Dispatch from a Dream

         We've all witnessed some curious things, because the world is littered with them. Life itself is one big curious phenomenon. When I think of some of the things that have made me step back with dilated pupils, and wonder in my heart, one incident from my childhood sticks out.
         Check this out. It's a cloudy 1994 day. The era of the overalls with the straps down and discmans and bandanas. Am seven years old and just learned to ride a bike a few weeks prior. So, am stoked about bike-riding, naturally; I want to hop on the bike of every guest that comes to our house. I want to ride every damn bike I can find. Today my friend Oscar tells me that his dad has gone on a trip for a few days, so I convince him to steal his bike so we can go ride. I don't think he'd even consider it but he does. So now we find ourselves here - inside my friend's dad's garage - about to steal. The inside of the garage is the color of a soul drained of all goodness. The unblinking eyes of the solitary window look out into the backyard, where a hen and her five chicks peck away, oblivious of our plans. A dank smell of half burnt firewood mixed with the sweet smell from the earth hangs in the air around us, poking its fingers in our noses. I remember that smell, because it is the smell that has come to define garages for me.
         We've just unlocked the bike when it begins to rain outside, and next we hear approaching footsteps and voices. We go quiet. The footsteps stop on the verandah. It's Oscar's uncle and a friend come to shelter from the rain. they're not aware we're in here, so we keep still and wait it out.
         Oscar's uncle is a quiet man. To me he carries a certain loneliness about him, slung over his shoulder, that he never puts down. I've known him since I was a baby but I do not believe I've heard him speak more than twenty words total. Even around people he's always quiet, in his own little world. He talks only to his thoughts. So imagine my shock when from my hiding on the other side of the wall I hear Mr. Quiet Uncle crack jokes and narrate to his friend a story of a dream he said he had in black and white just the previous night. Now, I know how bullshit looks; I can tell it from a crowd in the dark. I smell major bullshit here and now...so what do I do? I turn to look at Oscar, as though to ask "why is your uncle making shit up, buddy?"...but the  look that passes between us is so long and unrelieved that I feel it like a bar in the air; something that would stop you if you tried to walk through it. Nothing is said. But after a moment, he cups his hands around his mouth and whispers in my ear, "It's true...I heard him tell it to my mom in the morning."
         In this dream everything is in black and white, like in a 40's world war newsreel, and he's a giraffe by the name of Chichi. He's tall and lanky like a ball player. Looms over everyone, like a Swede. He chews cud, which he says feels like rubber. The story gets better because he describes a scene where he's chilling with friends and because of their height they can see through third or fourth floor windows what people are doing in their apartments. And they're giggling and high-fiving each other about it. I should pause here and mention, before I get sucked in any deeper, that homeboy can tell a story. Give it to him. He weaves it like a Persian carpet. He starts to narrate and do you know what you want to do? You want to close your eyes. You want to listen with the blinds drawn over them because then you see the narrative build in your mind. You watch it unspool in black and white from a solitary word. And as if by magic, you watch other words appear and walk with the first word, holding hands, and then more words. And before long you see a dance of words. The words curtsy and shimmer; do a little moonwalk. The narrative encroaches its way to the four corners of the canvas before your very mind's eye. You miss nothing. And this, coming from someone you've never heard utter more than a few words, moves like a force of nature.. 
           
         It left a strong impression on me, that story. It stepped into me mighty hard and rearranged things. And for the longest time it sat at the top of the pile for me as far as dreams go, defying time like a sphinx. But we all know that time is like a hurricane, don't we? Sweeps you up when it gets to you - even in your defiance - so that the only way to defy time is to comply. So last night while I slept I complied. There was a sweep-up. I had a dream that knocked homeboy's old black and white dream story off its high perch, and now there's a new heir to that throne.

          It was horrible, though - this dream of mine. It broke my heart. And it felt so unbelievably real I was embarrassed while I dreamt. Ever felt that? You know how the dream gods sometimes decide to pull your leg while you’re knocked out and craft something so true to detail, so real-looking that when they finally slip it into your sleeping head you freak out? That was me last night. They made me endure a walk of shame through the streets. And it seemed everyone in town was invited to my parade.

          Now listen, these folks in the dream who came to watch me didn’t simply show up; they showed up strong: entire families - kids, parents, grandparents, great grandparents. Even ancestors turned up [or is it turnt up?]. I saw a few ancient-looking fellows who seemed like they’d draw a complete blank if you leaned over and asked what blue-tooth is, or internet or a selfie. They must have been ancestors, no doubt. Neighbors came, friends came, associates came, which is to say that everyone came. I remember seeing some pets there too, from the corner of my eye as I plonked along - those designer dogs that everybody has these days.

          Anyway, isn’t it funny how those dogs always think they’re so tough, attempting to put the fear of God in you, barking at you in their little whiny voices while they stand at a safe distance tethered on a belt? Or is it just me?

          One evening, though, last summer one of these little guys scared my buddy Big Head so bad, man. My buddy’s real name is Tim but we all call him Big Head Brother or simply Big Head. A good sport; he loves the name. Big happy guy, built like an oak-tree, with a pair of big strong hands, a head the size of Zimbabwe and thick eyebrows. Dude can bench like crazy, you don’t want to mess with him. He benches something like 650 pounds or some crazy number like that. Sick, right? But you wait till you see his handwriting. You’ll laugh so loud. I’ve always felt somewhat embarrassed reading those little notes he slips under the door when he stops by and nobody’s home. My man Big Head writes so tiny you almost see the letters on the page bow their heads in shame when you open to read. And that is something I’ve never quite wrapped my head around seeing as how everything about him comes in a big gush, in big generous portions, you know? Listen to him tell a joke, for instance, then watch him fill a room with his laughter from the same joke, the sound of it like the rush of many rivers.

          So on this day we are walking back to my apartment. We’d gone to play pool at the bar. Late afternoon. Dusk is creeping around our shoulders. We’re exchanging banter as we go, talking loud. Down the street is this house whose residents are forever hanging out on the porch. Always talking or drinking beer or roasting something or other, and their dogs always goofing around in the yard. Big Head and I are walking past this house. We can hear voices on the porch but we’re not paying them any mind; there could as well be dinosaurs on that porch but we wouldn’t be interested.

