exposed spine. I closed the blinds. The bell rang and the class charged past, leaving a litter of crumpled paper, candy wrappers, and an inexplicable odor of fish in their wake. I sighed and finished the last of my cold coffee before heading down to the administration office.

Mr. Gardiner’s waiting room was luxurious. Apparently, one of his first priorities on being hired was to remodel his entire office. The dark, lustrous hardwood floor was complemented by the rich colors of the Persian rug that lay across much of it. Heavy oak bookshelves lined two of the walls. There were not many books, but a great number of pictures in ornate frames and other decorations. A young Mr. Gardiner astern a yacht posing beside an expired marlin. An older Mr. Gardiner, pensive, seated at a desk. Various photographs of Medellin Academy children. A bronze apple. A basket of dried flowers. I was seated in one of two leather couches, eating chocolates from a crystal dish atop an oak coffee table. Various magazines were impressively fanned out on display. Mr. Gardiner’s secretary was an imposing woman of few words. I had announced myself and she had simply motioned to the couch. Stony faced. She was new, apparently, the third or fourth secretary since he had taken the job. She was probably silent out of fear of saying the wrong thing. Not a bad strategy I supposed, feeling that I had stepped into a New England parlour, even though I had no idea what a New England parlour was like, or if there was even such a thing. I had moved on to thinking about parlours in general and what the modern equivalent was when the door to the inner sanctum opened and Mr. Gardiner, immaculately turned out in a dark suit and crisp shirt, came over to greet me.

“Jeffery. Good to see you.”

“Gerald sir.”

“I’m sorry. Please come in.”

If the waiting area was luxurious, the office was majestic. The window was blocked entirely by opulent red drapes. A glistening chandelier provided the lighting from what clearly was a raised ceiling. A mock-Tudor effect had been created by judicious use of wood paneling and wainscoting. Antique bookshelves lined the room, full of ancient looking books. I tried to make out titles as I glanced over, but couldn’t. Mr. Gardener had an exquisite hand carved oak desk. It was illuminated by an old fashioned green shaded accountant lamp. Two wingback chairs sat facing the desk, ready for conferencing.

“You have a beautiful office sir. I really like what you’ve done with it. “

“Thank you Jeremy. The wife had a lot of input, but I certainly got in my two cents worth. Are you married Jeremy?”

“No sir.”

“No rush. No rush.” He absently looked though a few sheets of paper that were neatly piled on his desk.

“Would you like a coffee?”

“No, thank you sir. I’ve had several cups already. Don’t want to overdo it.”

“That’s good thinking Jeremy. Good thinking. Moderation in all things right? Including moderation!” He winked at me conspiratorially.

My initial thoughts upon entering his office were rapidly being confirmed. Mr. Gardiner did not have any idea who I was or why I was in his office. Clearly he had gotten as far as deducing I was a teacher at his school. I don’t think he remembered me from the interview though. He shuffled some more paper around and seemed to be at a loss. I felt for him and offered:

“So, I’m guessing that I’m here because Elaine wanted you to talk with me.”

A dim bulb appeared to turn on in his mind. A 25-watt glow flushed into his tanned, well shaven cheeks.

“Yes she seems to think that the two of you have a problem with planning.”

“Yes sir it’s true. We weren’t really seeing eye to eye. I was having some difficulty in comprehending some of the school mandates regarding curriculum planning, especially in regards to unit planning and mapping. I took a bit of an unorthodox approach in my unit mapping, and I’m not sure that Elaine understood where I was coming from. She listened to my reasoning, but I guess she wanted to me to come and hear your end of it sir.”

He stroked his smooth cheeks and leaned back in his chair. He then surprised me by leaning back and gently setting his well-polished oxford brogues onto the desk and crossing them.

“I like the cut of your jib, Jeremy. Unorthodox is confusing to some. They don’t see the… the merit….the value in looking at things from a fresh approach.” He mused further before suddenly dropping his feet back onto the floor and leaning across the desk, eyeing me intently.

“I’m going to level with you Jeremy.”

“Gerald sir.”

“Right. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been going against the grain of this place. These parents? They’re all in a flap because they’re scared. They’re scared of change. They hired me because they wanted new blood. They wanted a new life to breathe in these walls. Now that they’ve got me, they don’t know what to do with me. I’m a bit of a maverick myself , Joseph, a man of principle, and I know what it’s like to stick your neck out. Do you follow me?”

