Lying in a Ditch Somewhere

Jess:  Have you spoken to Eric lately?

Me:    No.

Jess:  What if something happened to them?

Me:    Like what?

Jess:  I don’t know. Like something bad?

Me:    I don’t think so.

Jess:  Well, did they go on their trip?

Me:    Sure.

Jess:  Well how do you know?

Me:    I suppose I don’t.

Jess:  Are you sure nothing happened to him?

Me:    Yeah, I’m sure.

Jess:  But you haven’t heard from him?

Me:    No.

Jess:  I thought you were good friends.

Me:    Very good.

Jess:  But if you don’t talk for so long?

Me:    We don’t need to.

Jess:  What does that mean?

Me:    It means that we talk when we want to.

Jess:  It doesn’t bother you that it has been a while?

Me:    There’s no quota.

Jess:  OK, but still how do you know nothing happened to him?

Me:    I don’t think so.

Jess:  But couldn’t he be lying in a ditch somewhere?

Me:    Could be.

Jess:  But you don’t think so?

Me:    No.

Jess:  How can you know?

Me:    I suppose I can’t.

Jess:  Then how are you so easy about it?

Me:    Bad news travels fast.

Jess:  So when will you hear from him?

Me:    When he wants to write.

Jess:  Couldn’t you call him?

Me:    Sure. If I feel like it.

Jess:  So that’s how it goes then?

Me:    For years.

Jess:  Ugh! Boys!

You're All Used Up

‘I mean I haven’t seen my brother in years, you know,’ Jess’s friend says. ‘Not since he finally got off drugs and went with his girlfriend to live in Newfoundland. I wanted them to stay with my parents so that I could have my space and I could visit them but then I could also come home to escape.’

Jess in downtown Toronto

She takes a strong pull from her lager and she continues her story. I am sitting across from her and Jess is beside me and another of her old friends is across from her. I am drinking a Smithwicks, which is a dark, strong English beer. It is very cold and very full tasting and I am enjoying it very much because it is what I used to drink at the Crown and Anchor in New Orleans and also it is a lot better than anything I have had lately.

‘But, fine, I said I’d have him and his girlfriend stay with me and so I went to meet them at the airport. But, you know, as soon as I see them come out of the baggage claim, I am totally regretting this. Before they even reach me, I can tell from his expressions that he is the same lunatic as before!’

She is vivid and very alive as she speaks and she has a bright face that compliments her mannerisms. We hang on her words and we listen without realizing that we smile because she is a great storyteller. I look at Jess and I see that she is smiling and I think that she is pleased to be here for a time with these two old friends. I take another pull from my Smithwicks and I feel it go down coldly and fully to my stomach.

‘We’re not even at the subway yet and he is complaining so loudly about each one of the people around him. He speaks so fast, and he’s impossible to follow because his brain is so scattershot. And he’s rude – especially to his girlfriend. He is so rude to her! I mean, it’s overwhelming to be around. And it’s infuriating too. I want to shake him and say, “Calm the fuck down!”’

I am smiling because I am very amused and I reach for my Smithwicks to take another good pull. Before I do, a feeling stops my hand halfway to my mouth and I put the pint glass back on the table. Then I feel that my stomach goes hollow and then it begins to turn over. A bending happens in my gut and my senses all change as though my whole body is focused only on what is happening there. It might just pass, I think, but I know this signal well enough even if I am not yet ready to accept it. I look around the table and I see them very engaged in the story and they are laughing at something that I have not heard. I smile to play along and I try to focus on the words but I feel the table growing wider between us.

‘Love, are you feeling OK?’ Jess says.

She has looked to me during the story and she has noticed my complexion change. She is concerned and her face looks very lovely that way.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I am bad.’

‘Will you be OK?’

‘Let’s wait and see what happens,’ I say.

When the waitress comes I do not order but I ask her to refill my water.

‘Will you want to have some bread or something from my dinner?’ Jess asks.

‘Not if I continue to feel like this,’ I say.