          Suddenly, without warning, Big Head lets out a shrill shriek and jumps up in panic, really knocking the wind off of me in the process, and before I can register what’s going on dude’s about nine-ten meters ahead, dashing like mad, an itty-bitty white terrier giving chase. Took me a moment to dust my thoughts and put them back together, really. And now I remember that the dog turned and gave up after about four-five meters of giving chase, after it became clear that she wasn’t catching the man; not at that speed of his. And I remember seeing something of a dog smile plastered on her face as she trotted back, and a little spring on her step. Walking like a champ, little bitch. Probably saying This is my pond. I run shit around here and y’all better watch out!!! I gave her this evil side-eye as she walked past me, my whole body seething with so much fury seeing as how the whole porch had ruptured in laughter when my boy ran for dear life. My ego was more than bruised; it was punctured, and I was ready to start world war 3 right there. But I remembered the words of Romans 12:19 yo, “Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord”. And just like that I took the high road home, albeit with a heavy heart.

          You think Big Head stopped somewhere to wait for me to catch up, right? Well, let me burst your little bubble real quick cuz’ ain’t nothing like that happened. I was almost home before I caught up with the brother. I was literally in our parking lot, and I was too upset from the incident to even ask but he explained it anyway. Said he was walking slowly so I could catch up to him. I didn’t believe his ass. I think the guy ran all the way home.

          Let me get back to my dream.

          Look, I don’t know where to start this but in the dream I have gone to watch at a football match at this fine stadium overlooking the sea. The beauty of dreams is something of a wonder we’ll never really wrap our hands around for sure. You can smell the brine in the air. I can’t tell now where all this is happening but I know the streets well. I live here and I’ve come to this stadium before - a huge facility built like a Roman colosseum, and usually packed to the rafters during home games. Today is no different and the weather couldn’t be nicer. The sky is sea-blue and the sun is all eyes on us. From a good seat you’d even see little boats in the distance, with white sails out in the sun-kissed water. Horns are blowing, banners are swaying in the wind and the whole vibe around the stadium is festive and gay. If happiness could talk it would fill the whole sea-blue sky with a deafening roar from this place.

          Am seated several rows down, just a few from the main field. And about twelve or thirteen seats in. The game is on.

          We’re all happy people inside this stadium, cheering our team on, beating the drums of war, hi-fiving each other, and our team is really taking it to them, I tell you. Right now you could even reach over and grab someone’s beer and drink it and they’d hi-five you and perhaps even snap a quick selfie with you. The bonhomie is on steroids. Suddenly I feel an urge to use the bathroom. Yes. But I ignore it. My people never gave in easily to simple urges like those at a time like this. Nope. Not when there was an issue at hand more pressing. Like a home game going on. To give in just chipped something off of us, stooped us a little, you know. So I stood my ground like a Viking, waited for the Mexican wave to arrive and rose up with my men as the ripple heaved and rolled past us, a giant surge like a mighty river sweeping over us. On any other day you’d feel the wave carry you on its belly as it passed because, truth be told, this thing is a beast. You’d feel peace in your heart, like you swallowed a piece of heaven. But today is not that day. What I feel is a tight wringing in the lower part my stomach, like long knives digging in and twisting my intestines, turning them inside out. I sit it out for a few minutes but the thing is killing me; I can’t follow the game. I can’t think. And if I wait a few more minutes I might begin to forget my name. My rectum is struggling to hold fort now, like the last band of fledgling fighters holding out against a marauding army of an evil emperor, the last hopes of a people.

          So I say to myself hey, I can always talk to my people; they’re reasonable folk and I rise up to go.

          It gets a little murky here because am relying on recollection. But ever heard someone say they were caught flat-footed on Mrs. Odongo’s avocado farm? Huh? Or that something hit them like a train? Well, I found myself smack in the middle of what felt like a five-train collision. I cannot remember, honestly, how it happened. Such agony smack you so hard and fast you cannot keep up with the sequence of events. I only know that somewhere along the way as I climbed the stairs towards the exit my rectum let go. Set down both sword and shield, and bowed in defeat. And the world, for me, went black. Like the ass of a snake. Everything stopped. The world held its breath. And in that moment I just floated away. Not for long, though, for even the gods have a sense of humor.

          When I come to it, am draped in diarrhea like you wouldn’t believe. Am marinated in it, and everyone’s looking at me some type of way. Some are screaming at me for splashing poop on their popcorn or their shoes or their kid’s toy; some are dying of mirth; some are shaking their heads, wondering whether there lived a greater loser than this, but most just watch, paralyzed by what they just saw, still trying to fathom how the gods could be so cruel. There’s this one guy who comes to within inches of my face and screams, “Get out of our stadium you pooping jackass… you got shit on my jersey you sonovabitch!” and I show him the cool, collected guy holding a packet of messed up popcorn who, in my view, should have been complaining more but wasn’t.

          To be honest I don’t know how it came out but it must have been fighting like mad, just considering the splashes it left on my face and on the clothes of the people standing nearby and on a few terrace seats next to where I stand. The floor it hit like a ballistic missile; it nearly cracked it. Most of it ended on me, though, naturally, on my thighs and calves down to my shoes, which, when I walk, emit this wet sploshy sound.

          My pants are a mess. They look like a soiled baby diaper, saggy as a sail.

          The most embarrassing bit was the walk home. I drove here but for some reason I walk back. In dreams you do dumb shit but they somehow make sense then. This is the longest walk I ever took. The distance seems to stretch without end, and time with it. It feels like a lifetime of walk. On either side of the street are people craning their necks, watching and whispering in each other’s ears, capping their mouth - gossiping me - and spectating and booing and chanting. Everybody and their mama is here. This is where the party is at. And then there is me in the middle of the street – the main man, the star attraction of this show, treading like a sick mule, a riot of shit and stink.

          I understand that in these parts the last time a man soiled his pants the way I did mine was back when bell-bottom pants were still the rave. That is to say that a lot of these young folk gathered here weren’t even born yet. Apparently dude had on one of them bell-bottom pants when his insides dropped ball and catapulted him to fame (or infamy, depending on your philosophical bent); that’s the whisper doing rounds here. But, at least, for the poor guy, he was genuinely ill. It is said he was waiting at the lobby to see a doctor who was, at that time, at the back of the building smoking. What is my excuse?

          Am just glad I woke up before I soiled my bed for real…because sometimes the wily hands of dream over-reach the boundaries of sleep and into our beds. You’ll think you’re pissing in the bathroom in your dream when you’re, in fact, pissing in your bed. And that right there is the danger we’re forever condemned to every time we close our eyes to sleep. Which, I think, makes sleep a poisoned chalice, no?

Meeting Xing

You meet him so often you’ve taken notice. He's a man whose presence tiptoes around things, a man who will walk into a room and no one will notice, a man who even in public seems to claim less than his fair share of space. He's the kind of person that the mind easily forgets. So to notice him, for you, is something special. You’ve noticed, for instance, that the side pocket zipper of his backpack bag is broken, that he keeps to the right edge of the pavement and walks in a straight line and that he has a scar behind his left ear, which you first mistook for a tattoo of a crescent. Mostly, you’ve noticed that he’s a man of incredible regularity and who keeps to his schedule like clockwork. Even the way he walks - how he plants his left foot ahead and then the right – is so regular and timed you’d think his feet respond to a beat, to a metronome planted somewhere in his head. A symmetric rhythm. You see him every evening when you go for your runs or take your walks. He’s become a feature of your landscape, a monument, a landmark. Him and his blue bag.

