Currently I'm a dashing 22-year-old who is lucky enough to have had much experience selling various goods door-to-door. Some of these goods have proven to be more, for lack of a better word, sellable, than others. Selling boxes of candy in elementary school went well. Really, who doesn't want to buy a box of candy from some cute 8-year-old kid? (That's right, ladies, I was just as cute 14 years ago and I'm available for a limited time only). If you don't, then you're purely unamerican. Opening the door to that, you know you have to buy.
However, as I aged and increased in man-beauty, I suppose my looks and lack of edible products caused my number of buyers to decrease dramatically. As a studly, confident adolescent with braces, pigeon-toed feet, and glasses (yeah, the whole sexy sha-bang), my success began to wane. The sale of my services as a flag-posting boy scout was met with more indifference and fewer cheek pinches, but still enough success to be content.
As a brawny 19-year-old, I embarked upon a two year trek in Holland and Belgium in order to sell religion. I was ready. I had studied my Dutch and Flemish, I had brought my best suits and ties, and my teeth were at their pearly-whitest. I was confronted with hostility, no doubt, but the degree of indifference that I encountered was greater than I could have fathomed possible for walking, talking, supposedly compassionate human beings. Did selling religion on the door go well? That's a matter of definition, but I sure got to meet some winners!
Let me describe one fabulous experience for you, dear reader:
It was a beautiful day in May of 2008, and I was residing at the time in a gorgeous city called Leeuwarden in the far north of the Netherlands (the exact original Dutch will appear in parentheses next to its English translation). My sales associate, Nathan Lye, and I were buzzing every doorbell on an apartment building early one afternoon in hopes of making a sale for the month. Nate pressed one doorbell, keeping his ear close to the intercom awaiting any response, when a young man answered, "Yes? (Ja?)"
Nate tossed in his usual pitch, to which the voice replied, "Are you horny? (Ben je geil?)"
The conversation then proceeded as such:
Nate: "No... (Nee...)"
Voice: "That's a shame, I am. (Jammer, ik wel)."
Nate: "I'm not gay. (Ik ben geen homo)."
Voice "Wanna try? (Proberen?)"
Nate: "No. (Nee)."
Voice: "You sure? (Zeker?)"
Nate: "I'm sorry, but no. (Het spijt me, maar nee)."
At long last the awkward debate had reached its end. I, always in support of my sales associate, was already weeping with laughter against the wall. "All right, dude, it's your turn now." "Yeah, I'll take care of it in a minute," I tell Nate through my tears. Once I'm back on my feet, we both realize that we've forgotten which doorbell is next. We take our best guess, I push it, and then extend my ear back toward the intercom.
Another conversation then commences as follows:
Voice: "Ja? (but the voice is eerily familiar...)"
Me: "Umm, did we just talk to you? (Ahh, hebben wij je net gesproken?)
Voice: "Are you alone? (Ben je alleen?)"
Me: "No, there are two of us. (Nee, wij zijn met z'n tweeen)."
Voice: "Threesome? (Drietje?)"
Me: "No. (Nee.)"
Voice: "That's a shame. (Jammer)."
Me: "Yeah, too bad... (Ja, helaas...)"
Yes, this did indeed happen. Yes, we really did ring his doorbell twice. And yes, going door-to-door in Western Europe has given me some of my most cherished memories. Believe it. Try it. You'll see.
My latest experience as a a door-to-door salesman was only this past summer. This time, Holland was replaced by Utah, my suit was replaced by a polo t-shirt, my sales associate was replaced by a clipboard, and my religion was replaced by insurance. Was I met with indifference and hostility again? Somewhat. Apathetic as many of the people were, Americans seem to lack a Dutch hostility. Strange, seeing as how the Dutch haven't done very well in any of the past few wars.
So, the underlying message of my time as a door-to-door salesman is, please contain your anger and hostility until a maniacal despot takes power. Then, and only then, must you release your fury upon him/her and his/her regime (did you notice how I kept the despot asexual? Yeah, I'm not a sexist). It has paid off for us here in America. Follow our lead, world, and make the earth a better place.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Elusive green apple bat orgy
Driving around town, we decide to head north and hit up the closest 7-11. I'm hoping that they'll have green apple in addition to the normal selection of Coca Cola and pina colada-flavored slurpees. The weather has been turning for the past few weeks, so nearly all the leaves now blanket the ground next to the street while only a few cling desperately to their branches. Church's white Ford rumbles down the hill along Mountain Road as the soundtrack of Gladiator blasts out of the speakers. He cracks a joke when we pass the spot where I obliterated a deer one night during the previous summer. Church and I have been friends for years now, for reasons that are as difficult to count as they are to remember. Conversation between us flows back and forth as it always has, varying from politics, to movies, to girls, to sports, and eventually back to how our characters are faring in our favorite video games.