In a few minutes, beads of sweat have sprouted on my nose and my hairline is damp. My stomach turns over on itself and now I know for certain what will happen. I have only to wait for it. When it comes, I excuse myself to the restroom. In the stall, I do not wait long and, when it comes, it is quite easy at first. When it passes I feel better but I am not relieved the way I hope to be, so I know I am not finished with it. At the sink, I wash the foul taste from my mouth and I scrub my face clean with the hand soap. When I return to the table the conversation is stopped and they look at me very sympathetically.

‘Are you OK, love?’ Jess says.

‘I am sick,’ I say.

‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘Did you?’

‘Yes I did.’

‘Do you think it was the sushi from lunch?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Then it was probably the tuna,’ she says, ‘because that’s the only one that we didn’t share.’

CN Tower at night

‘Probably,’ I say.

‘But you were fine all evening at the CN Tower.’

‘Yes. It was not until I had a few sips of beer,’ I say.

‘It must have set something off,’ she says.

‘Must have.’

‘Should we go?’ she says.

‘No,’ I say, ‘this is your last chance to visit and, besides, it's not over yet.’

‘OK,’ she says, ‘but you’ll tell me when?’

‘Yes,' I say. 'I’ll tell you when.'

Jess’s friends look sympathetically at me and I smile as best I can. I remember how I was frequently sick for months after Hurricane Katrina. I had thought it was a virus until the pattern emerged that it was from the stress of the hours and the work pressure. I remember that I had hating always being sick but even more I had hated being seen as the one who is always sick. Jess’s friends dote on me and their sympathy reminds me of that, and then the one who sits across from me resumes her story.

Damn bad luck! I think as I sip water and try to follow the conversation over the revulsions of my stomach. It is a few months since I have taken to eating sushi. We have gone several times to the restaurant at the Mamba Point Hotel and each time I have enjoyed the new experience and my stomach has been fine. Now we have come home to where food is delivered fresh and there are actual quality standards and this is when I get sick. Probably I will appreciate the irony later, I think.

In a few minutes the meals arrive. The girls begin to eat and Jess asks if it would help to have some bread.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Water is even too much.’

‘I feel so bad to be eating,’ the other of Jess’s friends who is not the storyteller says.

‘Don’t feel bad,’ I say.

The girls eat and the one of Jess’s friends who is the storyteller continues to speak. It has become an epic but it is still engaging, though I have lost the thread and can only sip water. I was fine all evening after the sushi until I had this drink of beer. Bad luck, I think. I mean, all evening I was fine at the CN Tower.

View from the CN Tower

We had gone after the sushi and I was fine waiting in line to take the elevator to the lookout at top. Then at the top, we stood beside the thick windows and we saw the scattered lights across the city and the dark emptiness where you are seeing Lake Ontario. Jess took a few pictures with the view behind me and then we took the elevator to the Sky Pod and she took a few more. Then we did not know what else to do so we joined another line in order to take the elevator back down. At the bottom there was only the gift shop so put on our hats and our gloves and went out into the cold.

‘It was a lot of waiting in lines,’ I had said when we were outside again.

‘Yes, love,’ Jess had agreed. ‘That’s all I remember.’

After a few minutes the signal has returned and I excuse myself again. This time there are two people in the restroom and one occupies the stall. I delay at the sink until the one at the urinal leaves and then I pace. In another minute, the one in the stall finishes and then he leaves. I enter the stall and I can feel my stomach turning heavily over. Then I hear the door swing open and footsteps approach the urinal. I feel the sickness rising and I spit into the bowl because maybe it will buy me some time. In another moment the one at the stall finishes and then I am alone.

It comes quickly now and it takes half of everything I have. When it has taken the half and there is a break, I hear the door open again and another one goes to the stall. I flush because it seems like the right thing to do. I have half left to give and the stopping and the holding on is making me feel even worse. Then the one at the stall finishes. There is a flush and then the water from the tap and finally I am alone again.

         The sickness comes again and it takes the half that is left. When it is done I am sweating and tearing and my bones feel hollow. As I clean myself, another one comes in and goes to the stall but I do not notice him. When I am washed and I have mostly dried off, I return to the table.