You used to pass each other like ships in the dark. Now you say hello and jog on. Or walk on. You’ve become acquaintances of sorts. Sometimes you pass and when moments later you look back, what do you see? Him keeping that regular pace of his, looking down at his little feet, plodding ahead, going home. To his family. To his dog. To his video game. To his book perhaps. He reminds you of drive.

Secretly you call him Xing because, hell, dude looks Chinese. He might not be but he looks like one. Often times you've tried to imagine how he’d react if one day instead of your usual hellos and how-are-yous you said, “Mr. Xing, sorry to disrupt your walk but I really do like your scarf. May I know where you purchased it if you don't mind...I’d love to get me one like that.” 

Now, homeboy's phone might ring at this point, "The" Nokia tune that you know so well because your first ever phone was a Nokia, an ugly thing the shape of a Lifebuoy soap, which despite its ugliness you adored like the light of a new sun. He will raise his finger to motion to you to allow him answer it first, then he'll reach into his blue bag and grab it. “Salome, mia dakika apar kende abiro. Pod wach moro omaka kae matin,” he'll say, which will knock the wind clean out of you and perhaps push you to take a step from the concrete pavement into the grass. And have you reach out for the street-lamp post to support yourself and catch some breath because you’ll feel a little dizzy and short of air. Naturally, he'll step into the grass too, out of concern and he’ll ask if you’re okay, if he should call an ambulance for you. You’ll say you are dandy but in your heart of hearts you’ll know you lied to your friend here. Later, though, while you lie in bed in your apartment going over the incident in your mind you'll say to yourself that the lie served him right for pulling a coup de surprise on your ass the way he did...what if he killed you? He'll put the phone back into the bag and say, “Sorry man, am not Xing. They call me Onyango Rabet Sibuor Owadgi Awino,”Holy bag of shit. This is when a weaker man might take off.

Maybe he will not tell you anything. Maybe he’ll stop dead on his tracks and look straight into your eye and not utter a word the whole time. Now, let me tell you something about that look of his. There are looks that break a man in two, if you know what I mean. Looks that say shut the fuck uuup!!!. Mothers are known to go for them when they’ve had enough of your horseplay; that evil side-eye that pins you down and suffocates you in three seconds flat. Homeboy's look here is that kind times fifty four thousand; it leaves you feeling scorched lovely. You'll feel the gaze penetrate you with a fever-dream slowness and you’ll wish you never said the X word but that won't matter; t'will be too late.  You’ll be embarrassed something awful. Little beads of sweat will gather in your face and armpits and your back too, perhaps. And he'll stand there not taking his eyes off you for a full minute. And your head will be bowed in defeat like you’re the victim of an Isis beheading orgy, looking at your feet and noticing for the first time that your shoes have aged some. You won’t know what to do with your hands so you’ll bury them in your pockets and keep them buried...and wait. After what will seem to you like a lifetime he'll walk away.

Maybe he’ll tell you his name is Shao, not Xing and you’ll be like, “Sure Shao I apologize; I don’t know why my friend Xing keeps leaping into my head today” like liars everywhere. And he’ll say no problem no problem (twice), seeing clean through your lie. Bad start. Another guy might not like you for being so shameless but Shao is not that other guy. Shao will see a friend in you and invite you to hang out during the weekend which you’ll agree to and while you hang out with him and Ming (his girlfriend) that weekend he will launch into a little life story. You'll get to know him a little better: that he first came to the United States two years ago to visit an uncle in New York; that he stayed a month and visited Seattle and San Francisco and D.C. and The Grand Canyon as well. And that when his visit was over he decided he liked the experience and wanted to come back. That he went back to Beijing and sent applications to several colleges but got rejected by all but one, the one he almost didn’t apply to in the first place. Here, his voice will trail a little and take a small bow and Ming will reach over and rub his arm ever so gently. You will notice that he did indeed looove America because he will talk about her the way one talks about a lover – in a manner more touch than sound, like it’s something for the heart alone. Something to be felt. He will compare America and China and comment on many varied things, words spilling out of him like bats flying from their cribs at dusk to chase the sun. He’ll say that Donald Trump is an asshole. And you’ll laugh then ask if he has friends who’re down with Trump but your question will hang above the room unnoticed because Ming will already be telling a story about this Goth group she recently joined that is Oh my God... total gold dust!. Shao will then ask you about yourself, which will strike you as one of those unintentionally broad and unanswerable questions. Now, I don’t know about you but how do you answer a question like: tell me about yourself or who are you?  Being ever so quick on the draw, you’ll string words together and give to him and hope his Chinese ass asks no more questions. Ming. Ming will surprise you. She'll pussyfoot into the living room at some point holding a half-rolled blunt and ask if you smoke. She'll say it with so much charm, in that silvery voice of her's, you'll feel tempted to consider the offer but you'll say, politely of course, that you don't. And what will she do? Quote a Wiz Khalifa line about how not smoking pot takes your country a whole generation back and then some. No, she'll rap the whole damn song line for line while she lights the joint before she takes a puff. She'll then pass it to Shao. And as she waits for him to pass the joint back she'll pull her sleeve up and show you a tattoo of Wiz Khalifa's album title Rolling Papers. A die-hard fan. A certified stoner and rap enthusiast. Shao will tell you that Sundays he likes to eat noodles and go downtown to play pingpong with buddies of his: Guang, Cheng, Hong, Mani and another dude -Park - who you'll remember because he sold you a bike on craigslist weeks ago.

Maybe Xing will straight out ignore you. Maybe he’ll have had a bad day and feels kinda bitchy. And doesn’t take too kindly to being stopped on the way home by funny looking evening running halfwits to answer to questions about scarves. You will stand there watching him walk away, you feeling rejected and him walking faster than you ever saw him do. Then he’ll look back at some point and you’ll think to yourself “Xing sure got attitude today”...then you'll get back to your running.

The Neighbor Downstairs

        There’s something about hammocks. Something uninhibited and hip. And urban cool and artsy, like a graffiti mural. And perhaps a bit rebellious as well. Something that would wear a t-shirt emblazoned “fuck you” in bold letters to a protest march and wave a placard and show big brother the middle finger when occasion called, on the one hand...but also don a million dollar designer suit like the godfather when business calls, on the other. A deep well. Whenever I see a hammock I think chutzpah. Guts. I think rakishness, like walking up to your boss when you don't dig your hustle and saying, "I quit!!!" Hell, that takes some nerve but it's mad sexy. It shows character. For the longest time I've wanted to own a hammock like mad! Abraham Maslow must have lain on one when he wrote the Hierarchy of Needs. That’s because lying on a hammock gives you ideas. It is a statement. It says I have arrived.