Pulling up to the gas station, I notice that the tree next to the south wall is thrashing and squeaking violently. Not being accustomed to audible trees, I'm determined to investigate. Standing in the overcast dusk overshadowed by the vast face of Ben Lomond peak, shadow clouds my vision as well as my perception of what I could possibly be seeing. Cautiously I tiptoe right up to the trunk of the quivering tree. Peering above my head up into the dark branches, I at last realize that I'm witnessing some kind of orgy between hundreds of bats. So many bats shock me, having expected something... but not this. I can't help but leap backward.
Suddenly I'm distracted by Church's inquisitive voice, "Dude, what the hell is going on in that tree?"
"Bats. Hundreds of them. Just swarming around. I've never seen anything like this before."
"Weird. Do you have a camera?"
I can't reply to the affirmative. Most cell phones, including mine, aren't readily equipped with cameras yet.
After taking a good long look, we get our slurpees. No green apple. That elusive green apple slurpee never lingers long in one particular place. Mountain Dew will suffice until I find the green apple again.
I pry open the door of the truck and hop in. The cloth seat cover scrunches up as we slide into place, so I arc my back and smooth it out until it's lying evenly as before. Glancing upward, the peaks of the mountains are already blanketed in snow. Before another month has passed, Church and I will be snowboarding again every weekend. Not even a year ago, we skipped out on as many days of our junior year as possible so that I could teach Church how to snowboard on the relatively empty midday slopes. Church and I started off as kids on our elementary school's playground, I pretending to be a jet pilot and he playing Jurassic Park with plastic dinosaur dolls.
"So, basketball game?" I ask.
"Sure, bro. Video games after?"
I nod my head in agreement. Our friendship hasn't changed much in nearly a decade, and that's just the way I like it.
Pulling up to the gas station, I notice that the tree next to the south wall is thrashing and squeaking violently. Not being accustomed to audible trees, I'm determined to investigate. Standing in the overcast dusk overshadowed by the vast face of Ben Lomond peak, shadow clouds my vision as well as my perception of what I could possibly be seeing. Cautiously I tiptoe right up to the trunk of the quivering tree. Peering above my head up into the dark branches, I at last realize that I'm witnessing some kind of orgy between hundreds of bats. So many bats shock me, having expected something... but not this. I can't help but leap backward.
Suddenly I'm distracted by Church's inquisitive voice, "Dude, what the hell is going on in that tree?"
"Bats. Hundreds of them. Just swarming around. I've never seen anything like this before."
"Weird. Do you have a camera?"
I can't reply to the affirmative. Most cell phones, including mine, aren't readily equipped with cameras yet.
After taking a good long look, we get our slurpees. No green apple. That elusive green apple slurpee never lingers long in one particular place. Mountain Dew will suffice until I find the green apple again.
I pry open the door of the truck and hop in. The cloth seat cover scrunches up as we slide into place, so I arc my back and smooth it out until it's lying evenly as before. Glancing upward, the peaks of the mountains are already blanketed in snow. Before another month has passed, Church and I will be snowboarding again every weekend. Not even a year ago, we skipped out on as many days of our junior year as possible so that I could teach Church how to snowboard on the relatively empty midday slopes. Church and I started off as kids on our elementary school's playground, I pretending to be a jet pilot and he playing Jurassic Park with plastic dinosaur dolls.
"So, basketball game?" I ask.
"Sure, bro. Video games after?"
I nod my head in agreement. Our friendship hasn't changed much in nearly a decade, and that's just the way I like it.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Sweet and Sour Smoke
I hand the border control officer my passport while thinking, "I hope everything is fine on that visa, because I can't handle taking a flight straight back to Germany right now." It's dark outside. Really dark. I can see a few stars through the clouds as the woman behind the glass scans my paperwork and visa, assuring herself that everything is in order. She hands it back to me, glares at me for good measure, and I walk off. "Russian hospitality, real nice," I murmur to myself. Walking into the concourse, I can see the Aeroflot jet that carried us from Frankfurt to Moscow through a window on my right. I hadn't realized how small it was until now. It's pathetic in comparison to the behemoth of a plane that bore us all from Chicago to Germany a matter of hours before.
After a few minutes' wait at the baggage claim, both of my bags arrive unscathed and apparently untampered with. I yank them both off of the conveyor belt and stand back out of the others' way. It doesn't take long before everyone has their bags except Travis. We wait, but not for long before Gulya arrives and hurries us away toward the exit of the airport. "What about my bags?" Travis asks in his Canadian accent, sounding to me as if he's asking about his "begs." Gulya assures him in a heavy Russian accent that his bags will surely show up soon, at which time she'll come fetch them. Within several days, this will present an interesting scenario for Travis, seeing as how the only clothes now in his possession are the orange pajama bottoms and the black hoody he's currently wearing.
