It Has To Be With Your Whole Heart

Jess practices starting on an incline

She gives a little throttle and the engine begins to liven. Then, as she begins to release the clutch, she lets off the throttle. The motorcycle jerks forward and the engine cuts off. Jess looks at me, waiting for the rebuke.

            ‘Now do it your way again,’ I say.

It is a warm afternoon and the tarmac is dry after it rained heavily earlier in the morning. In the waning weeks of the wet season, the rains become more ferocious as they become less frequent. Now when they finish, the sky opens up and there are few or no clouds and the sunshine is strong as you would expect it to be always.

She frowns when I say it and she turns back to her controls. She is stopped on an incline and she knows that this is testing her command of the motorcycle’s controls – foot break, throttle and clutch lever. She does it the same way as before. She thinks she does not. She thinks she will make it work this time and, it working, she will show me that she does not need a crutch to make it work for her. So she does it again her way and, not controlling how her mind controls her hand at the throttle, she lets off as she disengages the clutch so that the motorcycle jerks forward and the engine shuts off. She looks at me again.

            ‘Now do it my way,’ I say. ‘That means you say – aloud – “gas, gas, gas” over and over and you believe the words and you use them as a command to your hand to continue to the accelerate as you disengage the clutch.’

            ‘OK,’ she says.

            She returns to her controls and she begins to mumble the words under her breath.

            ‘Gas, gas, gas,’ she says.

            She stops saying the words as she begins to disengage the clutch and, releasing the throttle, she jerks into a stall.

            ‘See, it doesn’t work,’ she says.

            ‘Two things,’ I say. ‘First, you stopped saying it before you actually started to disengage the clutch. Second, you can’t mumble the words. The words are not magic. You have to say them aloud and like you mean it. You have to focus on your throttle hand and use them to command your hand to obey you.’

            ‘It feels stupid,’ she says.

            ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I imagine it’s no more stupid than stalling over and over because you refuse to try it.’

            ‘Fine,’ she says.

She turns back to the controls. She says the words with meaning this time, if not with conviction, but it is enough. She lets back slightly on the throttle as she disengages the clutch but she has enough control over her throttle hand not to let off completely and the motorcycle lurches slightly but survives the transition from the stop into the ride.

Once she realizes she is riding, she gains confidence and she accelerates up the incline. She changes into second gear at the leveling before the second rise. At the top of the second rise, she u-turns, descends, u-turns again, and returns to the starting position. Stopped now, she waits for me to approach and for the ‘I told you so’ that she knows she deserves.

‘Do it your way,’ I say.

She frowns and she turns her focus to the controls. She does it her way, thinking she does not because she feels the words come out of her mouth. But I can see that she does not believe them and so they do not command her throttle hand. She adds throttle, begins to disengage the clutch, releases the throttle, lurches forward, and stalls the engine. She looks at me again.

 ‘Good. Do it your way again,’ I say.

She frowns because she is too smart to not know when she is being played with but she is still much too stubborn to get it right. She does it her way again, saying the words, not the command, and she lurches and stalls again. She looks at me again and again I say, ‘Do it your way.’

            She lurches and stalls again. Now she is tired of failing and I think it is getting the better of her stubbornness.

            ‘Now do it my way,’ I say.

            She sighs and turns back to her controls. She says the words – as a command this time – and she continues to accelerate with her throttle hand as she disengages the clutch and she moves forward smoothly into the ride. When she comes back she is smiling sheepishly. I shrug as if to say, ‘It’s just that easy.’

            ‘Your afraid of the engine,’ I say. ‘You think the bike is going to buck you. That’s why you’re hesitant to accelerate. So you try to give just enough to get into a ride and then, when you’re comfortable that you’re riding, you start to accelerate again.’

            ‘Yeah,’ she says.

            ‘The starting needs to be part of the riding, not a separate activity. You need to want to fire the engine and accelerate.’

I think about this because I think that maybe I have hit on something for her and me both.

‘You have to do this wholeheartedly – that’s what I love so much about it. If you give it anything less she’ll buck you as sure as anything. And that’s when it isn’t safe to do it. Every time you ride it has to be with your whole heart and your whole head. You have to be there completely and there can be nothing else while you’re doing it.’

I say this and I know that she knows what it means because it is what she was taught when she was young and what she values now and what she looks for in everything she does; it is what scares her more than anything else and what makes her happier too.