        This here is not about hammocks, though. It is a story about my neighbor who owns one and reads an author by the name of Mario Vargas Llosa, and the Spanish bible. I looked that author up; he’s a big deal.  Real big deal. A kahuna. See, I stay next to a little recreational park where folks with a bit of spare time come and make merry and unwind. And so I get to see what shit park goers do. My back window [those long French windows that slide] opens into a little porch where you can chill like royalty and feel lazy and have no eff to give [I’ve always wanted to say that, hehe]. That’s where am sitting right now. Across the street is the park. Enough of that; back to my neighbor, will we? I don’t know her real name because I’ve never asked. All we say when we meet is hi-hi [which is boring and uncreative]. The rest of our language is silence; stiff silence, the kind you can cut with a butcher’s knife and step back and watch blood ooze beautifully out of. I think it’s just me she’s afraid of because I hear her sing sometimes when I sit in my apartment doing my work. Or when she laughs. Or when she fights with her boyfriend who comes around quite a bit. I stay on the floor right above hers. Whenever they fight I stop to listen because it’s beautiful. I never heard anyone cuss more colorfully. Her cussing is truly a work of art. I know Boyfriend a little: a tall geeky-looking guy with ruddy cheeks and a permanent look of shock like someone who's seen the buttocks of a snake. Always in skinny pants and those huge-rimmed glasses that geeky folk like to wear. Something about him looks funny or odd in them glasses...I don't get it. I see him at the bars sometimes chasing tail like crazy.

        I know I did say that I don’t know Girlfriend’s name but I secretly call her Katarina [Everyone needs a name]. She looks like one to me. And Katarina is a solid name, if you ask me. And slyly affectionate. Katarina. The sound of it opens the windows of a room, like the first four notes of a hymn. Any room. It belongs to the kind of girl that wears comfortable leather shoes and sports a thin watch and walks like she's her own best thing. With a self-belief like you wouldn't believe. A girl that crosses her legs, leans her elbow on her knees and leans in towards your face when she gets seriously passionate about Pope Francis or Mother Teresa. One who sends you a handwritten letter signed off: Take care dearly!!!, with a heart sign at the end. Am told Katarina in Greek means ‘pure’ but homegirl probably doesn’t even know it because she doesn’t speak Greek; she speaks Spanish.

        Saturday afternoons when it’s warm Katarina walks across the street to the park. She walks in a neat line, a bee-line, clad in a loose floral beach dress and sandals the color of an ox’s heart, her hammock draped over her shoulder like a flag. One hand holds a bottle of something and the other a book. She’s a girl on a mission. After she ties the ends of her hammock to two adjacent tree stems she slips off her sandals and mounts the hammock barefoot like a prophet stepping into a hallowed place – with reverence. That’s when we lose her because from now on she belongs to Mario Vargas Llosa. Mario has her and Mario takes her places we cannot take her and she, in turn, gives herself completely to Mario so that if a wasp were to land on the bridge of her nose it would have to sting her before she’d even be aware it was sitting there. Her face lights up and the corners of her mouth curl into a smile sometimes; Mario must be hell of a funny dude. Occasionally, she reaches for her bottle and takes a swig.

         Now, wouldn’t you know, Friday two weeks ago I woke up in the living room of my apartment feeling like I’d been stepped on by a migrating horde of wildebeests in the Mara? I would have been there all night if the folks in the apartment below hadn’t been having themselves a big old fight at three in the morning. I was startled awake and I was too fried to move, at least right away. Boyfriend was trying to snake Girlfriend, saying he needed space, and she was like, Motherfucker, I’ll give you all the space you need. I already mentioned Boyfriend’s little Rico Suave routine at the bars, didn’t I? Am sure he just needed more space to cheat. Fine, he said, but every time he went for the door Girlfriend got to crying and would be like, Why are you doing this?

        By the time Boyfriend got himself into the hallway I was already in the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I was thirsty. Girlfriend would not stop crying. Twice she stopped, she must have heard me moving around right above her and both times I held my breath until she started up again. I followed her into the bathroom, the two of us separated by a floor. She kept saying something in Spanish that I couldn’t make out, and washed her face over and over again. Now that I think about it I feel bad. I feel horrible for eavesdropping. I feel like shit.

        Next day I told my boy Kofi what happened and he said too bad for her. If I didn’t have my own women problems I’d say let’s go comfort the widow. I agree.

        Boyfriend came around a couple of times the next few days for his things and, I guess, to finish the job. He is a confident prick. He would listen to what she had to say, arguments that had taken her hours to put together, and then he would say it didn’t matter, he needed his space, period. Then she’d let him know her [in the Biblical sense, of course] every time, perhaps hoping that it would make him stay. And you smelled the desperation oozing out of that apartment, her clutching at this guy, her fears rising to the heavens. And you know what’s shabby? The way they talked after. About their beautiful past. About how cool they were together and how they're gonna lose all that. And how it wouldn't be the same again. And I’d think Man, this is sick. Put on your skinny pants and weird f**kin glasses and leave already, sonovabitch. F**k!!!

        I don’t know why I started following her life, but it seemed like a good thing to do. No, make that an interesting thing to do. Most of the time I think people, even at their worst, are pretty boring. But I guess I was already deep in this drama and might as well see it through. Stay and witness how she finds her way home from this harrowing, heart-rending angst. She was a girl lost and hurting and torn painfully apart, as everybody does sometimes.

        After one of their shags, Boyfriend never came back. No phone calls, no nothing. She called a lot of her friends, ones she hadn’t spoken to in the longest. Girlfriend spent a lot of her time crying, either in the bathroom or in front of the TV. She was wrecked. She even stopped singing those bachata songs she sang before. It was absolutely jarring.

        Last weekend I got the cojones to ask her up for coffee, which was mighty manipulative of me. I met her at the laundry room. She hadn’t had much human contact since skinny pants left, so what was she going to say? No? She actually seemed glad to finally speak to someone. I was surprised to see her looking sharp and colorful. I thought she’d be teary and miserable-looking and shit. She said she’d be right up and when she sat across from me on the kitchen table she had on makeup and a gold necklace.