“I believe so sir.”

“I’ll have a word with Elaine. I know how to handle these situations. Diplomacy is one of my strong suits.”

He reclined again, made a temple with his hands and pointed it under his chin.

“Between you and me Jeff, I could use more like you. You can expect to hear from me again. Sooner than later. Can I count on you?”

“Absolutely sir.”

“Good man. Is there anything else?”

“No sir. Thank you sir.”

Effortlessly, he popped to his feet.

“Well. Till next time then Jeff.” He shook my hand warmly and put his hand on my shoulder as he guided me out of his office.

“Say, do you play golf?”

“Regrettably, no sir.”

“Tennis?”

“Not much of an athlete sir. Weak heart.”

“Ah. Shame.”

With a look of genuine kindness and pity he shook my hand again before returning to his room. The door closed with a satisfying, solid click.

#20 – Spanish Lessons

A teacher in the High School was offering Spanish classes for the gringos, and over drinks at my house one night (something that was happening more and more although we never spoke at school…) Amy and I decided to sign up.

The Spanish class was set for Mondays and Thursdays after school.   The teacher’s name was Gregorio, and he taught Spanish to the high school students.  For the first class there were 5 of us in the group:  Amy, Jade, Alex, his mute wife Terry, and Steven, the skeletal history teacher.   We had found our way to Gregorio’s room.  Class was to begin at four.  It was ten after four.  Gregorio’s computer was on, and was playing some kind of trance-dance-techno garbage.  His computer was hooked up to a television that was displaying psychedelic wave and color formations synchronized to the rhythm.  On the walls were cartoons that his students had done of other teachers.  A lot of them I didn’t know.  Some, like Mavis with caricatured beaver teeth and hair like a helmet, I did.  The cartoons were vaguely sinister.  Hostile.  There was a black teacher with huge lips, draped in bling, huge crotch bulge, smoking a reefer.  An Asian teacher with slanted eyes and buckteeth in a rice field with a math textbook.  Pretty racist stuff.  Who was this Gregorio?  Amy was marking papers.  I was sneaking glances at Amy’s legs and pretending to mark papers.  Jade was gnawing her filthy fingernails and perusing a “Lonely Planet.”  Alex’s wife appeared to be sleeping.  Nobody in the room was talking except for Alex who was talking enough for everybody.   

“Well, that’s South America I guess!!  HA!  You can’t be in too much of a rush.”  “Geez, I could have been in my room marking papers!” “Well the next time I’ll certainly know better!  HA HA!”

An endless stream of the obvious.  I wondered about the man’s sanity.  His mouth seemed to be hard wired to his brain.  I felt bad for his wife.  No wonder she was so pinched looking and closed mouthed.  At about fifteen minutes past four, when Alex’s never ending monologue had sedated the group to a state of numb irritation, Gregorio bounded in.

 With shiny curls, an unbuttoned shirt exposing a nest of oily dark hair, a long leather coat, tight black pants, and silver-tipped cowboy boots Gregorio made an instant impression.  Moments after his arrival, billions of molecules were released into the room, cloying the air with a mixture of old sweat and evil-smelling cologne. 

“Buenos Tardes!!”  Gregorio circled the room, a Spanish Tony Robbins, grabbing hands, pumping arms, smiling manically, and displaying quite possibly the worst set of teeth I’d ever seen.  His breath was cadaverous as he shook my hand, macho/jail/soul-brother style.  What happened to people’s teeth in this county?

“My name is Gregorio.  I will use many methods to make you good your Spanish.  My musica…” he gestured to the swirling screen of the television. 

“Also, my papers,” He motioned to a large pile of photocopied paper sitting on his otherwise empty desk. 

“We use as well my toys.”  He giggled and pointed to a box in the corner where if I wasn’t mistaken a half-deflated blow up doll was stuffed.  A black whip lay across what looked to be the buttocks.

“We no waste time.  Start right now.  MI NOMBRE ES GREGORIO.  Repeat me.  Across the circle.  We go.  You start” He pointed at Amy

“Mi nombre es Amy.”

“Mi nombre es Terry.”

“Mi nombre es Alex.  But you can call me Al.  Ha Ha!!”