Once outside, my senses are bombarded with the unexpected. The air is utterly frigid and oddly pungent. It reeks obviously of cigarette smoke, but this particular scent is extremely foreign. This new brand of cigarette smells sweetly sour and a bit tangy. I know I'll have to adjust quickly, because right now my olfactory nerve couldn't possibly be more irritated. Gulya leads us straight to a van and has us climb in, luggage and all. We've volunteered to come to Russia to teach English, and this van is the "schoolbus" for our school. Apparently, schoolbuses here aren't yellow. Instead they are gray, caked in murky-brown ice, and are actually large vans with rainbow-upholstered seating.
Our chauffeur races through Moscow's streets. Really racing. He swerves around other cars and slings us around corners. I memorized the Cyrillic alphabet on the flight over, but we fly past every neon sign too quickly before I can sound out any of the strange words. Within half an hour, we pull into the school's driveway. It looks more like a prison to me than anything else. There's a large fence surrounding the grounds and every window on the bottom floor is protected by threatening iron bars. "We'll be teaching and living in this building for the next six months? Great." I say. Gulya glances over, having misread my words for ill-favored sarcasm, and informs me that the principal of the school, Sergei, has turned several of the smallest classrooms on the top floor into apartments for our use.
Inside I'm reminded of an old warehouse. The walls are thick and whitewashed. The decor is simple and sparing, at best. All the doorways are wide and evenly spaced, just like the red-tiled hallways which they border. The school has one small elevator, for use "only by teachers and the final-year students." Luckily, we fall under the teacher category and pack the elevator. It crawls toward the sixth floor, creaking along the way. It groans to a stop, jerks, immediately drops six inches, and the doors finally open wide. Emily couldn't be less happy with the experience. "Whoa, they were NOT kidding when they said the elevator's not in the best shape. I am never stepping foot on this thing again!" I found the elevator ride less traumatic than she, so I make no such promise.
Travis and I wheel my bags to our "apartment," a small room with one window, two twin beds that are awkwardly pushed together, gray tile, and a single armoire made of sagging particle board. We trade questioning looks, and immediately pull the beds to opposite sides of the room without saying a word. Weird, but whatever. The walls in here are plain white, just like the rest of the building, and rough to the touch like sandpaper. I sit down, pull off my shoes, and investigate our floor of the school. Nextdoor to our apartment is the preparation and supply room for the English teachers, a room that would become our refuge from the rest of the city. The bathroom lies behind another door nearby and all the girls find themselves in similar "apartments" on the opposite end of the sixth floor.
It's been dark outside for many hours already, and it's only 8:00 in the evening here in Moscow. I walk back into my room, watch for a moment as Travis stares longingly at my intact luggage, and lie down on my bed. The wind and snow are blasting and howling against the thin window. I soon begin to doze off.
After a few minutes' wait at the baggage claim, both of my bags arrive unscathed and apparently untampered with. I yank them both off of the conveyor belt and stand back out of the others' way. It doesn't take long before everyone has their bags except Travis. We wait, but not for long before Gulya arrives and hurries us away toward the exit of the airport. "What about my bags?" Travis asks in his Canadian accent, sounding to me as if he's asking about his "begs." Gulya assures him in a heavy Russian accent that his bags will surely show up soon, at which time she'll come fetch them. Within several days, this will present an interesting scenario for Travis, seeing as how the only clothes now in his possession are the orange pajama bottoms and the black hoody he's currently wearing.
Once outside, my senses are bombarded with the unexpected. The air is utterly frigid and oddly pungent. It reeks obviously of cigarette smoke, but this particular scent is extremely foreign. This new brand of cigarette smells sweetly sour and a bit tangy. I know I'll have to adjust quickly, because right now my olfactory nerve couldn't possibly be more irritated. Gulya leads us straight to a van and has us climb in, luggage and all. We've volunteered to come to Russia to teach English, and this van is the "schoolbus" for our school. Apparently, schoolbuses here aren't yellow. Instead they are gray, caked in murky-brown ice, and are actually large vans with rainbow-upholstered seating.
Our chauffeur races through Moscow's streets. Really racing. He swerves around other cars and slings us around corners. I memorized the Cyrillic alphabet on the flight over, but we fly past every neon sign too quickly before I can sound out any of the strange words. Within half an hour, we pull into the school's driveway. It looks more like a prison to me than anything else. There's a large fence surrounding the grounds and every window on the bottom floor is protected by threatening iron bars. "We'll be teaching and living in this building for the next six months? Great." I say. Gulya glances over, having misread my words for ill-favored sarcasm, and informs me that the principal of the school, Sergei, has turned several of the smallest classrooms on the top floor into apartments for our use.