“You have a lot more light in your apartment than I do,” she said…which was a fair call because what I have plenty of in my apartment is light. We drank a pot of coffee and she played some songs on my laptop, which I had brought to the kitchen. I had heard her listen to these songs down there. Good songs. We didn’t have much to talk about. She was depressed and tired and I had the worst gas of my life, God. Twice I had to excuse myself. Twice in an hour. She must have thought that bizarre as hell but both times I came out of the bathroom she was staring deeply into her coffee, the way fortune tellers do. Crying all the time had made her more beautiful. Grief will do that sometimes. Not for me, though. She walked over to the potted plant that I have in my living room and plucked a leaf and smelled it and smiled.

“Do you smoke?” I asked.

“I don’t. Am a Jew. Do you?” she replied.

“Well, it makes me sleepwalk and pick fights…so I generally stay away from it.” I don't know what bit of that response she found funny but she just cracked up like a female hyena making away with a carcass.

“Honey will stop that. It’s an old cure. Just take a teaspoon a night.”

“Really!? T'will stop the sleepwalking or the fighting?"

"Both."

"Ok, am down if you say so.” 

        She told me she’s Elizibet [hehehe...what!!!]. Well, you folks out there who butcher names, please don’t butcher this one. Please. Ever seen those notices they put in libraries that say DO NOT RE-SHELVE BOOKS. A MIS-SHELVED BOOK IS A LOST BOOK…? Same with names. A butchered name is a wasted name. So guys it’s not Elizabeth, Olisabeth…hell, it’s not Liz, for those who like fancy.  It’s simply Elizibet, from Cuba. Ladies and gentlemen. My neighbor, the hammock owner!

The Wait

It is 2:03 am

He turns off the car headlights; not the  engine. The engine is still revving - a low, soft purr, like an animal’s. His mind is not on it right now. He reaches to the backseat for his bottle of vodka, the one he carried from the bar when he stepped out. It’s halfway done. He makes to open it but he changes his mind and places it on the car’s cup holder next to his seat. He lights a cigarette instead, his tenth in under an hour, and closes his eyes. He has always said to himself that closing his eyes makes him one with the smoke. Makes them bond at a deeper level, helps him meditate same way that monks recede to a monastery to engage with their spirituality in a place of quiet and solitude. He takes a long drag at the cigarette. Smoke fills his soul. Without opening his eyes he reaches for the button on the side of the door and lowers the window and lets smoke crawl out of his nose and the corners of his pursed mouth into the cold, chilly night in a lazy trail. He sits still. The cigarette smolders in a dull ember between his fingers. It’s almost soulful, almost visceral, the glow.

He slowly, even achingly opens his eyes and looks at the lights of the city in the distance. At 2am the city is asleep, but again the city is unlike you and me. It’s a different animal. A part of it never sleeps. And that’s the part that tells its story. A plane flies over the city now. It looks like a fire fly from here. It descends and disappears in the smorgasbord of lights and buildings. He can see lights move, which must be the city traffic. An earlier drizzle had left the air a little heavy with moisture and so from here the lights look like miniature blobs. Sometimes they look like spread-out dots of light that flicker and dull, as though breathing. He looks away.

In his car, at the edge of a cliff overlooking a massive ravine. That’s where he is. This is a place that tourists like to come to. Perhaps that’s because of its breath-taking view of the ravine that slopes miles and miles below in endless vastness and rock and vegetation and just plain old unadulterated beauty, raw and naked, like a caveman.  And then there’s the city sitting on the other side, solemn, looking in as though sighing to the beauty of the ravine. The view is so off the charts you’d think it’s a prank. And tourists come here, I guess, not just to take pretty pictures on expensive cameras but also to find themselves. This place helps you find yourself. There’s a presence about it that goes beyond the ephemeral; a presence bigger than life. You get the feeling that you're breaking bread with the gods, sitting here. Or perhaps that you've kissed a mermaid. It’s deeply humbling. Thoroughly grounds you. God should live here. He drove out here tonight for that magic, and who's worthy to blame him?

Now he reaches for the bottle of vodka next to him and chases the smoke down his lungs with a long swig. His throat burns but it makes him alive and he doesn’t miss the irony. Nothing matters anymore, and that’s why he is sitting in his car at the edge of a bloody ravine at 2 in the morning, getting wasted. Tears sting his eyes and he bites his lower lip, daring them not to come because even in this moment he still wants to maintain a level of dignity. He tries hard not to cry. He stares defiantly at the dark void, which is what the ravine looks like at night. He stares out into the distance and fails to see the beautiful sleeping city. It’s a smudge of lights. His eyes sometimes linger on a speck of light in the fringes of the city and he imagines someone sitting in that house watching a late night show, filling out a job application, packing up for an early morning journey by bus, eating a late meal, reading the dying chapters of a novel, tossing in bed. Life continues in seclusion of his woes, it dawns on him.

He had come home in the evening, today after work, and had changed into his work-out gear and gone out to the gym. After working out he had then taken a long, warm shower – longer than always – and then trimmed his side-burns and moustache and applied some aftershave. He had looked himself in the mirror, made faces, imitated his pot-bellied supervisor Mr. “Yay Yay” making a speech, and laughed. Mr. YY (as they all call him) giving a speech is the funniest thing you ever saw. It’s stuff of legend. He then had put on a pair of khaki pants and a gray polo shirt. No belt. He had crowned this look with his favorite coat, a brown corduroy coat. He loved that coat a lot, a present from his cousin Leah, the only person who seemed to give a shit. It’s a fancy coat. You know the type you see models don on fashion runways. Yeah, Leah has tremendous style. On his way out of the house, he had decided to throw on a scarf because it was chilly. Then he had looked around the house one last time and killed the lights before heading downtown to Plato’s for some on the rocks.

Now he sits here. He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out his wallet. He has a photo of his son. The last time he saw him his mother was dragging him away from him, screaming profanities at him. That was 6 years ago. He must be a big boy now, he thinks. He wonders what’s going on in his life. He sure misses the boy. He feels his heart sink. He continues to flip through his wallet; he has a credit card and two debit cards. There’s a business card with a name he can’t place. He thinks for a minute then tosses it away into the night. He then tosses away his debit and credit cards, one by one, and watches then float down and disappear in the grayness of the night. He has some money in the wallet, not much but enough to buy dinner at a decent restaurant. He tosses away these as well. He thinks to toss away his wallet too, with all its remaining contents, but he kills this thought. He places the wallet on the co-driver’s seat then takes a deep breath to calm his jittery nerves.

It’s 2:54 am

He grabs his phone from his coat pocket and calls the one person who would take his calls at this time of the night. The phone rings a long time and when he’s about to hang up she answers. “Hey,” she sounds sleepy, whoozy.

“Hey, Leah,” he mumbles, “sorry to call you so late…”

“What’s up, everything fine?”

“Yeah, am home. Just struggling to sleep,”

“What time is it?” she asks, sounding like she’s turning in bed.

“Two!?...or maybe three!? Am not so sure. Am sor…”

“Not so sure, huh? Thanks for waking me up!” she scolds.