And so it went.  We played the circle game for a while, repeating basic phrases.  This part was going all right.  We then came to numbers.

“Is important yes to have the numbers no?  You like the chicken and you make a telephone and you say bring the chicken.  They say where the chicken and you no know the numbers.  Muy Malo, No?”

Five heads nodded in concentration and confusion.

“So I give you the numbers.”  At this point Gregorio did a little dance move out of what appeared to be pure excitement.  He went over to his stack of papers and removed a pile.

“You will take one.”

The paper had numbers on it from one to one hundred.  The problem was that they were not written in Spanish but in standard numeric form.  It was a piece of paper with the numerals from 1 to 100 on it.   Faces sought assurance from other faces that they were actually seeing what they were seeing.

“Okay you study now your numbers for Thursday.  Good jobs for everybody.  Yeah!”  Gregorio went around the room, motivational speaker style again, and high-fived his dumbstruck students.  He was then out the door as quickly as he had come in.  After a while Jade broke the stunned silence.

“But, they’re like, numbers!”

#19 – The Lair of the White Worm

So far, there was one teacher in all of the middle school who appeared to have his head on straight. His name was Juan Ricardo, and he taught grade 7 Social Studies across the hall from me. He was a Colombian and taught in Spanish, but he spoke excellent English. We were eating lunch in the cafeteria one wet day as the rain poured down and thunder boomed and echoed across the valleys. I was bitching about my students.

“What you don’t understand Gerald is that they feel that they own you. Look. Ever since they were babies their parents have hired people to look after them. Most of these mothers have their babies and then leave them to be raised by nannies and maids. They have chauffeurs to drive them to the mall or to other kids’ birthday parties which are organized and supervised by maids and nannies. The chauffeurs drive them to school; the maids pack their homework. When they get to school they see us as just more hired help. We are here to do what they want.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s the way things are. You’ve got it easy. You’re a foreign hire. It cost them money to get you here and to keep you here. They need you to stay. You can speak freely to the kids and be strict with them. Think about the Colombian teachers. Do you think that we are that hard to replace?”

A flash of lightning and a boom of thunder shook the air in my lungs with its force. Juan Ricardo continued.

“Two percent of the population in this country own 95 percent of the wealth in it. We teach the kids of that two percent. Remember that. You may not like it, but it will help explain a lot.”

At that moment, as if on cue, Elaine waddled in. Her perpetually dour expression was even more sour than usual. The mole eyes peered around the room through the amber fog of her glasses. She sniffed the air like a beast in search of its prey. The eyes locked on me.

“Gerald. My office. Now.” She turned and was out the door. The waddle had a definite tinge of anger to it, inasmuch as a waddle can convey emotion. Juan Ricardo looked at me questioningly.

“I suspect my unit map was not to her satisfaction.”

“I suspect you’re right.” Juan Ricardo had looked at my ‘map’ before I sent it. He had a good laugh but advised me against sending it. I sent it anyway.

“Just remember. That two percent owns her soul and she knows it.”

“Well it doesn’t own mine.”

“Tell her what she wants to hear. Your life can be very easy that way.”

“Yeah, yeah I know. I keep telling myself that. But she’s such an utter cow that I just can’t help myself.”

“Have fun.”

“Thanks”

I put my plate in the sink. Above it there was a sign in Spanish and English: PLEASE WASH YOUR OWN DIRTY DISHES. But nobody did. Everyone left them piled in the sink and then at the end of the day when the pile was tottering some poor maid or other would have to wade in and do them all. In cold water. I thought about washing my own plate and cutlery. Then I didn’t.

 

Elaine’s office was an explosion of kitsch, a shrine to the banal. Various weavings and crocheted articles shrouded the walls collecting dust and housing numerous insects both alive and dead. These were flanked by motivational posters incorporating pathos-inducing animals (puppies, kittens) and Hallmark wit. There were at least three crucifixes; on the most graphic of which the blood trickles and spatters had been lovingly and delicately painted. Her desk was a monument to disorder and chaos, an unholy nest of paper and filth. Beside the desk a shelf about waist high supported a collection of ceramic saints and candles.

Elaine was ensconced in her throne, looking at her computer screen with her back to me when I came in. I sat down quietly on the single wooden chair that faced her desk, like a supplicant facing the altar. I half convinced myself to kneel, but then thought the better of it.

