ROADSIDE EMPANADAS

ROADSIDE EMPANADAS

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The young girl at the side of the road looked no

more than nine or ten years old, maybe she was

twelve and suffered from malnutrition,

I couldn't be sure.

The basket she carried on her hip was huge

it looked bigger and weighed far more than she

did, all sorts of small packages, balls wrapped 

in napkins, steam coming off them in the early

morning cold.

As she climbed onto the bus, nimble as an elf,

the aroma hit me full in the face,

beef and onions, olives, all fresh and just off

the fire I would wager.

She smiled a mouth only half full of teeth,

whether it was her age or poor oral health,

I couldn't be sure, maybe a mixture of both.

I bought four for ten pesos, two dollars, more or less,

I offered one back to her but she refused,

she continued on towards the back of the bus

returning five minutes later with an empty basket,

I marveled at her salesmanship, yet a bus full

of hungry passengers was an easy sell.

They were delicious yet I couldn't help but picture

the bug-infested kitchen they were prepared in

and the less than sanitary hands that crimped the

dough and then so gently placed them in the

boiling oil. The dirty hands that wrapped them

in the napkins and gently filled the basket, trying

not to break any of them and have all their

goodness spill out.

How far did she have to walk to reach the road

and then how long did she have to wait for the

bus to come?

And when she got home, did she clean herself

up and begin the long walk to school,

or did she just fill up with more pastries and

get ready to go and wait for the next bus?

How does one analyze the different worlds

people live in without feeling a stab of pain

and wonder how some people live so poorly, 

and we complain when we are living so well.

I ate those four empanadas so quickly, as if they

were nothing, I didn't resent that I had paid the 

foreigner's rate, I just enjoyed them until the

bitterness arose in me so vile as to how many

might have suffered for me to have something to eat in

the morning after a long bus ride.

Her face was so dirty and sad and I will never

see her again as long as I live,

and she could be out there right now, waiting for

the next bus, an empty desk in a schoolhouse.

MCC

BARBARIAN AT THE GATE

BARBARIAN AT THE GATE

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The gates loomed above me as I got off the bus,

I had been looking out the window,

and as I spotted the King David Hotel and

considered getting off and going on to use their

washrooms. The hostel washroom had been very busy

that morning and the smell had sent me outside

to urinate against the side of the wall.

Everyone out at nine in the morning sharp, a cookie

and some orange juice, that was the free fucking

breakfast? The orange juice was canned, we had

passed acres of orange groves on the ride from the

airport and I was given an paper cup of canned juice?

Anybody would have felt ripped off.

Back to the gate, it was so high, how the hell did they

build that without using a modern day crane,

it must have taken years,

I entered, everyone looked seedy, not a smiling

face in sight.

I was glad I hadn't shaved in days and I had

left my backpack at the hostel so I didn't think I

looked like a tourist, a terrorist perhaps! The aroma

of nearly a thousand different food stalls permeated my

nostrils and slapped me right across the face.

Finally I felt somewhere strange, exotic, alien,

everything I didn't want to see wasn't there,

no McDonalds or Dairy Queen,

and not a doughnut in sight. No sign of

the stars and stripes here but the sight of

so many yarmukhas and uzis in the same spot

was unnerving, so nothing I had ever seen before

and as I stopped to buy some sesame cakes

from a vendor I got some strange looks,

as though I shouldn't have been buying

anything from this person.

I walked on, munching, but still feeling very

uneasy and I couldn't dream of a spot I might

fit in here.

The ugly foreigner, perhaps, but I wasn't up to no

good and they should have known that.

I continued on my adventure through the city,

so much to buy and not a lot of money in my pocket,

learn to shop with your eyes at all times, I was told,

you don't have the means to carry any of that shit

around with you even if you could afford it.

Leave it for the rich Americans who could pay for the

extra luggage and who had lots of room to store the shit

when they got back to Albuquerque.

I smelled hash coming from the back of one of the stalls,

now there was something I could afford, and finally

someone smiled at me as I walked towards the back

of the stall.

MCC

FEAR SWEAT

FEAR SWEAT

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The red light flashed and a buzzer rang,

but I ignored the customs guy and tried

to nonchalantly walk out the door.

Not today, I was called back and sent into

a room with my luggage.

Screw this, I thought, I'm not in a hurry,

and I don't have anything illegal,

I just want to get the fuck out of here.

I can't take it anymore.

I waited and I waited,

what a bunch of assholes, I just wanted

to get out and have a smoke,

I had been on the plane for hours and if

they had let me outside for two minutes I would

have happily sat there for hours as they tore

through my suitcases looking for heroin and ecstasy,

or whatever it was they thought I was trying

to smuggle back in.

I had lots of alcohol, maybe twenty bottles of wine,

but that's not what they were hunting,

why should they care about alcohol,

and the worst-case scenario was they would take it

away or charge duty on it,

fuck them, whichever they decided, just make the

decision and let me get the hell out of there.

I put on my most uncooperative face and just

sat there as if I had all the time in the

world, which I did, but then again,

I didn't.

I smiled as they pawed through my dirty 

clothes, they looked for secret compartments,

and they even opened my notebooks to see if

they could decipher what was on my mind.

Nothing.... doodles, swastikas are not illegal, we

are not in Germany or Israel,

frown and suck in your breath all you

want, I have done nothing wrong.

I answer the questions that I have not listened

to or understood and I wonder what they really

think of me. They are so interested in my notebook

and I can't help but laugh at the irony, I have 

tried so hard to get people to read what I have

written, but there are so few takers, yet these idiots

seem to be glued to every word, every pen stroke

every nuance, they didn't spend this much time

on my laptop for crying out loud and there could have

downloaded upskirt pics in there that

could have raised an eyebrow or two. Finally

they close my bag, look at me as though they are about

ready to spit and then they send me on my way

with a wave and a scowl, oh that cigarette was Heaven.

MCC