“Listen, I just wanted to say that I won’t be able to see you tomorrow. Something’s come up,” he says.

“And this couldn’t wait until morning? Anyway, let me know when you are open…at a decent hour.”

He manages a little laugh.

“Leah?”

“Yeah?”

Brief pause.

“Never mind. You have a good sleep. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Sure, talk to you tomorrow. Get some sleep. Goodnight.”

When he hangs up his lips start trembling.

Time check: 2.56 am

He feels like someone’s seated in the car somewhere, watching him go through this. He’s sweating now. He feels a thudding in his heart that almost shakes him. A tattoo of death. He feels pain over that thud, like a punch. But mostly he feels fear, a potent and evil hand that grasps his heart and squeezes. He thought getting drunk would offer a shield from these sensations he now feels: the harrowing anxiety of the wait as the clock runs down, the twitching of his muscles, the angst in the pit of his belly. The hollowness. He feels dread, and dread feels like death. As the hour nears he feels ever more empty, like someone has dredged purpose from his inside. The last year has been nasty alright but what he feels now is only matched by the profound sense of rhetoric that the whole scenario has unfolded to become. He looks at his life – what he has done, what he wishes he did. He wishes he was a part of his son’s life and a drop of tear begins to run down his face over the beads of sweat. He wipes it with the inside of his palm. He loves his job, though. And he’s mighty good at it. He’s a fine journalist, something of a superstar in his field. A force of nature. This is the apex of creativity sitting up here in the middle of nowhere at an ungodly hour drinking hard Russian liquor and freezing his tits off -the very best - he thinks with half a smile.

He thinks of his brother who works at the stock exchange market in Gaborone. He wonders what he’s doing right now. He wonders what he’ll be doing when they call him to tell him about him. He thinks of his estranged wife; how evil she is. He wonders what he saw in her. It saddens him that he could have been so wrong about her, so blinded by her phony demeanor. He thinks of the music he enjoyed listening to. “Diamonds on the sole of her shoes” by Ladysmith Black Mambazo and Paul Simon comes top of that list and yet he never really loved it that much. He always liked Tracy Chapman, everything about her: how she strum on that guitar, how she sang from somewhere deep, how her songs came through as though riding on the wings of a butterfly, soft as the soul. Wasn’t she a beauty? He loved her dreads and how shy she seemed. He purposefully avoids thinking about his mother, because he loves her insanely. It would sear his heart, it would make him numb. He thinks of Leah and a deep sense of loss washes over him.

At 2:58 am

He starts to cry. A soundless cry. More like a sob. His jaws clench and tears roll down his now cold cheeks. He cries in silence. He cries like a sheep facing the butcher’s knife. He weeps, softly, with dignity. He weeps the way you’d weep when someone is not watching. Last time he’d cried like this was 6 years ago, when she took his son away. That bitch! They’d broken him then but he wept like a man: with dignity. He owned his pain.

When the hour comes around, he is numb. He longs to be saved from himself. He remains a shell of a man. He remains void and pitiful. A deep fear takes over him and he cannot feel his hands. The fear of death. He stares out at the dead city yonder but he doesn’t see the lights anymore; it’s a black hole. A light, cold wind blows through because the car window isn’t rolled all the way up but to his ears the wind sounds like a dirge. He is a man besieged by his own choice and he dies even before death receives him.

He is no longer crying, he doesn’t need to because his die has been cast. He takes a last swig from his bottle, puts out his cigarette and tosses it away in the ash tray. He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t pray.

At 2:59am

His phone alarm buzzes. He pushes the gear lever to “drive”. He then closes his eyes and steps on the gas pedal to the floor. The vehicle rushes forward violently off the edge of the cliff and starts falling, hitting rocks as it goes tumbling down.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes. The ball has left his court. His fate is off his hands now. He feels the hand of death reaching out to him, cold as only death can be.

As he stumbles down he is unaware of the amount of pain he has already created. He is unaware that his only sibling, his brother, will crumble on the floor of his office and weep when he hears the news. He doesn’t know that his mother will be so shocked by the news she will plunge into a depression that she never quite recovers from. He doesn’t know that his buddy Joe, with whom he had a drink at Plato’s tonight, will blame himself for not having seen signs, any cracks. He doesn’t know that his father will turn in his grave with disappointment. He doesn’t know that his estranged wife will choke upon hearing the news, and cry herself sick. And Leah, oh poor Leah. She will play the last conversation in her head over and over. She will remember the labored, little laugh. The pause. She will remember the last words, “… take care of yourself, okay?” These immortal words will be the bricks to her citadel of guilt, a tall structure that will forever cast a shadow on her life. She will join a choir. Although they were close and she will miss him every day, she will hate him with equal passion, hate him for being selfish. And she will grow thin from thinking about him. His girlfriend of 3 months will refuse to believe the news. She’ll be in denial a long time. She will not know who he was. Everyone will be puzzled, unable to reconcile him with this. Question marks will stick out of everyone’s head.

He doesn’t know any of these as he falls.

The final moment is hazy and turbulent. It’s chaotic. He doesn’t open his eyes but he feels as though he’s rushing into something. Fear matters little now. The last thing he hears is a loud bang. It ends it all.

This is about Change...

If you are reading this you must have some access to the internet. You must, no doubt about that. If not, then you must be a witch. The kind that feeds on stories. Yeah, because how else could you have accessed this piece without going online? Yep, Witch. Now, I know too (and I can bet my fattest bull on this) that at least once in the recent past, you’ve heard someone next to you go off the rails about some stuff that just 20 years ago didn’t bother anyone. Some or other new-age ishhh that no one lost sleep over. The rant could have been about something mundane: their book that had run out of power, or about how they found it hard to believe that the hotel they’d checked into had Wi-Fi only in the lobby. Or maybe it was their bank. Maybe the bank, unlike other banks, had yet to develop an App that allowed customers a way to deposit checks from home through their mobile phones, and they were pissed about it. True, nobody cared about these things 15 years ago. Nobody gave a monkey's squirt. In fact, nobody talked about “Wi-Fi” or “Apps” 15 years ago. It was a language that people were generally deaf to. And if, by chance, you mentioned Wi-Fi or App people would have thought you were talking about those pets that folks walk out there in the streets when the sun takes a dip, like it was their nickname or something. They wouldn't have cared.