Inside I'm reminded of an old warehouse. The walls are thick and whitewashed. The decor is simple and sparing, at best. All the doorways are wide and evenly spaced, just like the red-tiled hallways which they border. The school has one small elevator, for use "only by teachers and the final-year students." Luckily, we fall under the teacher category and pack the elevator. It crawls toward the sixth floor, creaking along the way. It groans to a stop, jerks, immediately drops six inches, and the doors finally open wide. Emily couldn't be less happy with the experience. "Whoa, they were NOT kidding when they said the elevator's not in the best shape. I am never stepping foot on this thing again!" I found the elevator ride less traumatic than she, so I make no such promise.
Travis and I wheel my bags to our "apartment," a small room with one window, two twin beds that are awkwardly pushed together, gray tile, and a single armoire made of sagging particle board. We trade questioning looks, and immediately pull the beds to opposite sides of the room without saying a word. Weird, but whatever. The walls in here are plain white, just like the rest of the building, and rough to the touch like sandpaper. I sit down, pull off my shoes, and investigate our floor of the school. Nextdoor to our apartment is the preparation and supply room for the English teachers, a room that would become our refuge from the rest of the city. The bathroom lies behind another door nearby and all the girls find themselves in similar "apartments" on the opposite end of the sixth floor.
It's been dark outside for many hours already, and it's only 8:00 in the evening here in Moscow. I walk back into my room, watch for a moment as Travis stares longingly at my intact luggage, and lie down on my bed. The wind and snow are blasting and howling against the thin window. I soon begin to doze off.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Unbottle Your Feelings and Dump Them on Paper
I am no William Shakespeare, or even Michael Crichton, for that matter. But still, I'm usually able to express myself in a fairly competent manner. Lately I've had to write a few papers on my "feelings" about certain performances. I enjoy the arts. Thoroughly. I wrote the first paper and received a response from my grader that complimented my writing style and word usage, but docked me nonetheless for not explaining my thoughts and feelings well enough. This didn't bother me; criticism is something that I can handle. I did all that I possibly could on my second paper to pack it profusely with "I felt happy"s and "I found this remarkable"s. And still, I was docked for my "lack of feeling." Instead of kicking a dead horse, I'll simply say that despite my best efforts, I was faced with the same reason for a disappointing grade on my third paper. Am I explicating my feelings about this musical and that jazz concert? I thought so! Today I have learned my lesson. When writing a paper in which I must expand upon these "feelings" which I'm supposed to have, simply write an outline and then hand the paper over to a girl for her to fill it with how you should think and feel. That's right, paper grader, I have beaten you at last. You have read exactly what you wanted to hear and at last your thirst for my "feelings" has been slated.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Oma, My Saving Grace
It's Halloween in America, but here the streets are completely void of masked children. The moonlit cobblestones beneath my wheels force my handles to jerk back and forth. It's late, and the fog penetrates my coat, causing chills to run up and down my spine. Gurr is racing back toward our apartment at top speed and all I can do is struggle to keep up. I'm frustrated. Does he not realize that I can't pedal that fast? Without realizing it, my thoughts revert back to earlier in the evening when Gurr and I decided to embark upon this ill-fated journey.
"We have to got to Herkdestad. We can't not show up." Gurr tells me.
The best excuse I come up with is, "Yeah, but Herkdestad is 15 miles away and Anna is never home when she says she'll be. You know that."
"It doesn't matter. We have to go. It's an appointment!" Gurr sharply reminds me.
"You're just trying to waste time! Can you even get us there in the dark?"
"Of course. I've been going there for months, long before you ever came along."
I give up. I know that I'm only arguing for the sake of arguing. Really, we have nothing else to do, and I know it. "Fine, let's just go."
We lumber down the stairs and put on our shoes without any words. He violently jams each foot into his already-tied, very worn shoes while I painstakingly tie each of mine. The sun has just fallen beneath the horizon as we remove the chains binding our bikes to the light pole outside. I've been in Belgium for a full month already and have yet to buy a new bike for myself. I've been getting by on a spare bicycle that the locals have fittingly named a "grandma bike," due to its popularity among seemingly all elderly females. My particular version of the grandma bike is painted completely black with handles that curve upward, much farther than seems necessary, and then out to either side. The basket which hangs off the front always rises up and down in tandem with the loose handlebar, but somehow manages to remain attached during every ride. I've come to rely on this spare grandma bike to get myself anywhere and everywhere on time. For this very reason, I have fondly given her the nickname "Oma," meaning "granny" in the local Flemish tongue. In fact, my primary focus every time I ride Oma is to firmly hold the handlebar in place so that I can retain enough control to navigate the Belgian streets without hitting any car doors or real "omas" hobbling through intersections.
Once our bikes are free, we begin by cutting through our neighborhood until we have found the correct street which will lead us all the way to Herkdestad. Enough Belgians use this road for it to be privileged with having a smooth red bike path on each side. We set ourselves on the right side and commence pedaling in earnest.
It's a long road, but already I have come to recognize the landmarks along the way which signify the distance traveled. First, we cross the long, arcing bridge over the Prince Henrik Canal. We haven't been on the bikes long, so my legs aren't warmed up. I feel my quadriceps loosen as we race to the top. I know that within a few minutes pedaling will become easier as my body stretches and finds its rhythm.