         ‘Oh, love, you look awful!’ Jess says.

         ‘I have experienced a lot,’ I say.

‘Yes, love, you look very "experienced",’ she says.

‘This last was a bad one and I was interrupted because people came in.’

         ‘Let’s go then,’ she says.

         ‘No, I will hold out a little longer.’

         The story has ended now and they are talking about something else but I can pay no attention. In a little while, some friends of Jess’s friend who is not the storyteller come, and then another of Jess’s friend comes a while after that. The friend who comes last is the one who I have been told hopes to open a tattoo parlor. Also, I am told that she has made a very good canvas of her body, but I have forgotten all about that.

         I look around and I see that the group is very large and I watch the waitress replace the empty glasses with full ones.

‘I’m all used up,’ I say to Jess after I think she has had enough time to spend with the friend whose body is a canvas.

‘OK, we’re going,’ she says. ‘You have been very strong!’

‘Yes, I have,’ I agree, ‘but I’m all used up now.’

‘Come on, we’ll take a cab home.’

‘No,’ I say, ‘a cab will be expensive. I’ll be ok on the subway.’

‘Of course not!’ she says. ‘You’re sick and you’re being silly.’

‘I can hold out,’ I say.

‘No, love, you’re all used up, remember?’

My Ultimate Minimalism

Jess in front of her parents' home in day-after-Christmas snow

‘Is it time to open presents?’ Jess’s nephew Payton asks again – it has been his refrain for tonight.

         ‘Yes. It is time,’ Jess’s sister Lillian says finally.

         We have all finished the fondue that is a Swiss and Ferndriger tradition. Lillian has kept Payton at bay as long as she can. She watches over the new baby, Xavier, while Payton races past towards the tree. Jess sits next to me and talks to her mother. She is very tired but she has this little bit left. I am in a conversation with her father and Lillian’s husband, Matt. Her father is talking about their travels to Spain and Canada when they were younger and Matt is talking about American football and many other things. I am exhausted from the jetlag and from the new kind of eating and now from trying to make a good impression while following the thread of two conversations.

When we arrived everyone was already there. Lillian had given birth only two days before and she and Matt and Payton had come with the new baby nearly straight from the hospital. It is very curious how so much excitement can surround something that is almost always asleep. Xavier slept eyes tight and soundly beside the sofa and Lillian sat close by. Matt greeted us at the door and helped to bring our luggage in. Jess’s mother was preparing the fondue and at the top of the steps her father came to meet me and shake my hand.

‘He caught me in a bad handshake,’ I say when we are in Jess’s room getting sorted before sitting down to dinner.

‘Who did?’ Jess asks. She is changing into her flannel pajama bottoms because she is practically allergic to wearing outside clothes when she is home in the evening.

‘Your dad did,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He sort of, you know, gripped the ends of my fingers instead of my palm.’

‘How did that happen?’ she says.

‘He caught me when I wasn’t ready or at a bad angle or something,’ I say.

‘Well which was it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It all happened so fast.’

‘Aww. It’s OK, love,’ she says. ‘I’m sure he didn’t notice.’

‘I’m sure he did notice,’ I say. ‘It’s exactly the kind of thing that a father would notice about the guy who’s dating his daughter.’

 At the dinner table Jess eats and talks to her mother and is mostly quiet. She checks in with me occasionally but she is not following the plan.

‘What about the plan?’ I will ask her later. ‘You were supposed to run interference, remember?’

‘I know, I know. I’m awful!’ she says, ‘but I was so tired and I was overwhelmed too, you know.’

For dinner we each have strips of raw beef and pork and chicken on our plates. We have a small skewer each with a different color at the end of the handle.

‘You remember your color or else you might take someone else’s meat,’ Jess’s father explains.

‘It’s my favorite meal,’ Matt says and I see that he has an entire steak in large slices on his plate.

I skewer a strip of beef and I place it in the pot on a stand in the center of the table. The pot is filled with an oily sauce, which is kept at a boil by the fire from the burner beneath it. We leave the skewered meat in the fire for a few minutes while we take appetizers of olives and bread and cheese and other garnishes. After the meat has boiled in the oil for some minutes we check it and if it is not fully cooked we let it sit longer before we eat it. It is a new kind of eating for me and I like it very much. I eat slowly and so I am the one to scrape the sides of the pot at the very end.

