by Randy Ross
Becker says he was a chiropractor in Munich. No further details.
Morgan says he was a lawyer in Tacoma. No further details.
The woman says she had a husband in Sydney. No further details.
I say I was in publishing and leave it at that, hoping no one mentions Businessweek.
Manrico refills our glasses and raises his. “To clausurado,” he says.
Apparently clausurado is a regular event. Every few months, the feds come to town, check a few accounting ledgers, and shut every business except one.
“How come the bodega didn’t get clausurado-ed,” I ask.
Morgan says: “That’s Edmundo’s store.” No further details.
Manrico refills my glass and offers me a cigarette. “Edmundo and his sons hate Americans. They think you’re all sons of Bushes. Just keep buying windsurfing lessons from him and you’ll be fine.”
Extortion: Venezuelan for retirement plan.
I look into my empty shot glass. “Does this stuff do anything?”
“I put it in my motorbike when I can’t find petrol,” the Aussie woman says.
“It’s good for taking hair off your tongue,” Morgan says.
“It adds two inches to your schwanz,” Becker says.
“Ask Manrico, it doubled the size of his,” Morgan says.
“Laddies, this is where I leave you.” The Aussie woman stands and walks off.
Manrico refills our glasses, and then leaves to talk to someone wearing a big watch seated at a nearby table. Manrico’s girlfriend walks by and waves to us.
I turn to Morgan. “Lot of good-looking women down here.”
“All it takes is money,” he says. “You rent a house for the girl’s family and give her a job. You could get one like her for four grand a year. You should move down here and start a business.”
Four grand, that’s cheaper than joining Lenny’s prostitution ring.
Becker, Morgan, and I toast: “To money.”
At two P.M., we get up to leave, siesta time. As I pass by Manrico’s table, he tells me that the party has been postponed till tomorrow night. “Meet me here at five thirty,” he says. “The bar should be open by then.”
I stroll the dusty path through town and back to the Bonzi. Pink, green, and brown lizards shimmer on the ground like rhinestone jewelry. In the middle of the trail, a green creature five inches long, about the size of a muscle-bound bratwurst. A giant grasshopper. I tap it with my shoe to see if it will move along. Nothing. I throw a stick to see if it will fetch. Nothing. I give it wide berth.
El Playa is wacky, irregular. Prehistoric grasshoppers, black-market money, black-market booze, and clausurado—the floating, random, unscheduled federal holiday. This is a home for middle-aged guys who still want to kick some ass, play chicken with the Venezuelan government, party with beauty queens. Guys who aren’t settling.
I could start a writing business here, teach English, and hire hot local girls. Or I could work for Manrico or Becker, or someone I meet at tomorrow night’s party. All I need is $4,000 a year. There’s nothing keeping me in Boston.
At 5:20 the next afternoon, I stop by Manrico’s bar.
“How’s the windsurfing?” he says.
“Great, you should come out.”
“Nah.”
“Is the party still on?”
“Nah.” He smiles a molar-less smile. Edmundo appears and the two of them ignore me and confer over an unlabeled box.
No party. No dancing bartenders. No El Playa inner circle.
Jilted by friends at home and now ditched by strangers. Haven’t slept with a woman in months. This is just a stretch of bad luck; I’m overdue for a break.
I take the dusty path back to the Bonzi. Same rhinestone lizards, same giant grasshopper. A few more feet, another obstacle, a black, moth-eaten pile of fur. A dog covered with scabs and sighing. I think of my little Harold, his last days, his red eyes and droopy face. I hum a few bars of “Eleanor Rigby” and head to my hotel room.
Seven days down, seven more to go, and no choice in the matter. I slip into a routine.
Friday
Awake groggy.
Get to beach, forget wallet.
Lunch at Manrico’s: Attractive bartender ignores me. Chubby bartender teaches me Spanish for “chicken,” “beer,” and “check please.” I tip generously. She is the only person I talk to the entire day.
Later, check e-mail
One from Lenny:
Dear All,
Abe and I are inviting folks to watch the Sox at the Minuteman on Wednesday. We need more guys. RSVP.
—L
I RSVP.