This Chip On Your Shoulder

You have this chip on your shoulder, you know that? I think to myself.

            I know it, myself thinks back to me.

            Do you know why? I ask myself.

            No.

It’s because you worked so hard to get here and waited so long, I think.

Maybe.

You spent the majority of your twenties in university to ‘prepare’ for this, didn’t you? I think.

Yes I did.

And now that you’re here, it’s not exactly what you expected it would be, is it?

No, it’s most certainly not.

And why do you think that is? I think to myself.

I don’t know.

It’s because you’re so much fucking smarter than all the rest of them, aren’t you? I think.

No. That’s a terrible thing to think.

But you think it just the same. And most of those other expats didn’t work as hard as you did to get here.

No.

It doesn’t seem fair, does it? I think.

No.

They should be working for you, shouldn’t they?

Some of them yes.

So you have this chip on your shoulder, I think to myself.

Yes, myself thinks back to me, I do.

Yes, I think in reply.

But why do I get so very upset at some of them? myself thinks to ask me. Like the ones who stole from the last place I worked.

That’s a good question, I think. You want to know why you take it personally, like as if they stole from you?

Yes, that’s it.

That’s because it is, I think in reply.

I’m sorry?

For you it is personal.

I don’t understand.

This was the dream and the dream has turned out to be so much less that you expected, I think, and you don’t accept things without understanding why.

No, I suppose I don’t.

So someone has to be the cause of it – to blame for it, right?

I guess so.

Sure they do, I think.

So it’s the ones who stole’s fault then?

It’s their fault and the fault of the incompetents and of the apathetics, and it’s the fault of the ones who let them all into their positions and the ones who let them continue in their positions still.

So that’s it then, myself thinks.

No it’s not, I think back.

It’s not?

It’s not their fault or the fault of the ones who let them do it.

So is it my fault then for blaming them for it?

Yes, partly it’s your fault for making them the face of your dream’s ruin, I think. But mostly it’s just the way the world works and no one’s to blame.

Then what can I do about it? myself thinks to me.

About the world?

Yes.

You can try to change it – in all the small ways you can, I think. Always and forever you try to change it. But mostly it’s about what you can do about yourself.

What can I do about myself? Learn to accept it?

Not accept it, I think. The true world-shakers are the ones who, being out of tune with the world, bring the world in tune with them. But to do that you must be in tune with yourself.

That last bit sounds a bit la-ti-da doesn’t it? myself thinks.

No it doesn’t, I think back. It’s about attitude. It’s about being open to the world and its possibilities. It’s about making an effort and living for the way things should be and then being flexible that they’re not there yet.

            It still sounds fu-fu.

Yeah, maybe it is a little bit.

You Must Learn to Speak Correct

Pem-pems (motorcycle taxis) will carry anything.

It is Saturday afternoon and we are riding on Randall St up past Benson where it becomes one way. The traffic is very bad here so we are glad we are on our motorbike because we can ride the narrow opening between the parked cars and the cars that idle as they wait in the traffic.

I slow as we approach the intersection and I see there are two police who are directing the traffic. You see this in many busy intersections where there are no traffic lights and the signage, if there ever was any, has been destroyed or is ignored. In these places you might expect that one police to direct traffic is enough but this is rarely the way. More often you will see three or four police in a busy intersection and, although they will be directing traffic together, they will seldom conduct in unison. This time there are two and they are working smartly together so that, while one directs traffic, the other seeks out offenders.

Stopped now at the intersection, we wait as traffic moves in the other direction ahead of us. Then I see the ‘seeker’ police approach and look us over. His expression is menacing as though what is about to happen is entirely personal. His eyes look to the front where there might have been a license plate below the headlight. Then he sidesteps, takes a stride, and turns to check the rear below the brake light. When he comes back around to the front he’s expression is triumphant.

‘Where is your plate?’ he says.

Before I can respond, he reaches down, turns the ignition off, and pockets the key.

I smile because it is my first formal interaction with the police in this country and somehow it is just the behavior I expected. Also, I smile because I am remembering the discussion that Jess and I had before we left the hotel.

‘Do you want to put the license plate on before we go out?’ she had said.