During dinner I take a beer and afterwards Jess’s father offers me a glass of Jack Daniel’s. I am very grateful because it is exactly what I like. It tastes good because I am very tired and because my last bottle has finished two weeks before and I am too long without it. I ask if Jess’s father will take one with me but he says that he chooses not to anymore. We converse at the table for a while longer until I hear Lillian give in to Payton: ‘Yes. It is time.’ Then I feel Jess grab me by the arm and pull me away from my chair and down to the ground where we sit on the rug between the sofa and the Christmas tree. It is a moment before I realize that this is the moment that I have been waiting for more eagerly, I am sure, than Payton has.

We each receive and open gifts in a loosely coordinated merry-go-round fashion. My first is the ‘stocking’ and it is a bag of chocolate truffles, and a Toblerone, and a box of Belgian chocolate seashells. My next is tall and heavy and contains a large bottle of Jack Daniel’s. These are from Jess’s parents and I try through tired eyes to show my surprise and gratitude. Next is the box from Amazon that holds the two books on Adventure Motorcycling and a DVD on Dual Sport Riding Techniques. This one is from Jess and me to ourselves but I am sure I will be the one to enjoy it more. Last is the most important one, though of course it comes in the smallest box.

         Most everything I own fits into two suitcases and three cardboard boxes, which are in storage back home. Everyday clothing is in one suitcase and winter and formal wear is in another. The cardboard boxes contain camping and sporting goods, books and albums, and yearbooks and other mementos. I have always been tidy and somehow existentially concerned by my material footprint. Your things are an extension of you – I surmised at one point in my early twenties – and, if they are many or untidy, then the same will be true for your mind. But, after Hurricane Katrina, when I shared a cruise ship berth and lived out of a rucksack for six months, my penchant for minimalism became a survivalist instinct.

This doctrine was a shrewd philosophy for a time, but slowly I came to suspect that, the fewer the things I had and the more selectively I acquired them, the more those things become a necessity in themselves. This suspicion became enshrined as law when, six weeks before, my beloved iPhone suddenly died.

It happened when I foolishly plugged it directly into an outlet that was supplied by a Chinese generator. It shut off and, when I turned it back on, it was unable to boot up. This was at Lachlan and Nik’s house and the loss of my iPhone made an already difficult day even more so. When we got home and for several days after, I checked all the forums and scoured the online support and I twice called the Apple hotline. After following all the recommended courses, it was determined that my Mistress 3 (two iPods bore the name previously) could not be resuscitated. After lamenting the loss and further lamenting the cost of DHL, I shipped the corpse home for replacement under the one-year warrantee.

The six weeks since then had been as difficult as any before or since. I borrowed an old Sony Ericsson from Jess to make phone calls. In most ways it was OK except that the microphone was very bad. I would place a call and, after receiving an answer, I would be halfway through my first sentence before I would hear, ‘Hello? Hello? Anybody there?’ For music and audiobooks and podcasts, at first I tried to go without. I decided that it might be Zen-like to reduce the noise, except that, without the noise, you remember how boring most things are. So next I borrowed Jess’s old Chinese-made mp3 player.

‘Boy, we have truly fallen,’ I said when I conceded to try it out.

But it had a very finicky connector so that the slightest disturbance during a transfer and you lost everything. Also, it has a terrible interface and it could not remember your position in a track, which made a 10-plus hour audiobook very difficult to get through. Finally, I borrowed Jess’s newer Sony mp3 player and this worked well enough but it just was not the same.

Our memories of Christmas eve in Toronto

Somehow the days and weeks passed and now we are in Toronto visiting Jess’s family. We have just arrived and it is Christmas and my new Mistress is here in a box that Jess’s mother has wrapped in holiday paper. I peel off the paper and tear open the box. Inside is my ultimate minimalism. It is new in its case and it turns right on when I press it. I see the glow from the screen and I take a breath and I am comforted.

