Short Stories

one
I was walking home the other day along the main street. Almost parallel to me, but slightly aft and to my right, a truck was traveling along, happily doing the speed limit. The front left axel of this particular truck snapped, and the wheel inverted itself as if to tribute Michael J. Fox’s DeLorean. Maybe it wanted to fly but the asymmetrical orientation of the remaining, still operating wheels kept it on the ground. Maybe not.

The truck slid about 50 feet before coming to a halt, leaving the gnarliest skid mark I’ve ever seen, and simultaneously leaving every 10-year-old with a brand new Huffy supremely jealous. I found myself dumb (that means speechless, before you start forming your own insights into my intellectual capacity) and unable to form any type of response to this onceinalifetime calamity.

This truck slowly nestles up next to me, and the dude riding shotgun sticks his head out of the window. He looks down at the wheel, which is looking back up at him, and then looks at me (at which point I’ve formulated a response, an audible exclamation of the four letter synonym for pooh). This was one of those events where time slows to a testudinate pace, and in those 20 minutes (.25 seconds) we just stared at each other. Then, like every child’s wonder during the apex of How The Grinch Stole Christmas, he cracked the biggest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. Seriously, his face lit up like the first time you ever played with a balloon. Unbelievable. Obviously, this guy knows something that I do not, and possibly will never know. Bless his soul.

Finally, after some days, even weeks, have passed, I have a reaction to express: “When and where in hell am I ever going to see that again?” I’m no Nostradamus, but my vastly educated guess is never.

two
For an undetermined amount of time, I have misplaced the term self-deprecating humor. It was recently revealed to me that I have been saying “self-defecating humor,” when referring to a witty quip I’d conjured to release tension. Release tension I did, as well as imply I had the capability to stealthily release flatulents at the same time. You know when your life “flashes before your eyes?” Well, how about every conversation you’ve ever had with a potential employer flashing before you, attempting to recall if you told her you’re proud of your farts.

three
Remember the children and my favorite game Scream Scream? As I was writing this, they smashed the window of our business partner’s car. I’m back to document it after spending 30 minutes cleaning up glass and taping the window.

four
Jordan, Joel and I traveled north last week to a town called Lira. This is a brief recollection of the travels to and from, disregarding all the fun stuff that happened in between.

The bus stops halfway to Lira in Soroti to refuel/pick up passengers/bake passengers in sun/inflate tires with bike pump/so on. The three hour trip quickly (slowly) mutates into a six hour trip as we wait with a fully loaded, fueled, and inflated bus. After two hours, the story of the delay comes to fruition as we discover that the bus driver has disembarked his post in order to say what up to his girlfriend. I’ve always wondered as to what exactly would merit the derogatory label of an assclown, and I found it, halfway to Lira.

The road from Soroti to Lira was being repaved, so the detour consisted of driving along the rollercoaster that is the ditch next to the road under construction, which explains the third lost hour en route. A mere twenty minutes before we arrive, I hear what is the unmistakable symphony of a toddler throwing up. Needing visual confirmation, I look back to see Jordan and Joel, red faced with laughter and Joel standing up to join me. (I had moved three rows up because, let’s face it, I smell.) Joel informs me that the toddler had neglected rule number one about throwing up on a bus, which is to aim out the window, as opposed to aiming for the back of the muzungus’ legs sitting in front of you. Fortunately for Joel, he was wearing pants. Unfortunately for Jordan, he was wearing shorts.

This particular child’s mother was not to be outdone. I am under the impression that she felt so bad for her child loosing his lunch that she decided to share hers. This theory does not explain, however, why she adhered to bus vomit rule #1, and threw up out the window. My million dollar insight: I’m glad I did not eat lunch that day.

Some stuff happened in Lira.

Three days later, we decided not to take the bus home but to take a Matatu instead. A Matatu (Swahili for Taxi) is a Toyota van thing, required to be at least 17 years old with 600,000+ miles. There is a big plastic sticker on the back that says, “maximum capacity: 14 persons.” Any guesses? Try 20 people. What makes me really feel like a whiner is that I recently found out that Luke rode one with 27 people. Back to sympathizing with me. Joel, Jordan me and this unfortunate lady were all crammed onto one row, again driving in the ditch next to the road. There was enough room for me to sit sideways with my rump in this woman’s lap and my legs stacked on top of each other, which were stacked on Joel’s right thigh. Reference blog article “Noises and Personal Space.” Have you ever had you butt muscles fall asleep? I thought my hip was going to dislocate, so I stood up for 20 minutes, bent 90 degree at the waist over the row in front of me. I made some friends. Due to the nature of the road, I was jumping and jiving like Mohammed Ali. I had nothing to do but pretend I wasn’t there, or accept it and meditate. Choosing the latter, I have since named the position in the Kama Sutra tradition. I call it Flamingo Steals Baby Tiger Whilst Enduring Earthquake, Repents. We made it home in about four hours, which I attribute to a celibate Matatu driver.