The license plate was in our hotel room one floor up with the bike’s registration documents. I had received them the day before from one of the drivers where I work who had acted as a fixer. I paid him USD 35 instead of the official USD 15 because it was supposed to save me from having to make multiple trips to the Ministry of Transportation, which it had, and to complete the process in just a few days, which it had not. Now, finally, we had the registration and the license plate but it was up there and we were down here and now we had our helmets on and the guard was opening the gate.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We have been driving for six weeks without it. What’s one more day?’

            It is USD 50 as it turns out.

            ‘Bring the bike over here,’ the police says aggressively. ‘Over here.’

            I shift into neutral and slowly walk the bike the few meters to where the police has pointed. There are many other motorbike clustered there on a protrusion of the sidewalk and many young men loiter around them. When I have parked the bike, I stay seated a moment longer to take off my helmet and wipe the sweat from my forehead. It is the first truly warm day since we are here, which means the rainy season is finally coming to an end.

            ‘Good afternoon, officer,’ I say.

            ‘You have no license plate,’ he says. ‘Where is your registration?’

            ‘My registration is at the Ministry of Transportation,’ I say. ‘I paid the 15 dollars and now I am waiting for them to issue the plate. I have gone there several times to get it but they say it is not ready yet.’

            His expression shows that he does not like this response, I think because I have demonstrated knowledge of the cost and he knows of the great slowness of the procedure.

            ‘You go talk to him,’ he says, pointing to the other police.

            I look back and see that Jess is standing next to the bike watching my helmet. She is surrounded by a swarm of young motorcycle taxi drivers. They are very excited by her and she is smiling, which I think is partly genuine and partly a defense to all the unwanted attention. She is experienced and I am not worried about her.

            The police who was ‘seeking’ steps into the intersection to direct traffic and the other police, who is apparently his supervisor, approaches me.

            ‘You don’t have a license plate or registration,’ the second police says. ‘That is a 50 dollar fine.’

            I repeat the thing about the cost and the delay by the Ministry of Transportation.

            ‘We are not the Ministry of Transportation,’ he says. ‘We are the police and we must make sure that you have the license plate and registration.’

            ‘I understand,’ I say, ‘but the Ministry has taken my documents while they process the license plate.’

            I smile for a moment thinking how this could be a scene from a Kafka novel.

            The second police decides not to quibble with me over the procedural details. Instead he says, ‘You are wearing a helmet. That is good. But you have no registration or license plate. That is a 50 dollar fine.’

            I smile again seeing how he has won. Since he will not engage me on the procedural details and I cannot deny the fact that I am not in possession of the registration or license plate, my only recourse left is to quibble over the price. This, of course, concedes the fact of the infraction.

            ‘Officer, it seems that 50 dollars is very much money when I am trying correctly to obtain a license plate as I have explained to you. Maybe there is a smaller ticket for this particular situation?’

            ‘You see these people?’ he says, gesturing to the parked motorbikes and then realizing that their owners have all abandoned them to swarm around Jessica. ‘They all will pay the fine or the pem pem will be impounded.’

We go back and forth like this until I have put up enough of a protest to satisfy myself. I have the USD 50 and I know that I do not want the bike to be impounded because that will involve much more time and additional bribes. I know that a payment will need to be made as soon as the first police took my key and I know it is the cost of ‘doing business’ here but I also know that I cannot make it too easy because, somehow, ironically, that would be to condone it.

            ‘I think it will be best if I pay the ticket now,’ I say.

            ‘You want the bike to be impounded then?’ the police asks.

‘No, I want to pay the ticket,’ I say.

‘Then you must learn to speak correct,’ the police says.

I should smile at this, as I have smiled earlier at the situation, but now I am hot and sweating in the bright sunshine and I am ready for this to be concluded.

            ‘How is the correct way to speak?’ I ask.

‘If you want to pay the ticket, then I must impound the bike,’ he says. ‘If you will pay the fine now, then I do not have to impound the bike.’

‘I will pay the fine now,’ I say.

‘Come this way,’ he says.

He leads me off to one side and I thrust a crumpled banknote into his hand open palm. He checks that the amount is correct and then he begins to return to the intersection.

‘You may go,’ he says. ‘Make sure you get a license plate.’

‘You’re colleague has my key,’ I say.

He calls the first police who is directing traffic in the intersection.

‘Give him his key,’ the second police says.

The first police complies and I return with the key to the bike.

‘What is going on?’ Jess says.

‘We can go,’ I say.