Then I put it down. I look around the room. Matt is telling a story and there is Payton with his new video game, and there is a new excitement around the baby who has woken up for the first time this evening. I look back at my iPhone and I realize that I have not any excitement left in me. Maybe tomorrow, I think, but right now I am just paid out. 

So, I sit back next to Jess against the leg of the sofa. She smiles dully at me, which is the best acknowledgement she can muster, and we stay like that until everyone has left or is gone to bed.

This Is What Causes the Knocking and Pinging

Monrovia street market

‘They are the Goba-Chops,’ the specialist says.

         ‘They are the what?’ I ask.

         ‘The Go-ba-Chops,’ he repeats more slowly for me.

         ‘And what is a Goba-Chop?’ I ask.

         ‘They are the ones who sell the produce in the market for the farmers,’ he says.

         We are in a strategy session where all the employees have gathered in the Director’s office to review the organization’s mission and to think about how it might pursue that mission in this country. Space in the Director’s office is very tight but it is a small country program so we are actually not so many. We are talking about agriculture, which is a strategic area for the country but not an area that we currently program in. Our team is mostly national staff and, although they live in the capitol they each have roots in the villages and they know something about the way it is with agriculture there. One is an agriculture specialist and he is the one I am speaking to. Although we do not have any agriculture programs, he is on retainer to help develop our strategy and be technical support for when we do work in that sector.

         ‘So the Goba-Chop buys from the farmer and maintains a stall in the market where he sells to consumers?’ I say, believing I have inferred the situation.

         ‘Yes, he has a stall in the market and he sells to the customers but he does not buy from the farmer,’ the specialist says.

         ‘He sells for the farmers but he does not buy from them?’ I say. ‘So, how does it work then?’

         ‘The farmer gives the harvest to the Goba-Chop and the Goba-Chop sells it in the market. He keeps a percentage of whatever he sells.’

         ‘OK, and what happens to what he doesn’t sell?’ I ask.

         ‘Probably it goes bad,’ the specialist says. ‘It happens a lot that some of the harvest goes bad while it sits in the Goba-Chop’s warehouse while it waits to sell.’

         ‘And whatever the Goba-Chop does not sell and goes bad, the farmer assumes the loss?’

         ‘Yes,’ the specialist says.

There is water and good soil here

         I am the Livelihoods Project Manager in this country program, although this is rather far from my original area of training. Later we will talk about ‘livelihoods’ but now we are discussing agriculture. First, we have discussed the country’s assets, which is mostly areas of good soil and plentiful rains during the wet season. Then, we discussed the challenges, which are mostly every other aspect of agriculture that requires human intervention.

         ‘Low production,’ was the first challenge posited.

         The Director wrote this on the flip chart and then, when the Finance Manager suggested that this was the problem to be addressed, not a challenge, the Director crossed it off.

         ‘Bad roads,’ suggested another and the Director wrote it down.

         ‘Diminished seed varieties,’ said the specialist.

         ‘Technology transfer,’ said another.

         I squirmed at this because it is a catch phrase that was created to encapsulate a complex idea but is now, I think, used without comprehending its meaning. But I managed to keep silent.

         ‘Import of crops from America and Europe,’ says the specialist.

         ‘Training to farmers,’ said the first speaker.

         This is how it went and I was temped to suggest that it would be simpler and more accurate to write ‘Everything’ and move on to discuss potential interventions. But I managed to keep silent.

         ‘Farmers will only produce enough for what they can eat,’ said the second speaker and the Director wrote it down.

Eventually, someone said, ‘Trouble to sell in the market,’ and this peaked my attention.

         ‘What do you mean?’ I said and the explanation that followed brought us to the topic of the Goba-Chops.