“I’ve received your documents Mr. Thurlington, and needless to say, I’m less than impressed.” Her voice was slow and syrupy. She was dragging out the consonants, ssstretching the sssybillant sssounds like a ssssnake, clearly enjoying the theatre of the moment.

“Which documents Elaine?” I decided to play it thick.

“Your unit plans, an assessment schedule, discipline policy, course outline, list of materials, mission statement, and a full list of the standards and benchmarks where you will be focusing your teaching this term by the end of the week.”

“Oh yes.”

Elaine swiveled in her chair, the leather squeaking softly as she adjusted her bulk. She folded her hands on her desk and looked at me. All that was missing was the bright lights in my eyes and a portrait of Hitler behind her. I chose to remain silent. Still clearly enjoying the full blown exercising of her power, she placed my ‘unit map’ in front of me.

“Mr. Thurlington, can you please explain this?”

“It’s a painting. By Jackson Pollock. I think it’s called “Eyes in Heat” or something like that.”

My explanation was greeted with silence. Evidently further elaboration was expected.

“I was unsure what a map was, even after looking in the archives for old ones. They made absolutely no sense to me. Then I asked you what a map was and you sent me a 47-page document that I couldn’t even finish let alone make sense of. So, I tried to find something that would visually articulate my map. I don’t really know where I am, or where I’m going. Therefore, Jackson Pollock seemed to fit the bill.”

The mole eyes glared at me. I could see them remarkably well today. I suppose that the stormy dark sky caused the tint to lighten in her glasses.

“Do you think this is funny?”

“No. Not at all. I think it’s frustrating and demoralizing. First and foremost, I’m held here against my will. You people have my passport, and however you want to call it, you are holding me ransom. Then I have to deal with the most obnoxious, entitled kids I have ever seen who have never seen an adult beyond their parents who isn’t hired help. I spend upwards of three hours a day on buses built for midgets with wheels that fall off going down dangerous mountain passes. Then I have to hand in meaningless paperwork to you which you don’t even understand or care about beyond that someone above you wants it for some stupid rubber stamp reason. “

The piglet eyes looked at me uncomprehendingly. It sounded like there was a river on the roof from the volume of rain that was pouring off. A low, extended rumble of distant thunder broke the silence.

“I’m going to discuss this matter with Dr. Gardiner. I don’t know what you’re after Mr. Thurlington, but I’m not playing ball. Do you understand me? I’m not playing ball. Don’t think that this is over Mr. Thurlington. This is not over. You are dismissed.”

Elaine busied herself with shuffling some of the many papers on her desk, an actor seizing upon a bit of improvised business as the scene comes to an unexpected close.

Disgusted as much as anything else, I’d no choice but to leave.

#18 – Death in the Andes

When I came to, I opened my eyes slowly, and then closed them again. My head was resting on Amy’s shoulder. I felt like I was 16. Her hair smelt good, like fruit shampoo. She had not woken me up or pushed me over. I was no psychologist, but surely at this basic body-to-body level, her tolerance of my incursion into her space spoke well of her predisposition towards me? As I leaned beside her, feigning sleep and inhaling the magical, heady scent of a strange and attractive woman, another, more unwelcome sense began to clamor for attention in my brain. Something wasn’t right about the bus. Beside the lack of shocks or springs and in addition to the tortured squeaking and grinding of various hidden mechanical parts, there was a new movement that felt decidedly wrong. The bus was weaving from side to side at regular, short intervals like a boat running parallel to waves. Everything felt bad about the bus, but this felt really bad. I opened my eyes and slowly extricated myself from the warm, scented oasis of Amy’s shoulder.

“Sorry. I guess I fell asleep.”

“That’s okay. I was going to wake you, but it seemed sort of cruel. If you had started drooling it would have been another story.”

“No snoring?”

“A couple of grunts, nothing major.”

We were halfway down the mountain and almost in Medellin.  It was strange. A few moments of sleep on somebody’s shoulder, but it already felt to me like some sort of barrier had been broken, that the same woman beside me was different from the one that was there twenty minutes before.

“The bus feels weird.”

“It’s a piece of crap.”

“No, the side-to-side thing. That can’t be good. It feels like we’ve got a flat tire or something.”

Amy poked her head out of the window.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“It’s not a flat tire, but I think the wheel is about to come off!”