Today, however, they do. Reality is that the envelope has been pushed so far. We find ourselves at really close quarters with technology. So close that it’s extremely difficult to even turn without poking it in the butt somewhere. That, of course, makes it fun to be alive today no doubt, to be a part of the high society that man has relentlessly built over time, where you can hightail from a teargas-clouded street in Gaza to a front seat at the Maracanã in Rio, all at the touch of a button while you lie on a couch in your air-conditioned room in Maputo. It's like to kiss a mermaid. It's beauty. Tell me if Nero would not doubt Rome if he heard about this, or if word of a time like this would not have moved Christopher Columbus to a walk on the deck of the Santa Maria on a hot afternoon, nursing a cup of dulce de leche and I'll tell you who's crazier than a bat. It’s a bloody epic time to live.

Now assume, for shits and chuckles, that you have a friend – make it your best friend – who happens to stay across the city, on the other end of Maputo. [Maputo is where you reside for purposes of this story] You might be in the habit of hanging out at his crib most Saturday afternoons. That means a good deal of driving. Not too long ago you’d have had to master all the street names and numbers to your buddy’s place. You had to remember which street leads into which, where to make a left turn and where to make a right. Today though, you are not obligated to, at least if you are a lazy human being and keep your phone close by. Today the GPS App on your mobile phone takes care of your direction needs and you are freed to worry about other things. After you plug in the address to your buddy’s you can just sit back and let the robotic voice from your phone guide you there. And guide you back. The mobile phone has come of age and it is keen to make an impression. It is outdoing itself. Today your phone serves your every whim. The phone has even replaced the dog as man’s best friend. Yes. I know you ask How? That cannot be! Hehehe, that’s like standing at the beach and asking where the water is. I'll tell you why: your phone more than keeps you company; it serves you! It does everything for you. Well, nearly everything. It shows you directions to places, lets you surf the internet, records your mileage when you go out to run, wakes you up in the morning, reminds you to pay your bills...my goodness, that’s why! What it still doesn't do you can count on the fingers of one hand. It still does not tuck you in bed at night or scratch your back or give you a massage but…those too will come with time. No, I take that massage part back. They already do a bit of that. They massage some of our skittish egos. Hell, I think they do, just look around. Very soon they’ll start massaging our backs too. And I predict that that would be a hell of a spectacle. 

I think that's also the exact point where the proverbial plot starts to thicken on this. Hang on.

I read recently that Google is testing a self-driving car that might be released into the market sooner than you think. It might even be before you get to the end of this paragraph. It’s a car that will be able to drive you to Farmers’ Market across town while you chill in the backseat taking selfies and updating your Instagram like a boss, or whatever you choose to do back there. And when you get to Farmers’ Market I imagine a voice like the Jack Nicholson’s drawl will come through your speakers and announce, “You have arrived at your destination sir (or ma'am). Please stay seated while your car is looking for a parking spot.” I think a smile will escape your lips at this point. That's because your car serving you and addressing you in this manner will make you feel important. Yes, that time is nigh. And when it comes, there will be a change of roles, of man and machine. Man in the backseat and machine taking charge. Secretly, you will awe at the imagination that put it all together. This will be yet another edifice, another mark of high society – that place where fiction and reality converge and hug and melt into the same thing, where stuff that once lived in dreams only become substance and take shape and form, even acquire a smell and a character. And a touch of swag. It will be a long leap of faith. Important of all, it will leave you thinking, which is good, because thinking keeps you alive.

That said, I still cannot shake off the foreboding feeling of high scandal that I foresee come with that leap. High society is high scandal and, knowing this, the Google self-driving car is the kind of car I would dreaaaaad.  You’d have to tie me to a pole in the middle of an open market on a busy day and threaten to singe my nipples with a hot metal rod before I’d even come close to that car. Am not alone. Tell me: who would calmly sit there and trust a car to drive itself in the mad asylum that is our highways and not feel their stomach tighten somewhat? Point him out for me so I can beg for an autograph. He would have to be nuts, real real bananas. One would have to nurse a double-digit exponent of harrowing craziness to pull that ishh off, believe me. It’s a walk on thin ice, a daring provocation of fate. It’s scary as hell, noting the laughable fickleness of technology.

If the frontiers are stretched that far I’ll begin wearing mini-skirts and akala, I promise. Or I'll leave and you won’t see me. I’ll board a time vessel to the past. And am not referring to the swinging 70s with the bell bottom jeans and shirts that looked like a rainbow had thrown up on them. I mean a past so dim you’d have to squint your eyes to envision it, when names like Org and Zog still made sense.

Stuff must have been way simpler then. And forward. Vanity had not been invented yet. They didn’t say LMAO then...or even, what's that other one, TTYL. No. I imagine your typical life story played out something like this…

Birth...

There was none of that fan-fare leading to this oh-so-special moment. No one constantly hounding you and prodding, asking if you knew whether it was a boy or a girl…the information wouldn’t really do anyone any good. Think about it. Equipped with the knowledge of what was to come, what would happen? Would they stroll into a little gift shop and pick up a pink pebble or a blue boulder? The parents didn’t have to put up with the whole redecoration of the house thing either. My very educated guess is that you all slept together, you and your other folks; there was safety in numbers. The room was covered in stone. Painting was not a thing until much later. Sure, there were hieroglyphics and all that, but going out and making the room habitable essentially involved rearranging a couple of rocks, stepping back to admire your handiwork and glowing with delight.

D-day would be a non-event.

“Honey am home. I bring boy.”

“Great!” The end. No decorations splashed about creating the impression that you had in fact gone and outdone the Virgin Mary. It’s highly unlikely that there would be some relative waiting to see where the new member of the gang got its looks from. Given that razor blades had yet to be invented, you looked like just about all your relatives. That moustache could have been from your aunt Ira.

The part I haven’t figured is how the breastfeeding thing worked. I often wonder: did the prehistoric mothers execute it differently? Or is it one of those things that time has failed to defeat? Did they, much like mothers today, suddenly think: well, now would be a grand time to yank out a boob and slap Org’s face with it. Somewhere along the way instinct will kick in and he’ll open his mouth and give it a suck. I imagine the daddy must have looked away right at the moment when his baby began to suck, or he might have pretended to feel the blade of his flint stone, feigning to test its sharpness and whistling an empty tune.

The 1^st Birthday

Depending on how events played out during the year, this one would either be a cause for a big celebration…or great sadness. Rather than contend with the infamous childhood killer diseases like polio, measles and others, prehistoric families lived in the constant fear that a Pterodactyl would sneak into their houses, disguised as a birthing stork and feast on the fruit of their labour. Thus to make it to birthday number one suggested that you were special. You were either too heavy to be carried away by a stork or yours was a pure case of good fortune, the kind they call beginner’s luck. As such, you would likely be given a gift for getting this far ahead in life.

This was the hardest part of existence back then. After you aced it, the world was yours to conquer.