I know little about agriculture and I have never been a very successful home gardener, but at the mention of ‘trouble to sell in the market’ I begin to grow interested. When something peaks my interest, my mind speeds up very fast. Thoughts go in several directions at once and, if my informer can keep up, his answers will expel the spent questions before I inject new ones into the chamber. In this case the discussion will go very smoothly. If my informer is of a lower octane, then my new questions will come before he can answer the old ones, and the discussion will be frustrating. In engines this is what causes the knocking and pinging. I like to think the way I like to ride motorcycles. In developing countries you must ride fast and weavingly if you want to survive but you cannot think that way. It can be very difficult for a national staff to keep pace and the interpersonal results will be very bad. So, frustratingly, much of your efforts must go to riding faster and thinking slower.

         ‘So the farmer brings the produce to the market and then he gives it to a Goba-Chop to sell it for him?’ I say.

         ‘Yes,’ says the specialist.

         ‘What if the farmer wants to sell his produce himself?’

         ‘He does not have a stall in the market.’

         ‘What if he pays for one in the market?’ I say.

         ‘It will be expensive but probably they will not let him,’ the specialist says.

         ‘Who will not let him?’

         ‘The Goba-Chops.’

         ‘Of course they will not,’ I say. ‘So this is what I see. The farmer takes the risk to plant the crops and maybe they will yield poorly. Then, whatever he harvests, the farmer takes the risk to transport the crops to the market on bad roads where floods or breakdowns halt traffic for days. So, probably he loses some of his crop during the transport. Then, he arrives at the market and he must pay someone to sell for him. He has no guarantee for how much the Goba-Chop will manage to sell and, whatever is left, he, the farmer, must suffer the loss. And, with subsidized imports for almost any crop that most people can afford to buy, the price he can expect for what is sold in the market is always quite small. Is that about right?’

         ‘Yes,’ says the specialist.

         The room is quiet for a moment while I think about this and, just before the Director is about to press on, I speak again.

         ‘To me, this is most basically a problem of risk,’ I say.

         I wait for someone to catch on to this or to seek clarification through a question, but no one does.

         ‘The farmer is a small business owner,’ I say. ‘When you own a small business, usually you assume all the risks on yourself. The villagers must look at this situation and decide that farming is an incredibly risky business to be in. There are so many ways to lose everything and, if everything goes just right, your pay off is very small. I certainly would not take on these risks.’

         I see heads nod and I think that most of them understands.

         ‘So, I think the best place to start is to look at which of these risks can be spread from the farmer to other parties.’

I look around again and I do not see any heads nodding. I want to wait a moment to see if it comes as a delay but I have learned better. Often, if there is not a sign of comprehension when you first finish, then the thought was probably too complex and it will be dismissed rather than contemplated further.

‘For example,’ I say, trying a more practical way, ‘a transporter could buy the produce from the farmer and sell it to the Goba-Chop. Then, the farmer only risks a bad harvest. The transporter only risks losing the harvest on the road to the market. And the Goba-Chop only risks not being able to sell the harvest to the customers. Each assumes some but not all of the risks and each gets a percentage for doing so.’

I wait a moment and I see a few heads nod.

‘It’s a good idea,’ says the specialist.

I think the idea has traction and probably there are other ways to spread the risks but it needs further discussion with a real technical specialist. I want to take it further but I know that this is a staff meeting to discuss ‘strategy’ and not the place to discuss new ideas.

‘Anyway,’ I say because I know that the Director wants to wrap up, ‘for now it sounds like the Goba-Chop has a pretty comfortable position.’

Before You Were So Very Certain of the World

I am driving on United Nations Dr at the intersection with Center St when the two men on the motorbike overtake me. I can see that the driver wears a t-shirt and shorts and flip-flops that hang off his toes and dangle from the foot pegs. The man who rides pillion wears a green beret and a dark blue police uniform and the motorbike says ‘POLICE’ in stenciled letters across the tank. They pull ahead of me, and the passenger in the police uniform looks back and waves me to the curbside.

It is a Sunday and we are on our way to the Mamba Point Hotel for a visit to their sushi restaurant. Previously, I have been very much against sushi because of its texture and because I had found no compelling reason for me to be for it. But recently I want to make a change so I have decided to be for it. The evening is very dark because the days have grown short in the winter. Also, the street is dark in this stretch because the businesses are closed and the streetlights are spaced far apart. The man in the police uniform motions again very aggressively and the driver mirrors me closely as though to prevent me from maneuvering around.