I craned my head past her and out the window. The rear left wheel indeed looked like it was going to fall off. It was rotating in an alarmingly drunken wobble.

“Hey! Senora! Stop!”

The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror with a completely blank expression on her face.

“How do I say stop?”

“Pare”

“Senora!!! Pare!! Pare!!” I had gotten to my feet by this point and had my head in the front of the bus and was pointing over to the side of the road. The mannequin driving the bus peered up at me with the same blank expression, as if I were an insect or a strangely shaped vegetable. By this time the rest of the bus was yelling for her to stop. They probably thought that I was going to be sick or something, so everyone had good reason to get her to pull over. Finally, after much gesticulating and yelling, she finally stopped. I jumped off the bus and ran around to have a look at the wheel. On a good day it would be held on by five lug nuts. Today, three of them were missing entirely. The remaining two were almost off their threads. They were easily removed after only a few rotations with my fingers. Four turns and one came off. Three for the other. By this time almost everyone was off the bus, except for the driver who remained in her seat. Mavis stood beside me.

“You mean that wheel was held on by those two screws?” Her eyes flashed with anger.

There was nothing to say.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. Ask her if she’s got a jack and a tire iron.”

Mavis said something to the driver who shrugged her shoulders and said nothing. At that point Mavis opened the floodgates and a torrent of what I can only imagine was let out, crashing around the ears of our chauffeur. Meanwhile I walked to the back of the van, opened the back door, and rummaging around found an odd looking jack, and a tire iron. No spare tire. After jacking up the van and tightening the remaining two bolts I looked at the other wheels and saw that two more wheels were missing bolts. One was missing one, another two. I tightened the remaining bolts all around and then threw the tools back in the trunk, slamming the door. By this point everyone was already back on the bus. Our driver, chastened and quiet after Mavis’ tongue-lashing, drove off.

“Good job Gerald.”

“Nice one.”

“Thanks Gerald.”

It was nice to hear, it made me feel good, but also made me feel awkward. We pulled up in front of Mavis’ building.

“Hey Gerry, come up for a gin. You deserve one.”

“Thanks, but I’m just going to head home. It was a rough day.”

“All right. But Friday. Friday we sit with gin and dissect the wogs.”

“Sounds good. See you.”

As we drove on, the hubbub of conversation was one of general outrage about the state of the buses. The old-timers were saying that the school always tried to get the cheapest possible companies and didn’t care about the mechanical condition of the fleet. It was in fact a pretty frightening thing to think about what would have happened coming down that mountain if a wheel fell off. Some of the turns would put incredible force on those little pieces of metal, and if the turn was not met there were literally thousands of feet… We wouldn’t stop rolling until we hit Medellin, a twisted, gory mass. Amy seemed to share my thoughts.

“Pretty nuts, eh?”

“Yeah. If you think about what we just came down…”

“I’d like you to come over for a drink.”

“That would be great.”

“But there’s a problem.”

“What.”

“Her name is Jade,” She whispered into my ear, and the soft stream of her warm breath made my heart race. Jade was in the middle of one of her frequent travel lectures, two seats behind us:

“Well when I was in Costa Rica our bus like totally broke down in the middle of the jungle. We were there for like two days before they got it fixed. Totally freaky. Buses were always breaking down there. And when I was in Thailand….”

“So that’s the mystery roommate.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you could come to my place. The problem is I don’t really have anything to drink.”

“Well let’s get off at the store and then walk back to your place. You said it was close.”

“Sounds good”

“So who are the wogs?”

“Sorry?”

“Mavis. On Friday? Dissect the wogs?”

“Oh. Mavis likes to have cocktails on Friday. I went last week. She likes to talk about people, the school. I don’t know, it’s kind of funny.”

“Is she seeing that Jamie guy?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. I mean really.”

“People say that they’re an item. I don’t know. I think she’s pretty weird.”

“She’s different, that’s for sure.”

“She likes you.”

“Yeah, she’s all right. She’s certainly interesting.”

“No, I mean she likes you.”

“Please. Let’s not go there. We just had a near death experience. No more shocks or surprises. At least not until we start drinking.”

“Can’t handle the truth huh?”

“You’re closer to the mark than you know. Let’s get off here and walk the rest of the way. I’m salivating for gin.”

“You’re what?”

“Never mind.”