The other guys are nice enough. I never learn nearabic, that’s what I call it, real clever I know. Honestly, something tells me they don’t even speak it, I mean, their fucking dirty right, I mean way worse than you are thinking. Everything is so dirty. Everyone smells like shit and sweat, everyone. I don’t think they have ever seen clear water, their water, all of its brown.
“Watch out!” I say to john, but that’s not his name, its hacken hacken dirg aban, you know, none of them are named mark or Luke, it’s like my own joke, I am surrounded by Osama bin laden clones and their all supposed to be Jesus and his crew, what a fuckin farse. I laugh to my self, Christ gets it, we are all sitting there, ”John” just looks at the snake and is like, what? “What” I say to him back with that double question mark that I do not know how to write. He says something that sounds like ‘suim salla’ and gestures with a palm up hand, I get it, it’s like he’s sayin,’ what, the snake?’ There are snakes everywhere. Let me say that again and put it in context, just spell it out real good for ya. Everyone smells like their own shit, I will be dead from disease soon, all kinds, and there are snakes everywhere. People sleep in the dirt as the bed has not been invented yet, oh yeah, and you can’t put a fucking foot down in the Promised Land without scaring a snake.
“dirka dirka Mohamed jihad, Luke, Dirka dirka” I say. Good Christ laughs at me. All everyone else hears is Mohammed and War, which makes it funny for so many reasons.
I keep looking for all the mythical shit that happened in the Bible. It’s hard to spot it not speaking the language. I never get used to all the touching and pushing and shit, how close everyone is, how small the ideas are, how premature even the most banal possibilities seem. It hurts me how little has changed for so many people in the “arab” world. I know I am here some 2000 plus years ago but, if I turned the corner and saw a CNN war correspondent I would ask them for a ride back to the Hotel.
They half cook fish and sometimes do not cook it at all; they just let it rot dry, if that is a thing to do to fish. Phillip, the big one at 4’ 11” and 111 lbs. (I’m guessing the weight) loves to give me what they are calling bread. Let me tell you that it is not. My third piece, which must mean I am lucky for making it so far, had a rock in it that busted off my crown and hurt like fuck. A rock not a kernel or grain or multi grain of sand but a rock, nay, a pebble. I mean, it’s just, well fuck it’s like, well everything is colored by careful chewing and tooth pain now, I mean, fucking vacation spoiler for sure, I mean, shit, the whole rest of the time, the whole rest of my time there spent with my tongue getting raw, flickin the ground trunk of my molar sans artificial silver and porcelain helmet, I mean, I just can’t keep my tongue off it. Fuck!
It’s a complaint really, my gospel. Good Christ, that’s what I have been calling him and fuck help me if I am the one that started all the bullshit by doin it, but I feel pretty sure he is Good Christ now, having met him and hung out pretty much all the time for like 3 years, Good Christ is also a good guy and most probably a time traveler from the late nineties with a degree from UCI in middle eastern languages. Nah, who am I kiddin, he is down right the son ‘o god. But that’s not my complaint. My complaint is, the past really sucks and should stay there. Bring soap and plenty of water and food, spices if you don’t want to bring food, and a fucking car, probably a Jeep. Ice, I miss ice a lot. Don’t eat cheese, not for another 2000 years or so or you’ll puke your shit out, its fucking disgusting. Everyone’s filthy, did I say that enough?
I tried to hatch some plots but, again, the language barrier made that dull and the effect unobservable. We didn’t talk a lot, it was more like we were on vacation together, you know, good friends, guy friends, foreigners amongst foreigners, always the grinning secret of the end of faith, me the guy in the crowd at the big party of important people where the BMOC singles you out in that awesome way as being the one closest, the one that gets the hug when the rest get the handshake, but really, we just sat around and they bullshitted all day and ladies fed us and shit and we never work a fucking day, unreal when you think about it. We’d talk but I didn’t want to cramp his style, he was doin his thing right, I was a walk in, kind a like petitioning a class, you know.
At 6’2” I was a godling to them. I was invisible and yet they all knew of me. I covered my face a lot. The romans guys, which were really just arabs out of uniform, I mean really, they were not fuckin Italians, and that is some bullshit too, they loved me, always makin fun of how I talked and shit, always trying to copy me, always laughing, more than Good Christ, always smiling and shit, they really reminded me of Mexicans that way.
I’m not tellin ya how it ended, what was true, what was bullshit, fuck you. I will tell you to follow your heart, be good, laugh, try and make a new friend every day, don’t work so fucking hard, don’t take advantage of people who resent it, listen to each other right? Be a good friend to your friends. Oh yeah, and don’t spend so much time reading, I never saw Good Christ open a single scroll and I have news for you, not one of ‘em could read and only that weirdo Mathew, or as everyone else called him, “dira dirka dirka” could write and I don’t think he did that very well either.
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