I jealously watch shoppers go about their business at the Carrefour, a higher-end supermarket and my first landmark. I wish I had more time. Time to do whatever I want. Time to waste mindlessly at the park or watching TV. A middle-aged brunette woman is walking her golden retriever. The dog is beautiful and well-groomed; I can see the lines etched into his fur coat by a caring brush even in the dull glow of the streetlight. I wonder how often she walks him, but it's not worth dwelling on. I'll never see her again.
By the time we pass Fajar's apartment, my second landmark, I feel as if I could continue biking until the sun rises again. However, experience reminds me that this feeling will fade before we reach our destination. I'm still following Gurr closely as we approach my third landmark, a much larger-than-life poster of a gorgeous lingerie-clad woman gazing sultrily over her shoulder at all who wish to pass. "Don't stare," I think to myself as I guiltily cast second and third glances in her direction.
My fourth landmark means that we are very close. Not long after passing the orange boards blocking roadside construction, we take the turn into Herkdestad. In reality it's not very late yet. In the U.S., sidewalks and streets are still busy at 8:00 pm. In Belgium, the sun has been down well over an hour, so everyone has retreated into the warmth of their homes, closing their metal shutters behind them. The only other human figures which dare to be seen are mannequins staring blankly at us through their windows as we roll jerkily by. In a matter of seconds, we're away from the mannequins and their glittering shops as we burst into the town's main square. A church tower looms overhead, but there is very little light. The stars are becoming blurred by the encroaching clouds and only a few lanterns sitting atop iron poles dare to cast light onto the cobblestone plaza.
Sweet relief at last. Anna's apartment building stands on the left side of the street, one corner awkwardly jutting out into the sidewalk. In silence, we climb the steps up to the door. We buzz her apartment. No answer. We wait. Nothing needs to be said, so instead I buzz a second time to let Gurr know that I'm here and have decided to care. The speaker beside the door responds no differently to my attempt. I break our mutual silence by asking, "Well, should we wait?"
Gurr finds it acceptable to reply, "Yeah, let's wait awhile."
"Okay."
"Maybe she'll come soon. We should wait." Gurr reassures himself.
"I called her yesterday to confirm this appointment. Yesterday!"
"You know how Nigerians are. They're always late."
I nod my head in agreement while mumbling, "Uh huh." It's not Gurr's fault, but I knew this would happen. I knew it.
Gurr tries to console me, "Hey man, at least we held up our end of the deal, right?"
"Yeah, right." I grudgingly say.
Our conversation has reached its end as we find places to sit on the old stone porch. A half hour passes, and I look over at Gurr. He's staring confidently down the street as if he knows that Anna will soon appear. I'm determined to say nothing; I allowed myself to come on this pointless trip and now I will silently accept my fate. Finally, nearly an hour after the appointed time, a very dark, rotund woman approaches in a bright yellow rain coat which skims along the ground behind her. I can't help but chuckle; Nigerians are always a little too well prepared for the rain.
It's Anna, but she walks by without a word. I stopped caring some time ago; I just want to go home. Gurr takes responsibility by declaring, "Anna, it's us!"
Anna hurries quickly to the door before turning and asking, "Who?"
"The elders from the church. Remember?" There's a noticeable hint of despair in Gurr's voice.
"Oh, brothers! How are you today?" Anna's African English sounds like the crystal-clear chime of Christmas bells after an entire month of hearing only slurred Flemish.
Gurr continues by saying, "We're fine. We have an appointment for an hour ago. Have you forgotten?"
"No, no. I do not forget."
"Okay, but we've been waiting here for an hour. We came all the way from Hasselt." There is no mistake that even Gurr wants to impress the seriousness of this offense upon her.
"Yes, but I must working late. You see?"
I feel like the time has come for me to toss in my two cents, so I interject, "Yes, we see. Do you have a few minutes now so we can talk?"
"No, no. Very tired. You see?"
I'm done wasting my time and am already taking the lock off my bike as Gurr stands desperately watching her disappear inside the building. My only retort is silence as we mount our bicycles and pedal back toward Hasselt. My body is exhausted and before we're halfway back I'm counting every streetlight. "Keep going. The harder you pedal now the sooner you'll be in bed," is what I continually tell myself as we push onward.
Gurr is pulling ahead - far ahead. He knows that I'm falling behind, but this is his unvoiced retaliation to my silent anger. We reach the top of the bridge just outside Hasselt and my thoughts immediately snap back to the present. I can see Gurr's black figure flying down the bridge's slope and into the city just as I reach the top. On my way down I notice an old yellow car driving along a street off to my right. I'm a biker, and I have right-of-way. I see the driver look at me; I'm very visible with my yellow light clipped blazing to my basket. Still, I continue on my present course. I know he'll slow down. These Europeans seem to love driving like maniacs.
