At some point in transit, the bus stopped to allow folks to get off and break from the drudgery of the ride. I skipped the steps at the bus exit and jumped all the way to the dirt road below. I pinched a camel poo cigarette from the pack with my lips and snapped a match alight with my thumbnail as I paused in the doorway, blocking the other passengers’ exit: “Fuck them, they can wait.”
Were it not for my unfathomably absurd appearance you might could say this was one of the coolest moments of my life. The only way it could be cooler was if I were Clint Eastwood, in Italy, in a long coat, squinting toward the sun and the cigarette in my mouth wasn’t made of camel shit. I fought the urge to throw up my arms and holler: “Haskel, bring me my scarlet tunic!”
That moment flew by rather quickly as I jonesed after the mint tea everybody but me had. “This is just … Stupid!” I lamented, “I don’t even have the stinking money right now for a stinking cup of stinking mint stinking tea!” I had hit my boiling point, and the camel poop cigarette was giving me heartburn. I stole away behind a waist-high wall and picked at the stitches in the tongue of my shoe with my hog sticker.
Soon, I had extracted a bill of 200 Dirham. The mint tea didn’t even cost a whole Dirham—I was filthy rich! “Now get hold of yourself, Ice-G; don’t let all this wealth go to your head!” I threaded my way through the tea crowd and slapped my 200 Dirham down on the vendor’s table as hard as I could. It made no sound. I gestured to the immediate row of men at the table that they should be given a cup of tea as well—on me!
Gestures were required because the poor folks of the country didn’t speak French being they were too poor to go to school where French was taught. Like I knew better than to try to speak French with a soldier because soldiers are very poor. Officers, however, were schooled therefore spoke French. The extent of my Arabic consisted of many memorized set phrases, so unless I purposely maneuvered myself into specific situations to impress people with Arabic, it was all but worthless.
“Come to my house on Sunday for a game of chess!” I blurted out to perfect strangers just to entertain myself. “Do you have spare parts for this American car?” was one that always got guffaws.
The boys and I stood around swilling our mint tea and huffing camel dropping cigarettes. We were kings, if only just for seven minutes! I was breaking one of my own cardinal rules: don’t make friends in your own backyard because then you are stuck with them when/where you don’t want them. Yeah, now all these guys will want to be my friends, and I’m stuck on a bus with them but don’t want to be their friend. That had been a simple no-shitter, and I screwed it up!
What’s more, I had flaunted 200 Dirham in front of them. Not good. I could get robbed, and there’s not enough room on the bus to perform katas to demonstrate my lethality. Frankly, nothing about my comical appearance hinted in the least of any lethality at all. I would have to scream loudly and piss myself if I were to thwart off a dire pinch.
The rest of the ride was jus’ a’ight. I taught my new band of buddies how to play Rock-Paper-Scissors, and they loved it; just couldn’t get enough of it, even after three freakin’ hours they couldn’t. That is definitely the most Rock-Paper-Scissors I’ve played since I was about five years old. “Don’t make friends in your backyard, Ice-G!” How many times did I have to tell myself? A saving grace was that there was a Veterinarian on the bus—at last, someone to speak French with.
“Mon Dieu, mais de quel part de la France vous venez?” Yeah, I knew that was coming: “My God, what part of France are you from?” Yeah, I know, my hideous Creole accent from the south of Louisiana. That is typically followed by words to the effect, “Ah yes, I have heard of you people.” Reduced to “you people,” I was.
The sun had long since passed below the horizon but ignited the moon to remind us that it would be back come morning. I hustled from the bus stop at a brisk pace to discourage any would-be followers. I stepped into a five-Dirham-a-night motel and got a room. I immediately left that motel and booked a room in a second motel that was far nicer than any I had yet seen in this country. Ah, the splendor of Casablanca: there were towels in the room that didn’t talk back to me and, from the lobby, murmurs of a rumored continental breakfast at daybreak.
A Taste of Comfort in Casablanca
Casablanca, just like in the movies. “Play it again, Sam!” I joked to nobody who was there. Perhaps tonight, I’ll find a nice “gin joint” and wait for Humphry Bogart. Yeah, well, that wasn’t going to happen.
On missions like these, I made it a point to stay away from the three deadly Bs: booze, broads, and bucks. Those were the three things that everyone I knew who got das boot from the Unit, got das boot for.
Instead, I would hang out in my magnificent room and pine the eve away thinking about that Kurdish woman who invited me out on the town in Marrakesh. Had I really turned her down? Goddamned right I did. That was an ass whipping that never happened but wanted to in the worst way. I kicked back in the chair in my room, that’s right I said “chair in my room” and imagined the first room I faux-checked into getting firebombed by the toads who I tricked into thinking I was staying there. Money doesn’t always have to make you lose your mind. I fancied myself a man somewhat slick of nature for having done that.
Whether or not I actually was … Well, I probably wasn’t, but on this night I did fancy myself as such.
By God and with honor,
geo sends
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