 ‘Fuckers!’ I grumble.

After clearing the intersection, I pull slowly to the curb because I decide not to be rushed. I try to signal to Jess to continue ahead but it is not necessary. She knows what to do and how to be safe.

As I come to a stop, the policeman has leaped off the motorbike and jumps in front of me. As I jerk to a stop and throw my feet to the ground, he grabs the keys from the ignition.

You have to take my fucking keys? I think. Can we not do this with civility?

His face is very dark in the shadows of what little light there is but when I better glimpse his face I can see that it carries a severe meanness.

‘Where is your license plate?’ he shouts. ‘Do you have registration?’

I am suddenly very angry in that way that you can only be when it was the very furthest thing in the world from your thoughts only a moment ago. Very slowly I remove my crash helmet and cradle it over the rearview mirror. I am looking past him as I do this and, when it is done, I tend to a nonexistent kink in my neck before I slowly turn to acknowledge him.

‘What is your trouble officer?’ I ask as though I have not heard his shouting.

‘Where is your license plate?’ he says.

‘It is being printed at the Ministry of Transportation,’ I say.

‘I want to see your registration.’

He is scowling at me as though pulling me over has put him out.

I am carrying a photocopy of my registration in an envelope in my pocket. Slowly, I withdraw the envelope and I flip through the pages before I offer them. As he reviews the registration documents, I see that he is younger than he appeared at first and this makes me angrier.

Young fucking prick! I think. You think you’re going to put on a uniform and bully me?

‘I want to see your passport,’ the policeman says.

His driver is next to him now and a passerby has approached and stands behind me and to the right. I observe this and then I scan ahead for Jess. She has pulled over up ahead under a streetlight and the road is clear and well lit around her. I see her running lights and I know that her engine idles and she is poised at the controls. Good girl, I think, before my attention returns to the policeman.

‘I do not carry my passport,’ I say, which is not true, ‘but you can see my driver’s license.’

‘I want to see your passport,’ he says.

‘It cannot be because I do not carry it with me,’ I say.

‘Why do you not have a passport?’ he shouts angrily.

‘I have said I do have a passport,’ I say very slowly, ‘but I do not carry it with me.’

‘Show me your license,’ he says.

I glance around again and I take measure. The driver is not threatening and the passerby is interested but he maintains a distance. The policeman is the only aggressor and he carries no weapons. He wears boots and he looks nimble and probably they have taught him something before they gave him this uniform. I could take him if I have to, I decide, but it would not be clean and, anyway, he still has my keys.

I take my driver’s license from my pocket and he snatches it from my hand. He reviews it from both sides twice before he looks back to me.

‘This is not a license for a motorbike,’ he says.

‘It is a license for everything,’ I say.

‘The motorbike license is a D,’ he says.

‘This license is a B,’ I say. ‘B is Chauffeur. It means that I am a driver of all vehicles and of passengers.’

He looks at it again and then he looks back to my registration documents. I see that he has decided not to pursue the topic of the letters on the driver’s license and I snatch it back from his hand as he has snatched it from mine. He scowls at me as I replace the license in my pocket and then he returns his attention to my documents.

‘You have no license plate,’ he says.

‘As you remember I have said it is being printed at the Ministry,’ I say.

‘You must have a license plate,’ he says. ‘The bike may not go without a license plate.’

‘The bike may not go without registration,’ I say, ‘and there you see in your hand that I have registration.’

He thinks for a moment and the scowl on his face is unresolved.

‘You have no insurance for the motorbike,’ he says.

‘I do,’ I say but really I do not.

None of the motorbike drivers carry insurance but I have learned that it is better to say that you have a thing even if not. It is easy to talk in circles or to discover a misunderstanding, but it is when you admit that you do not have something that they have asked for that they will set themselves on ‘fining’ you for it.

‘It is not here,’ he says. ‘I want to see it.’

I reach back into my pocket and I retrieve my SOS International card, which provides an international number to call in case you require medical evacuation.

He reviews the card and I see that he is puzzled by it.