At the bottom of the bridge I realize it's too late. We're on a collision course and Oma's brakes are no longer in their prime. I pedal harder in order to speed up and miss the car. The car speeds up! What is this guy doing!?! Before I can react, he plows into me, sending me careening into the middle of the road. I'm lying on my side, and my only thought is, "I'm going to die! Some crazy fanatic is about to kill me! I'm going to die! This is crazy! I'm going to die!!!" The driver revs his engine in an attempt to crush me, but only manages to cause the car to rock back and forth. The front bumper comes perilously close as I reach up and try to push the car away. It seems to work! The driver again tries to drive over me, but is once again unsuccessful. As I'm still trying to kick the car away, Gurr runs up and begins to pound furiously on the yellow car's window. It sounds like he might break it. A short, dark-haired woman rushes toward us and screams at the man in the car as he goes into reverse and speeds away.
"Dude, are you okay?" Gurr frantically inquires.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
My suit is torn and my body aches, but I still stand up and walk toward what's left of Oma. The few people that have come realize that I'm up and walking and disband after I reassure them that I'm fine. Moments after gathering the twisted parts and folded wheels that remain of Oma, I understand. Oma being jammed under the front wheels of the car saved my life. Oma, not my futile kicking and pushing, stopped the car from rolling right over me.
I don't know what to think as I drag Oma through the streets back to our apartment. The pain in my leg is quickly growing sharper and forcing me to limp. I'm absolutely incredulous. What just happened is difficult to digest. My state of utter bewilderment is suddenly interrupted by Gurr exclaiming, "That guy was trying to kill you!"
"I know."
"Should we call someone?"
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"No. I really want to go to bed. Let's just not worry about it." I'm beyond caring, but Gurr persists.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"We have to got to Herkdestad. We can't not show up." Gurr tells me.
The best excuse I come up with is, "Yeah, but Herkdestad is 15 miles away and Anna is never home when she says she'll be. You know that."
"It doesn't matter. We have to go. It's an appointment!" Gurr sharply reminds me.
"You're just trying to waste time! Can you even get us there in the dark?"
"Of course. I've been going there for months, long before you ever came along."
I give up. I know that I'm only arguing for the sake of arguing. Really, we have nothing else to do, and I know it. "Fine, let's just go."
We lumber down the stairs and put on our shoes without any words. He violently jams each foot into his already-tied, very worn shoes while I painstakingly tie each of mine. The sun has just fallen beneath the horizon as we remove the chains binding our bikes to the light pole outside. I've been in Belgium for a full month already and have yet to buy a new bike for myself. I've been getting by on a spare bicycle that the locals have fittingly named a "grandma bike," due to its popularity among seemingly all elderly females. My particular version of the grandma bike is painted completely black with handles that curve upward, much farther than seems necessary, and then out to either side. The basket which hangs off the front always rises up and down in tandem with the loose handlebar, but somehow manages to remain attached during every ride. I've come to rely on this spare grandma bike to get myself anywhere and everywhere on time. For this very reason, I have fondly given her the nickname "Oma," meaning "granny" in the local Flemish tongue. In fact, my primary focus every time I ride Oma is to firmly hold the handlebar in place so that I can retain enough control to navigate the Belgian streets without hitting any car doors or real "omas" hobbling through intersections.
Once our bikes are free, we begin by cutting through our neighborhood until we have found the correct street which will lead us all the way to Herkdestad. Enough Belgians use this road for it to be privileged with having a smooth red bike path on each side. We set ourselves on the right side and commence pedaling in earnest.
It's a long road, but already I have come to recognize the landmarks along the way which signify the distance traveled. First, we cross the long, arcing bridge over the Prince Henrik Canal. We haven't been on the bikes long, so my legs aren't warmed up. I feel my quadriceps loosen as we race to the top. I know that within a few minutes pedaling will become easier as my body stretches and finds its rhythm.
I jealously watch shoppers go about their business at the Carrefour, a higher-end supermarket and my first landmark. I wish I had more time. Time to do whatever I want. Time to waste mindlessly at the park or watching TV. A middle-aged brunette woman is walking her golden retriever. The dog is beautiful and well-groomed; I can see the lines etched into his fur coat by a caring brush even in the dull glow of the streetlight. I wonder how often she walks him, but it's not worth dwelling on. I'll never see her again.
By the time we pass Fajar's apartment, my second landmark, I feel as if I could continue biking until the sun rises again. However, experience reminds me that this feeling will fade before we reach our destination. I'm still following Gurr closely as we approach my third landmark, a much larger-than-life poster of a gorgeous lingerie-clad woman gazing sultrily over her shoulder at all who wish to pass. "Don't stare," I think to myself as I guiltily cast second and third glances in her direction.
