They never did learn to talk; and we never figured out exactly how they communicated – though it appears to be telepathic. Whether they use words or images; and how deeply and clearly their minds connect is beyond our understanding.
There I was. Nineteen, tanned, clean-shaven; business casual. Standing in the hallway of the top floor of a strange hotel, just after midnight in Dubai; pushing the elevator button relentlessly in an effort to speed up my not-so-swift retreat. Flight to Kandahar in seven and a half short hours. There wouldn’t be another flight for a few days; I can’t miss it. There she was. All 80 enraged pounds of her. The geriatric mama-san that was screaming at me, almost inaudibly, in angry Mandarin. How the hell did I end up here?
“How can shit like this exist in the world?” is something I asked myself in Dubai. The answer, quite frankly, is supply and demand. There’s always a demand for our vices. I’ve been here less than 24 hours and I’ve been offered pussy, pot and cocaine. Our species is one of experience and temporary satisfaction. If I was less spiritually fulfilled than I am; I’d of gladly taken the cocaine. My understanding is that the Dominican Republic is a transit point – so you know the marching powder would be pure. I can smell fresh pot from my hotel; surely it’s not Canadian grade but it can’t be that hard to locate.
Animals; the whole lot of us. Monkeys who’ve figured out how to build things.
I linger; temporarily embracing this moist evening with the cigarette I had lit while the police were opening their doors to pull over a red truck, beside the church in front of my dad’s house. Why rush out? Surely this is more entertaining than that next five minutes would have been if I was driving through the rest of this old town just a few minutes earlier.
Kob enters the elevator with a large Yugoslavian-looking man in a uniform; a rather large USSR-esque security guard who can’t even speak broken English. Kob stands behind the security guard; antagonizing him with a tissue. He’s waving it up by his face and pulling it away. ELBOW/GUT; FIST/FACE; GRAPPLE HOLD… Ding! The elevator door closed like a retraction of the parted seas of Moses; swallowing my friend in an iron death chamber with an angry security guard. And so began the story once called The Adventure of Kob’s Elbow Dislocation in the Elevator featuring The Elbows of an Eastern European Man Fluent in Soviet Ninja-Moves.
The moral of the story is that if you’re ever lost and drunk in Puerto Plata; you get abducted by a pimp, taken to a casino to wait for cocaine; and then escape – random girls from Nova Scotia will make sure you make it back to your hotel in one piece.