Dearest Leonard,
Appreciate the invite. However, am in Venezuela this week and then Greece, South Africa, Southeast Asia, and Australia. Remember that dinner send-off two weeks ago?
—Burns
At bedtime, count eleven mosquitoes in room. Kill three and trap one in bathroom; others remain at large. Sleep under mosquito net, which is like sleeping inside a giant dry-cleaning bag.
Meds: one Ambien, one cerveza.
Saturday
Get to beach, forget water bottle and windsurfing gloves.
Holiday weekend, El Playa packed with families and couples. Bring windsurfing board to water’s edge. Wave at bobbing kids to get out of way. They come closer. Wave at adults to get out of way. They wave back. Jump on board, dodge surgically enhanced grandma, and fall off. A beauty queen on beach laughs, points, and calls out in Spanish. I attempt clever repartee. “No hablas Español. Solamente ‘pollo,’ ‘cerveza,’ ‘la cuenta por favor.’” No phone number. No response. Check please.
Lunch at Manrico’s: Overweight bartender off for weekend. Eat alone and have disturbing thoughts. Five months ago, I managed projects and people. Now I manage minutiae.
Today’s to-do list:
• Clip toenails.
• Talk to strangers.
• Tape holes in mosquito net.
Meds: two Ambien, one cerveza.
Sunday
On way to beach, see mangy black pile of dog. He looks like I feel. Offer my lunch. Dog gulps it down. Arrive at beach having forgotten nothing. Dog gets my lunch from now on.
No conversations. No incidents. Sun, surf, more nothing.
Later, check e-mail.
One from Ricki:
Hey Burns,
Must be some typos in your blog. No way you’re having a good time. With all those hot Latin guys, women not going to give a whiney Jew like you the time of day. You don’t even speak Spanish. You may want to find a cheap hooker. Also the blog is boring, writing is lame. No wonder you’re out of work.
—RRRRRR
The next night I substitute Lunesta for Ambien and have two nightmares I haven’t had since childhood. In the first, I’m an infant in my bassinet. The room is dark except for a spotlight shining on my face. I’m warm, dry, and comfortable, but I want someone to hold me. I want to cry out, but I’m afraid to. What if no one comes? I lie in the darkness without making a sound.
In the second nightmare, I’m ten and the family has moved to a house with a noisy central air-conditioning that generates a pounding, metallic noise, the footsteps of a giant space monster. I tiptoe to my parents’ bedroom but the door is closed. I go back to my room and spend the night hiding under my bed.
I imagine Dr. Moody’s analysis of these dreams. “Randall, you’ve acted passive and helpless for forty-eight years. How is this behavior working for you?” Have I mentioned that Moody is a dick?
I awake to buzzing sounds outside the mosquito net: Three mosquitos intent on infecting me. I imagine oozing orifices, US consulates, and think of the scabby dog being mauled by insects all night. Poor Harold.
Under my net, I practice some self-soothing:
• In two days, I leave for Greece.
• In 108 days, I will be back in Boston.
After five minutes, I’m soaked in sweat.
Later, in front of the bodega
, I find the dog heaped in a pile and wonder if he’s done for. I hand over my chorizo and cheese on toast, his favorite. He springs back to life.
“Poor thing.” It’s a young woman’s voice. Hopefully she’s referring to the dog. I look up and see a brunette holding hands with a guy sporting a full head of hair. Nearby a young couple is on a bench playing kissy face. On another bench, another couple. And another. And another. One woman has dangly feather and metal earrings that resemble trout spinners. They also resemble the earrings I bought for someone I might have married seventeen years ago. I know where this is heading, but can’t stop myself.
Dani, Cell A26
First encounter: Framingham Tribune News, October 1990
Dani was long, angular, and wore modest, earth-toned clothes and thick Buddy Holly-style glasses. She was one of those attractive women who never attracted attention. She worked across the hall. I was a part-time copy editor. She was a full-time reporter.
One day she popped into my cube and invited me for a drink. At the end of the evening, she said, “So, when are we going out again?” From then on, we were an item—no fussing, cursing, or biting.