‘Did you pay the ticket?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I paid the fine.’

All and Completely and Only True Forever

Jess broods when there is something on her mind. When she broods she becomes quiet and she becomes detached so that it is as though she and the whole world are in very different places. You can try to connect with her when she broods but, until she is ready to be reached, you will never get through. If you try to force her before she is ready, it will be like hurling yourself against a brick wall, and you will fail and feel broken by it. Early on, I used to be concerned that the brooding was because of something I had done or failed to do and so I would throw myself at the brick wall over and over because I would need to be reassured. That was before I knew better - because, of course, I am a wonderful boyfriend - but it took some time until I was reassured of that.

            She broods because she thinks about things deeply. When she thinks about things it is like she catches a glimpse of a passing thought and follows it into a rabbit hole and wherever it takes her after that. That thought leads to another and another after that until she has weighed and considered everything anew. Mostly when she comes out of a brood, which is always in her own time, there will be no great revelation from it, but she will be refreshed and reequipped to confront the world and its great, wonderful strangeness. But sometimes, and always, when there is to be a great new step forward for us, it comes after she broods.

            ‘I was thinking about what I would do for six months next year when you go on your motorcycle trip,’ she said.

            I was not prepared for this and, not prepared, I hesitated so that, she, growing nervous from my hesitating, continued.

            ‘I guess I could do the Camino de Santiago or take a French class or work,’ she said. ‘I know it’s a ways off but that’s what I was thinking about.’

            We were in the kitchen in the apartment and it was gray out and I had been preparing something because we had decided not to go out.

            ‘You know, you could do the trip with me,’ I said and I felt the breath spill out from my lungs.

            I said it before I realized I was saying it and before I realized that I wanted to say it. In the emptiness of my lungs and the silence that followed my saying it, I felt that I had dared to ask for too much. Isn’t it enough to meet someone that you’re in love with, I thought. Must you get your hopes up to have found someone who, more than appreciate your passions, would share the doing of them with you? The gods always punish hubris, I thought. So, in realizing that what I had asked for was so much more than sharing a motorcycle trip, my confidence deserted me and I started sounding the retreat.

            ‘I would love for you to come but, of course, I understand if you wouldn’t want to,’ I said. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be easy. It would be hard work. You would have to learn to ride your own motorcycle - I would teach you but...and there are the elements - the cold and the wind and the heat. And there is the physical - I mean the long hours on the bike and the camping out.’

            I looked up as I spoke and I saw that she was watching me and holding her breath and I gained some small courage from this.

            ‘It would be hard days and long ones and plenty of discomfort,’ I said, ‘but I can guarantee that, if nothing else, it will be the most amazing experience you’ve ever had.’

            I stopped and I waited breathless and felt silly for having hoped. After a moment she responded.

            ‘Of course I would go if you invite me,’ she said in a way that was as if she were saying, ‘How could I not want to do something like that.’

            ‘And you would learn to ride a motorbike?’

            ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That would be part of the excitement.’

            ‘Sure,’ I said unsteadily because I was supposed to have to convince her of that.

            ‘And I could learn Spanish,’ she said. ‘I could take a class before and maybe listen to an audio course during it.’

            ‘You could,’ I said still dumbstruck.

            ‘Only you know you would have to leave me alone to speak Spanish so that I am not nervous to speak,’ she said. ‘Like you would have to wait outside with the bikes while I buy drinks in the store. At least in the beginning.’

            ‘I can do that,’ I said with more disbelief because I was supposed to have to explain to her that I would not do everything for her just because I have the language.

            We were both quiet with our thoughts for a time until she came back first.

            ‘That’s what I was thinking about before,’ she said, ‘but I thought it has always been your thing - you’ve been talking about it since I’ve known you - and I figured you would only want to do it alone.’

            ‘I did,’ I said, ‘I mean, it’s an amazing thing and doing it alone somehow opens you to the world in a special way. But I did it alone the first time so I have experienced that. To do it alone again would be fine but it would be mostly because there was never anyone to do it with and much less someone who would actually want to do it with me.’

            ‘I always thought it sounded amazing when you would talk about it before we started dating,’ she said.

            ‘You know, when I was preparing for the first trip, so many people asked me why I wanted to do it,’ I said. ‘Maybe they would understand the travel part but why on a motorcycle? Thing is, if you have to explain the why to someone, then they are someone who will never understand the explanation. You know?’