My fourth landmark means that we are very close. Not long after passing the orange boards blocking roadside construction, we take the turn into Herkdestad. In reality it's not very late yet. In the U.S., sidewalks and streets are still busy at 8:00 pm. In Belgium, the sun has been down well over an hour, so everyone has retreated into the warmth of their homes, closing their metal shutters behind them. The only other human figures which dare to be seen are mannequins staring blankly at us through their windows as we roll jerkily by. In a matter of seconds, we're away from the mannequins and their glittering shops as we burst into the town's main square. A church tower looms overhead, but there is very little light. The stars are becoming blurred by the encroaching clouds and only a few lanterns sitting atop iron poles dare to cast light onto the cobblestone plaza.
Sweet relief at last. Anna's apartment building stands on the left side of the street, one corner awkwardly jutting out into the sidewalk. In silence, we climb the steps up to the door. We buzz her apartment. No answer. We wait. Nothing needs to be said, so instead I buzz a second time to let Gurr know that I'm here and have decided to care. The speaker beside the door responds no differently to my attempt. I break our mutual silence by asking, "Well, should we wait?"
Gurr finds it acceptable to reply, "Yeah, let's wait awhile."
"Okay."
"Maybe she'll come soon. We should wait." Gurr reassures himself.
"I called her yesterday to confirm this appointment. Yesterday!"
"You know how Nigerians are. They're always late."
I nod my head in agreement while mumbling, "Uh huh." It's not Gurr's fault, but I knew this would happen. I knew it.
Gurr tries to console me, "Hey man, at least we held up our end of the deal, right?"
"Yeah, right." I grudgingly say.
Our conversation has reached its end as we find places to sit on the old stone porch. A half hour passes, and I look over at Gurr. He's staring confidently down the street as if he knows that Anna will soon appear. I'm determined to say nothing; I allowed myself to come on this pointless trip and now I will silently accept my fate. Finally, nearly an hour after the appointed time, a very dark, rotund woman approaches in a bright yellow rain coat which skims along the ground behind her. I can't help but chuckle; Nigerians are always a little too well prepared for the rain.
It's Anna, but she walks by without a word. I stopped caring some time ago; I just want to go home. Gurr takes responsibility by declaring, "Anna, it's us!"
Anna hurries quickly to the door before turning and asking, "Who?"
"The elders from the church. Remember?" There's a noticeable hint of despair in Gurr's voice.
"Oh, brothers! How are you today?" Anna's African English sounds like the crystal-clear chime of Christmas bells after an entire month of hearing only slurred Flemish.
Gurr continues by saying, "We're fine. We have an appointment for an hour ago. Have you forgotten?"
"No, no. I do not forget."
"Okay, but we've been waiting here for an hour. We came all the way from Hasselt." There is no mistake that even Gurr wants to impress the seriousness of this offense upon her.
"Yes, but I must working late. You see?"
I feel like the time has come for me to toss in my two cents, so I interject, "Yes, we see. Do you have a few minutes now so we can talk?"
"No, no. Very tired. You see?"
I'm done wasting my time and am already taking the lock off my bike as Gurr stands desperately watching her disappear inside the building. My only retort is silence as we mount our bicycles and pedal back toward Hasselt. My body is exhausted and before we're halfway back I'm counting every streetlight. "Keep going. The harder you pedal now the sooner you'll be in bed," is what I continually tell myself as we push onward.
Gurr is pulling ahead - far ahead. He knows that I'm falling behind, but this is his unvoiced retaliation to my silent anger. We reach the top of the bridge just outside Hasselt and my thoughts immediately snap back to the present. I can see Gurr's black figure flying down the bridge's slope and into the city just as I reach the top. On my way down I notice an old yellow car driving along a street off to my right. I'm a biker, and I have right-of-way. I see the driver look at me; I'm very visible with my yellow light clipped blazing to my basket. Still, I continue on my present course. I know he'll slow down. These Europeans seem to love driving like maniacs.
At the bottom of the bridge I realize it's too late. We're on a collision course and Oma's brakes are no longer in their prime. I pedal harder in order to speed up and miss the car. The car speeds up! What is this guy doing!?! Before I can react, he plows into me, sending me careening into the middle of the road. I'm lying on my side, and my only thought is, "I'm going to die! Some crazy fanatic is about to kill me! I'm going to die! This is crazy! I'm going to die!!!" The driver revs his engine in an attempt to crush me, but only manages to cause the car to rock back and forth. The front bumper comes perilously close as I reach up and try to push the car away. It seems to work! The driver again tries to drive over me, but is once again unsuccessful. As I'm still trying to kick the car away, Gurr runs up and begins to pound furiously on the yellow car's window. It sounds like he might break it. A short, dark-haired woman rushes toward us and screams at the man in the car as he goes into reverse and speeds away.
