The Country from Hell
Your empty pocket is burning a hole in your hand. You need money. A man is nothing without money. You see that your grandmother has dozed off in front of the TV, which she switched back to the Singing North channel once she saw the Frosty was off. An old Iadian hag in a floral headscarf is now singing,
"Late at night in John's garden
All the little birds sleep
All the little birds sleep
Only one can find no calm
As she flies from palm to palm
Forever calling out to John "
The concrete walls themselves are sweating on this unbearable bitch of a day. You walk quickly into the section of the main room that your family calls the "kitchen". It consists of a stove and a termite-eaten counter, on top of which sits your dysfunctional refrigerator. For water you have to go into the bathroom. Microwaves are the stuff of dreams. On top of the refrigerator is an old toaster with a broken spring. The gypsies down on Wall Street will buy shit like this and either use it for scrap or paint it up new and shiny and sell it to an unsuspecting foreign moron looking for the "authentic" Iadian experience. Authentic, all right!
You cough on the dust that billows up as you lift up the ancient hunk of junk. You hope your pretty neighbor doesn't see you as you trip down the dimly lit hall and out into the haze. Immediately, you can feel the moisture dripping from under your arms onto your useless toaster, which you nonetheless hold onto tightly, as you hold onto everything in your country.
You step off of the crumbling sidewalk along Unification Plaza and head toward Mighty Michael Square. Last week there was a road here. This week, there is only a huge mound of dirt, some rubble and a pack of old bulldozers churning up the asphalt. An ugly woman shouts at the driver of one of the bulldozers, who has just dropped a pile of dirt a few inches away from her high-heeled foot. The dirt billows up like smoke and for a moment she is completely hidden from view. Nevertheless she keeps shouting, and as the debris settles down around her feet, her mouth is still twisting itself into angry shapes. This reminds you of a movie where a man couldn't get his wife to shut up, so he hung her up on a hook. She continued to kick and scream while he stood a safe distance away, making a toast in her honor with a bottle of custia. That was a smart movie.
You finally reach Wall Street, the part of Mighty Michael Square where you go to become "as rich as an American". You can see the gypsies there, dripping in faux gold and loud silk shirts that hang open at the chest. You make eye contact with a guy about your age when suddenly you hear shouts behind you.
Spinning around, you see a couple of tourists dressed in Nike shoes and green fanny packs being circled by a gang of Iadian thugs. One pair of good Nike shoes would cost as much as your father's monthly salary. Look at them, sparkling white and perfect.
"Please! pleads the woman in English. ""We don't have money help." You can't understand everything she says, but you see she is beginning to cry and looks utterly helpless standing there, surrounded by your scummy countrymen. If there are police nearby, they are probably looking the other way and will hit up the thugs later for a little commission on their "understanding".
Standing there in the middle of the dusty square holding onto your defunct toaster and staring at the scene unfolding before you, you feel alternately foolish, angry and excited.
What should you do?
"Late at night in John's garden
All the little birds sleep
All the little birds sleep
Only one can find no calm
As she flies from palm to palm
Forever calling out to John "
The concrete walls themselves are sweating on this unbearable bitch of a day. You walk quickly into the section of the main room that your family calls the "kitchen". It consists of a stove and a termite-eaten counter, on top of which sits your dysfunctional refrigerator. For water you have to go into the bathroom. Microwaves are the stuff of dreams. On top of the refrigerator is an old toaster with a broken spring. The gypsies down on Wall Street will buy shit like this and either use it for scrap or paint it up new and shiny and sell it to an unsuspecting foreign moron looking for the "authentic" Iadian experience. Authentic, all right!
You cough on the dust that billows up as you lift up the ancient hunk of junk. You hope your pretty neighbor doesn't see you as you trip down the dimly lit hall and out into the haze. Immediately, you can feel the moisture dripping from under your arms onto your useless toaster, which you nonetheless hold onto tightly, as you hold onto everything in your country.
You step off of the crumbling sidewalk along Unification Plaza and head toward Mighty Michael Square. Last week there was a road here. This week, there is only a huge mound of dirt, some rubble and a pack of old bulldozers churning up the asphalt. An ugly woman shouts at the driver of one of the bulldozers, who has just dropped a pile of dirt a few inches away from her high-heeled foot. The dirt billows up like smoke and for a moment she is completely hidden from view. Nevertheless she keeps shouting, and as the debris settles down around her feet, her mouth is still twisting itself into angry shapes. This reminds you of a movie where a man couldn't get his wife to shut up, so he hung her up on a hook. She continued to kick and scream while he stood a safe distance away, making a toast in her honor with a bottle of custia. That was a smart movie.
You finally reach Wall Street, the part of Mighty Michael Square where you go to become "as rich as an American". You can see the gypsies there, dripping in faux gold and loud silk shirts that hang open at the chest. You make eye contact with a guy about your age when suddenly you hear shouts behind you.
Spinning around, you see a couple of tourists dressed in Nike shoes and green fanny packs being circled by a gang of Iadian thugs. One pair of good Nike shoes would cost as much as your father's monthly salary. Look at them, sparkling white and perfect.
"Please! pleads the woman in English. ""We don't have money help." You can't understand everything she says, but you see she is beginning to cry and looks utterly helpless standing there, surrounded by your scummy countrymen. If there are police nearby, they are probably looking the other way and will hit up the thugs later for a little commission on their "understanding".
Standing there in the middle of the dusty square holding onto your defunct toaster and staring at the scene unfolding before you, you feel alternately foolish, angry and excited.
What should you do?