            ‘I know,’ she said.

            ‘It’s not just the seeing the places and it’s not just the motorcycling or the going from one place to another. It’s the whole thing together and the knowing that you got yourself there and the knowing you did it yourself, even with all the help you get along the way. It’s the knowing that. And it’s the knowing that, if you can do that - all that and do it all yourself - then what can’t you do? And then it’s the seeing those amazing places - and those mundane places - all those places that you could have visited more easily by airplane or bus or even by car - it’s how you feel about those places - I guess the ownership you feel - knowing what it took to get there and knowing how that place connects with the place before it and the one after it to be part of something so much greater than any one piece of it alone.’

            It came out in a flood. When I finished saying it I thought about it and I thought that it oddly made complete sense that I could explain it better - or only - to someone who did not need it explained at all.

            ‘That’s what I want,’ she said.

            She said it simply and confidently so that you knew that she understood what it meant - that you were talking about life more than you were talking about a motorcycle trip - and you knew that when she said it, it was not part or kind of or mostly, but all and completely and only true forever.

It Is 10 Dollars If You Come Here To Die

‘Hi!’ Jess says when she opens the hotel room door.

            She smiles each time when she opens the door and sees that it is me returning from work. She smiles like she has not seen me in a long time and then she sort of tilts her head and bends one knee almost in a strange half-curtsy. I find that I have come to anticipate it - the smile and the wonderfully awkward half-curtsy - so that it taps the reward center of my brain to produce a shot of dopamine each time. It makes coming home to her an even finer thing.

            ‘I’m not well,’ I say to her on this day and her lovely wide smile quickly turns to concern.

            I have been out of work all week and this is my first day back and I feel awful.

            ‘My throat is bad,’ I say as I come in and put down my messenger bag.

            ‘You probably need antibiotics,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to the hospital now.’

            ‘No,’ I say stubbornly.

            ‘Come on,’ she urges.

            ‘Let’s go tomorrow morning during work hours,’ I say. ‘I’m sick because of the apartment that they put us in!’

            I know how I sound and I feel lousy about myself for sounding that way and for feeling the way I sound, but I made a good contribution at work today and now the chip is on my shoulder when I think about the mistreatment that I have received.

            Jess urges again that we go to the hospital but I am a stubborn baby just now.

            We eat and it hurts to swallow so that I am twice as slow as the absurdly slow eater that I normally am. Then we get into bed - actually we had eaten in bed because there is no table or chairs in our hotel room and we do not want to eat in the common area. Later, at night, we put the lights out and I lay there and I feel bad. The adrenaline from the activity of the day abandons me and I feel my sore throat close and breathing becomes difficult.

            ‘Jess,’ I say into the darkness, knowing that she is still awake because neither of us have learned to sleep sound or well here yet.

            ‘Yes?’ she says from beside me.

            ‘I think I need to go to the hospital.’

We walk the five blocks to the John F Kennedy Hospital because I will not let Jess call for a car-taxi and I refuse to ride on the back of a motorcycle-taxi. Also, I feel that the walking builds the adrenaline up in my system so that I do not feel so bad as when I lay in bed shallowly breathing. The security guards stop us at the gate but they let us through when Jessica explains why we have come.

            ‘Do they think we are here to steal something?’ I say because I feel bad and I forget that it does not make me feel better to spit venom at others.

            ‘Look at this field in front of the hospital,’ I say. ‘I could die here and no one would find me until the rain washes my decayed, MOLDY corpse to the street.’

            ‘Come on, Negative Nancy,’ Jess says.

            Earlier in the day I called myself a ‘Negative Nancy’ because I got into a foul mood talking about the moldy apartment that has made me sick. Jess likes the label and now she is calling me ‘Negative Nancy’ intermittently as we walk to the emergency department.

            ‘If I die,’ I say, ‘you tell my mother that I died bravely. No whimpering or sniveling, ok?’

            ‘OK, Negative Nancy. Hang on. We’re almost there.’

            ‘On second thought, I’m feeling a lot better,’ I say as we approach the dreadful looking reception room of the emergency department. ‘I think we should go home and we’ll visit the SOS clinic in the morning.’

            ‘Come on. We’re already here, Negative Nancy,’ she says.

            Then she tries to think what would be the opposite label so that she can be more encouraging.