‘This is not an insurance,’ he says.

‘It is an insurance,’ I say.

He reviews it again and then I take it back from him. He still holds the photocopy of my registration documents in his right hand and my keys in his left.

‘There is no insurance in these documents,’ he shouts.

I look at the meanness on his face and in his voice and I almost tremble with anger.

‘I have just shown you my insurance,’ I say, trying as best I can to measure my tone.

‘Your insurance must be here with the registration and it must say the license plate number,’ he says.

‘I have shown you my insurance,’ I say again, ‘and this insurance covers me for everything I drive and wherever I go.’

‘I see no insurance here!’ he shouts. ‘You will pay me ten dollars.’

‘For what will I pay you ten dollars?’ I say before the words choke under the fumes from my gut.

‘You have no insurance here so you will pay me,’ he says.

Now the driver steps closer and tries to reason with him.

‘Maybe he does not know that he must have insurance,’ he says. ‘You can let him go this time.’

I am practically in a rage now and I can feel the blood burn in my cheeks.

‘I will give you nothing tonight,’ I say loudly and slowly so that there is no equivocation.

‘Maybe he does not know that he must have insurance so you can let him go this time,’ the driver says again.

‘He has no insurance so he will pay me ten dollars,’ the policeman says to the driver and then he turns back to me. ‘You will pay me ten dollars because you have no insurance!’

‘But if he does not know then you can let him go,’ the driver says.

I know that the driver is trying to help and that to go along with him will probably be the easiest way, but I am much too angry to want anything to go easy now.

‘Do you hear me that I will give you nothing?’ I say.

Now I am not hiding the anger and the scowl on my face is as severe as the one on his.

‘You will pay me ten dollars because you have no insurance,’ he says but for the first time I see hesitation.

‘I will give you nothing,’ I say. ‘Do you hear that I will give you nothing?’

His hand that holds the photocopies is close to me and I snatch them back.

         ‘This time you can let him go,’ the driver suggests.

‘I will pay you nothing,’ I say.

‘Next time he will have the insurance with the registration documents,’ the driver says.

         ‘Do you hear that I will pay you nothing?’ I say.

‘You will pay,’ he says and then he looks to the driver.

‘I will pay you nothing,’ I say. ‘You will give my keys and I will pay you nothing.’

My voice is stronger than his now and my anger is severer. I see that his right hand that clutches my keys is now closer to me.

‘This time he can go,’ the driver urges. ‘You see next time he will have insurance with his registration.’

He has my keys but now he sees that the driver is giving him the only way out.

‘His insurance must be with the registration,’ he says to the driver.

He brings his hand closer and I retrieve my keys. I want to say one last time that he will get nothing from me but, even through my anger, I can reason that it would be inelegant. And, after all, I think, wasn’t it his approach that was what sparked me in the first place?

He has returned my keys and now he stands awkwardly like he is without a place. How did this all go so wrong? I imagine him thinking, standing there, his scowl gone and him looking bewildered in front of my bike. He continues standing, looking bewildered as only you can look when only moments before you were so very certain of the world. Then, very slowly, he turns and he follows the driver to where they have parked their motorbike. I watch them drive off as I replace my documents and arrange my pockets. I glance back and I see that the passerby has dissolved into the darkness and that I am alone straddling my bike. I take a breath and I try to swallow the taste of venom that is sticky in my mouth. Then, I replace my crash helmet and I catch up to where Jess sits under the streetlight.

‘Is everything OK?’ she says as I pull alongside her.

‘He tried to bully me for ten dollars for having no insurance,’ I say.

‘So you did not pay him,’ she says.

‘No, I did not pay him.’

‘OK. Let’s go for sushi!’ she says.

         She shifts into gear and she pulls out ahead out of the streetlight so that her taillight becomes the only thing that I can see. She rides straight-backed and tall on the small motorbike. She does not slouch and her feet do not hang off the pegs. I will get crab rolls, I decide as I watch her become only a taillight, the little ones with the slices of avocado and the caviar on the outside. What are those called? Dragon something, I think, or maybe it’s Golden something?