There were other problems. For one, she had a master’s in journalism from Columbia. She could look at a map, absorb it through some kind of osmosis, and in seconds determine where we needed to go. Math calculations down to two decimal points? She could beat most scientific calculators. Define words with more than four syllables? She was a walking SAT answer key. I couldn’t figure out why she was interested in a guy who only had a bachelor’s degree from U. Mass Boston. Worse still, Dani was ready to get married and have kids, and I still considered myself a kid.
The biggest problem, though, was that she didn’t have a moody, sarcastic cell in her body. We rarely argued. She tolerated my sense of humor, but didn’t enhance it. It began to drive me crazy. She was a smooth surface and I needed some friction to rub against to generate a spark.
The only time she got angry was when I suggested we take some time apart. She responded with a suggestion of her own: I could go to hell. She even drew me a map.
On my last day in El Playa, the wind is mild and steady. I decide to take Aurek’s advice and try a smaller, faster board. Soon I’m zipping around pretty well.
But while trying to make a turn, I slip and smash my pinky toe against the mast. I keep sailing and assume the pain will go away. It doesn’t. I’m done. Edmundo meets me at the shore and takes my gear. “Adios, Burns.” A small improvement: I’ve graduated from cabrón.
I hobble back to my room, ice, and take three ibuprofen. A few hours later, the toe looks like it has a black eye. Probably broken.
Using the guidebook’s instructions, I create a splint using surgical tape, an Allen wrench, and a flip-flop. If I don’t aggravate it, the toe is supposed to feel better in a week.
I limp over to Manrico’s bar hoping for a sentimental good-bye meal. Edmundo’s son, Thug One, is behind the bar.
“How’s the chicken curry?” I ask.
“Sorry, the kitchen is closed, Señor Cabrón.”
“I know what cabrón means.”
“Sí, Señor Culo.
At a nearby table, Manrico is conversing with a group of local guys. I notice that they all have big watches. His girlfriend is on his lap. Neither of them looks up. I’m now officially invisible.
Hot, cold, on, off: What’s with the people down here?
I shuffle on to the pizza joint. The brunette I talked to in front of the bodega the other day is sitting at a table. She waves. A different guy is holding her nonwaving hand.
I sit alone across the room, order a black hooch, and consider the female situation on El Playa: It’s been a disaster. I met a knife-wielding Pole with a boyfriend, a chubby local girl who barely speaks English, a beach heckler, and assorted women half my age with boyfriends. Some guidebook, some life-changing adventure.
My toe starts to throb and my worry turns to relief. If I broke a bone, this is my million-dollar wound, a legitimate reason for heading home—a catastrophic injury.
After dinner, I hop to the web café to check on flights home and download a travel-accident claim form.
My e-mail inbox has a note from Ricki.
Burns,
Haven’t seen any blog entries in a while. You must be pretty anxious and depressed by now. How are all your little sleep rituals and cocktails? Ha! You’re whacko, you know that?
I bet you’re following every recommendation from some stupid guidebook and carrying it around like a bible.
How’s the social life? Probably bad. You’ve got some strange ideas about love and women. You like the idea of having a relationship more than you like being part of one. A relationship is more than a sex date on Saturday or having a cute girl to parade around to your friends to convince them you’re normal. You probably don’t even know what I’m talking about.
—RRRRRR
I hit delete, check the weather in Greece, and after logging off, I buy a sandwich for the dog, and head back to the Bonzi.
CHAPTER THREE: GREECE
On the road, all things are possible, whether you are as mighty as the oak or as meek as the potato aphid.
—WALLACE PITTMAN
After a nine-hour red-eye flight, I exit a Greek subway at three P.M. in a part of Athens known as Omonia. It’s like stepping back in time. Not exactly an ancient world. Or the birthplace of Western civilization. More like Times Square circa 1985: little porn shops, fast-food joints, and minimarts advertising rolling papers and baklava.
Two guys in skull caps walk by me pushing a shopping cart filled with kittens. I pat the decoy wallet around my neck. Pittman warns that Greece can get a little hairy, but it can’t be anything like Venezuela. Greece is Europe. Greece is culture. Greece is the land of mythology, destiny, and Irene Skliva, Miss World 1996.
Three blocks from the subway, I spot a blue neon sign that may have been stolen from an all-night diner. The Kalamata Suites, my hotel.