            ‘Don’t be a Negative Nancy,’ she says. ‘Be a Positive Pauliana.’

            ‘Pauliana?’ I say. ‘Positive Peter or Pauline would be better.’

            ‘I like Pauliana,’ Jess says and then she says, ‘Be a Positive Pauliana,’ again as though to make it stick.

On the wall beside the entrance is a plaque that says Emergency Department and the door is open to the night air. The reception area is lit by a compact florescent bulb that hangs naked from the ceiling. The walls are bare except where printed papers with poorly written instructions hang by scotch tape.

'US$10 (ten dollars) charge for the pronouncement of death'

            ‘That one says it is 10 dollars if you come here to die,’ Jess whispers as we enter. She is referencing the processing fee for delivering a dead body to the Emergency Department.

            Cobwebs, dust, and mold fill where the walls meet the ceiling and along the exposed rafters and unused light fixtures. There are two boys behind the reception desk and Jess goes over to register me. I sit in a plastic chair beside a pregnant young woman whose mother comes in shortly with the 700 Liberian dollars to pay the registration fee. After the mother pays, the nurse wraps the girl's arm to take her blood pressure and then the young boy who is a nurse’s assistant takes her to an examination room.

            ‘What is your problem?’ the nurse asks me.

            ‘My throat is infected,’ I say.

            The nurse looks at me and sighs. I feel sick and put out but I think about not spitting venom. ‘She won’t kiss me when my throat is infected,’ I say, gesturing to Jessica who has come to sit beside me after paying the registration fee.

            The nurse smiles as though for the first time tonight and I feel proud of myself for not spitting venom back at her. Then the nurse directs the boy to take my blood pressure. I am 120 over 70.

            ‘He will take you for the tests,’ the nurse says.

            ‘What tests?’ I ask.

            ‘Blood and urine,’ she says.

The face of patient care

            ‘I have a throat infection,’ I say, ‘Can we do a throat swab instead?’

            ‘No,’ she says.

            I get up to follow the boy.

            ‘Do you want me to come, love?’ Jess says.

            ‘Fuck yes I do. Don’t you leave me here,’ I say threateningly.

            We follow the boy through a series of poorly lit hallways where the smell of mold and filth is heavy in the air. As we walk, the boy tries to solicit a job from me.

            ‘You see, we must work for 12 hours at a time so there is no time to study,’ he says. ‘Maybe your company has a job for me. It’s OK if your company does not work in health,’ he continues as though anticipating my response. ‘I can do any job. It’s just so I can study, you see. I will get your mobile number before you go.’

            We wait outside the laboratory for twenty minutes and then I am called in. Another young boy who wears a lab coat pricks my finger and smears the blood on a microscope slate. Then he hands me a cup and the other boy leads me back through the corridors to a bathroom by the reception area where I fill the cup and then we walk back to the laboratory.

            When we return, Jess is trying to take pictures indiscreetly but her iPhone lacks a flash and it is too dark here to take a picture without one.

            ‘I peed in a cup,’ I tell her.

            ‘Good for you, love,’ she says in mock condescension.

The Emergency Department pharmacy is behind the bars

            Then the boy leads us back to the reception to wait for the test results. Now a man in a coat has come to the reception area. He is writing in the patient charts. He might be a doctor or he might be anything else. There are two nurses now and they are discussing my symptoms. There are another pregnant young lady in the reception area now or maybe it is the same pregnant young lady as before but I am not paying attention. When my test results come after 40 minutes, the man in the white coat reviews them. Aloud but not to me he says, ‘Negative for malaria. High white blood count.’

            ‘I’m not well,’ I say to Jess because there is only us there as there is only us everywhere we go together.

            ‘You have an infection, Negative Nancy,’ Jess says.

            The man in the white coat writes me a prescription for Cipro and an antihistamine and throat lozenges. The hospital pharmacy is closed and the Emergency Department pharmacy, which is a nook enclosed by metal bars in the hallway beside the reception area, does not have the prescribed items.

            ‘The pharmacy across the street will have it,’ the pharmacist behind the metal prison bars says, handing the prescription back to Jess. ‘Lucky Pharmacy is the one on the corner.’

            ‘You know, I've read studies that found that more than half the drugs in Africa are counterfeit,’ I say.

            ‘Come on, Negative Nancy. Let’s get your counterfeit drugs,’ Jess says.