Morning Run. A Doctor. Facebook

They pour out of their abodes. They spill into the boulevards, sidewalks, running trails. They sweat. They tire. They pant and gasp for breath but they keep running, which is to say that what they do is hitched to something bigger than themselves – to a purpose, you might call it, a will. They run through the morning chill, breathing out steam into the crisp morning air. Each step for them is precious, brings them ever closer to that purpose, whatever it is. Some bring their pets along but some run alone, battling solo like lone wolves. They are invariably young, this latter group. And hip, and always have iPods strapped around their arms, and earphones plugged to their ears. They are here but they are elsewhere too, lost in the rhythms and melodies of some song. Others run in pairs quietly – elderly couples mostly. Nobody tells you they are couples. That's not something you will be told, because at this hour nobody cares. Just look at their matching running gear and you'll tell. Even the couples don’t talk because a morning run is a journey that even though you may be accompanied to, is still one you pursue alone.

I run too. I step out and lap the miles. I would have said I run just to keep fit but that would be too simple – lovely as that is – and a bit too orderly and balanced. And while that is true, the reasons I run in the morning go beyond it, and are unconcerned with mere convenient symmetries. There’s something about the act that sustains, if you stop and ask any of those souls out there. Sometimes when you run that early you see the world unguarded, in its very essence; you see the world buck-naked because she opens up to you. You see sights and hear sounds and breathe in smells that you don’t encounter any time else. The world is more generous and honest at this time. She readily provides for our health, and that means our happiness too. She keeps away bastards like cholesterol that might want to creep into and make our hearts weak. Or even the fats that pile around our society’s waistline thanks to all the junk food and lifestyle. She clears and strengthens our minds too. It is while taking these runs that I have had some of my most staggering thoughts. And beheld some of my most memorable scenes.

This one time I was running on the sidewalk, humming a song under my breath. That's not very accurate; I was panting the tune out. I got to a crossing zone and stopped because I was looking to cross to the other side of the street. The traffic lights were red and vehicles had stopped to allow us, the pedestrians, cross but I did not do so; I felt one of my laces go loose so I bent down that very instant to tighten it first. I would have then crossed if I wanted to but I decided to wait for the traffic to move. That's when I saw it. Like a silent film. Playing slowly, as though on slow motion. The car closest to me was a mini van. It was waiting, like the rest, for the lights to turn green. On the driver’s seat was a middle aged man in glasses and a moustache. There was a polythene bag sitting on his lap. Even though the windows were rolled up, I could see the inside of the car well enough because I was standing very close. On the back seats were two kids. Boys. They could have been three or four. Twins probably. And that man on the wheel must have been their dad. There’s this thing he would do as he was waiting for the lights to turn green: he’d reach into the bag and pull out something (I couldn’t tell what it was) and turn and dangle it in front of the two boys on the backseat and, immediately, they would rush for it, like angry dogs, pushing and shoving till one of them grabbed it by the teeth and gobbled it. Then they’d wait again, like puppies, for dad to dangle another, which he dutifully did. When the lights turned green they drove off with the rest of the traffic. What!!? What had I just seen? Are these the games moustached men play with their kids when stuck in morning traffic? Whatever... but again, these are some of the things you see in the morning.

[Enter stage left, Solomon*]

This is my friend that I run with sometimes. A clean-shaven guy with gentle eyes. An amazing guitar player. I’ll tell you something about him shortly, just hung on. What I do when I plan to run is I wake up at 5am and brush my teeth (this is to wake me up completely). I lace up my trainers, throw my hoodie over my head and silently step out into the bleak dawn chill. And some mornings can be inhumanly chilly I tell you, cold even, like a hyena’s snout or a witch’s titties. I jog over to Solomon’s place - if he’d told me he was gonna come along – and throw a pebble at his window to signal to the son-of-a-gun that am out here waiting, he better step out quick. We then head out. We never converse the whole time till after we are done.

Now,

[Enter stage right, Facebook]

If you live under a rock, or happen to have found yourself in this century by mistake, Facebook is a social networking site. Meaning that people interact (or is it socialize) with loads of other people. People speak their minds here. They take photos of themselves on shaky phones when they do something cool that they'd want others to notice and put those photos here and their “Friends” then, in turn, “Like” them and give props. Sort of like a pat on the back. It’s just like the real world, you know? Oh, and another thing: you can talk to someone in camera too, away from all the noise of the yuppies who walk the streets of this little virtual world courting attention like celebrities. You do that by dropping your message into this “someone’s” inbox. And they can get back to you the same way. Or if you want to let them know that you know they are still around, that they haven’t kicked the bucket or something, you can “Poke” them.

You interact with people from all walks of life just like you do out here in the real world – lawyers, fishermen, teachers, football players and doctors…especially doctors.

            Now the reason I summon Facebook onto the stage is because Solomon told me a story involving Facebook and it’s only fair that I bring the folks over from UnderTheRockVille up to speed. We had just finished our run and were now just stretching and exchanging banter when he mentioned that he happens to be Facebook friends with a certain doctor from the neighborhood. Pretty neat, no?…only he thought that that denied him the thrill of telling a few harmless lies anymore when they were needed. This is what he meant: he stopped by this doctor’s office and their conversation went something like this;

-          Hey Doc, I feel a little under the weather…

-          I can imagine, that was some crazy party you went to, eh?

-          I don’t think I follow…I was home the whole weekend…

-          Nuh, man… don’t you remember, you were at this pad with an Olympic-size pool… with Melissa and that other girl, the tall one with dimples. And your boy was trying to lick face. Do y…

-          Oh, that…I had forgotten about that one…

-          You forget too soon Solomon. You only uploaded the pictures last evening…

-          What the…

-          Don’t worry, doc-patient confidentiality. Anything you tell me is strictly between us, like say if you gave me Melissa’s number I wouldn’t mention your name, you know…You could suggest that she becomes my friend.

-          Well, I don’t know her that well…

-          C’mon Solomon, you have 37 friends in common… but enough of that, what’s the problem?

-          I don’t feel well Doc…

-          You feel like your head’s got a 24-wheeler truck trying to come out of it? And like everything you eat won’t see eye to eye with your insides and wants to leave? Using whatever exit is available?

-          Yes Doc, how did you figure that out?

-          Well, that’s your status message from this morning, or was that not you?

-          Oh…I..

-          Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing; just a hangover…Albert was right. And he seems pretty cool; do you think he would let me friend him?

-          What?

-          You’re probably right, why don’t you like his status message and suggest that I like it too…

-          Dude, that’s weird…

-          No it’s not; weird is poking every girl you have a crush on, on Facebook.

-          Do you do that?

-          Of course not…do you think I should?

-          Dude, focus…I’m sick.

-          No, you are hangover. Just go home and get some rest; you’ll be fine. Now seriously…do you think it would be weird if I poked Melissa on Facebook…, you know, before we meet for real?