The man sitting behind the check-in desk has a burning cigarette in one hand and a strand of worry beads in the other. He appears to be asleep.
The guidebook recommends using a word or two of the local language whenever possible. “Signomi,” I say.
The worry beads start to move as the man’s eyes creak open. He rests the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and gestures for my passport.
Tacked to the wall behind him, there’s a large blue and white flag covered with photos of celebrities: Alex Karras, Telly Savalas, Olympia Dukakis, Greg Louganis, George Michael, Tommy Lee, Jennifer Aniston.
“You like Jennifer Aniston?” he asks.
According to the guidebook, neh means “yes” and ohkee means “no.” Or maybe it’s the other way around. I play it safe and say: “Jennifer Aniston. Sí, Neh, Ohkee.”
“She Greek,” the deskman says. “Tommy Lee? Greek. They all Greek. Many famous Greek peoples in United States. Democracy? Is Greek, but we let you use it.”
He puffs on his cigarette, looks down at my Keen sandals, up at my backpack, and says, “Who greatest tennis player in the world?”
He flicks his worry beads. I feel sweat collecting under my money belt. Europe is supposed to be even more liberal than Massachusetts, so I try to think of someone politically correct.
“Serena Williams?”
Flick, flick, flick.
“No. She black. Pete Sampras, Greek.”
He makes no move to sign me in or give me a room key. I look at the flag and photos again. “I always liked George Michael.”
“He poosty, but Greek. Greg Louganis. Poosty. Greek.”
He removes the cigarette from his mouth and rests it on the edge of the counter. Still no sign-in card or room key. My injured toe starts to throb.
“I believe I have a reservation. My name is Burns. Randall Burns.”
He takes a puff from his cigarette and through a cloud of smoke asks: “What is healthiest food in the world?”
Flick, flick,
flick.
I recall the guidebook’s advice about displaying frustration in foreign countries: Don’t. Ever.
I force a smile. “Mediterranean?”
“Mediterranean diet is Greek diet.”
He opens my passport.
“United States. Bush is best president since Spiro Agnew. Bill Clinton? Malaka.” He makes a masturbating gesture with his fist, and then flips through the passport.
“You Boston?”
“Sí. Neh. Ohkee.”
“Boston. Michael Dukakis, Paul Tsongas. Fred Smerlas.”
“That’s right. Fred Smerlas, All-Pro defensive lineman. Boston sportscaster. Great moustache.”
He hands me a room card to fill out. The price is fifty euros, about sixty-five dollars, almost ten dollars cheaper than advertised.
“Does that include the breakfast buffet?”
Another cloud of smoke. “Problem with America? Too many Turkish people, too many Chinese people, too many Mexican people.”
Better not ask about the buffet again or he’ll add Jews to the list. He looks at the completed room card.
“Only one night? Where you go? Turkey?”
Flick, flick, flick.
I’m not sure of the right answer, so I tell the truth. “Sí, Neh, Ohkee. Whatever. No, I’m not going to Turkey.”
“I teach you Greek: Turkey is skata. Turkey prime minister is malaka.” Again with the hand gesture.
“I was considering the island of Cyclonos.”
He puts down his cigarette, leans in, and looks me in the eyes. “Owner of Buffalo Bills, his family from Cyclonos. Greek. Cyclonos is good, lot of pretty girls. You must learn to relax, my friend. Enjoy your stay.”
OK, maybe the guy was just breaking my arhithia. And at least he didn’t call me malaka, poosty, or cabrón.
My room is serviceable: a double bed, a blue and white flag above the headboard, a veneer armoire housing a picture-tube TV, and a showerless bathroom featuring a tub with a long-hosed spray handle that may have been stolen from a kennel or commercial kitchen.
I dump my backpack and decide to take the guidebook’s “Quick and Dirty Walking Tour of Athens.” The first stop is the Temple of the Olympian Zeus, which is a mile from the hotel. The temple’s fifteen marble columns are fifty-six feet high. The book says the structure took 650 years to build. Maybe it’s the ugly American in me. Maybe it’s jet lag or an Ambien hangover. Or maybe it’s just getting dark. Regardless, the Zeus reminds me of an unfinished parking garage.