"Dude, are you okay?" Gurr frantically inquires.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
My suit is torn and my body aches, but I still stand up and walk toward what's left of Oma. The few people that have come realize that I'm up and walking and disband after I reassure them that I'm fine. Moments after gathering the twisted parts and folded wheels that remain of Oma, I understand. Oma being jammed under the front wheels of the car saved my life. Oma, not my futile kicking and pushing, stopped the car from rolling right over me.
I don't know what to think as I drag Oma through the streets back to our apartment. The pain in my leg is quickly growing sharper and forcing me to limp. I'm absolutely incredulous. What just happened is difficult to digest. My state of utter bewilderment is suddenly interrupted by Gurr exclaiming, "That guy was trying to kill you!"
"I know."
"Should we call someone?"
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"No. I really want to go to bed. Let's just not worry about it." I'm beyond caring, but Gurr persists.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Welcome, fellow man, to my blog.
Hello, fellow man. Today I will be addressing our relationship in depth. I've never been much for keeping a journal and my memory isn't the best. Therefore, the best remedy I have been able to come up with is blogging. I won't have to bother buying any pens or expensively blank books with pointless gold leaf along the edges anymore, not that it was ever my greatest temptation. Perhaps better yet, I have something more to do when online than looking at the weekend's sport scores a second time. Yes, my beloved Arizona Cardinals and Utah State Aggies are both still struggling. Both games' scores have remained the same due to a severe lack of uncovered conspiracies within the sports world. I'll continue having faith in both teams and it will eventually pay off. This I know with more certainty than 99% of everything else I pretendingly claim to know, even though I really know that there are fewer than five things in this world of which I'm truly sure. The eventual payoff of Aggie/Cardinal football fanhood is without doubt one of those five.
Is it time to muse upon my current state of mind? All one of my current readers (including myself) vote "yes"! It's unanimous, then. Several years ago I lost a certain trust in my fellow man. Am I willing to trust this devious "fellow man" with my real thoughts and opinions? The answer, since at least age 15, has been no. Do I trust fellow man to a certain point? Of course I do. I am, contrary to the belief of many, not a hermit. Thus, trusting my fellow man is required to a low degree. I trust that when I go to the store, fellow man will have stocked the shelves with food for me to purchase. I trust fellow man to walk past me on the street and acknowledge my existence if I accost her (I envision "fellow man" to be a female, despite her mannish name). I expect fellow man to be everywhere when I walk into my living room, into class, or drive down the freeway. I trust fellow man not to physically harm me, even though she has failed even at this simple task several times. I trust fellow man to do whatever she must to get by in the world. For I am nothing but another fellow man in her eyes. Occasionally, I let a fellow man into my life. Perhaps she and I are neighbors, classmates, roommates, grade school friends, or mutual Cardinal hopefuls. Any of these or nearly anyone else. In either case, sometimes a fellow man is welcomed into my life. I tell these few, unlucky fellow men who have stumbled into my life many of what they consider to be my strangest thoughts. I don't know what I want. Nor does my fellow man. Fellow man claims to want to know why I won't let her further into my life. Recently I have allowed fellow man to catch a glimpse of my true thoughts. She was frightened, petrified, and immediatey recoiled. Fellow man has failed me again. What do I do? I treat fellow man like who she is. A stranger. Fellow man is not to be trusted, along with the French. Here's to you, fellow man. Welcome to my blog.
Is it time to muse upon my current state of mind? All one of my current readers (including myself) vote "yes"! It's unanimous, then. Several years ago I lost a certain trust in my fellow man. Am I willing to trust this devious "fellow man" with my real thoughts and opinions? The answer, since at least age 15, has been no. Do I trust fellow man to a certain point? Of course I do. I am, contrary to the belief of many, not a hermit. Thus, trusting my fellow man is required to a low degree. I trust that when I go to the store, fellow man will have stocked the shelves with food for me to purchase. I trust fellow man to walk past me on the street and acknowledge my existence if I accost her (I envision "fellow man" to be a female, despite her mannish name). I expect fellow man to be everywhere when I walk into my living room, into class, or drive down the freeway. I trust fellow man not to physically harm me, even though she has failed even at this simple task several times. I trust fellow man to do whatever she must to get by in the world. For I am nothing but another fellow man in her eyes. Occasionally, I let a fellow man into my life. Perhaps she and I are neighbors, classmates, roommates, grade school friends, or mutual Cardinal hopefuls. Any of these or nearly anyone else. In either case, sometimes a fellow man is welcomed into my life. I tell these few, unlucky fellow men who have stumbled into my life many of what they consider to be my strangest thoughts. I don't know what I want. Nor does my fellow man. Fellow man claims to want to know why I won't let her further into my life. Recently I have allowed fellow man to catch a glimpse of my true thoughts. She was frightened, petrified, and immediatey recoiled. Fellow man has failed me again. What do I do? I treat fellow man like who she is. A stranger. Fellow man is not to be trusted, along with the French. Here's to you, fellow man. Welcome to my blog.
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