Don't Order Dog_ 1(8)
Jeri, it’s going to go off.
I have the sudden strange feeling that you’re considering cutting your hair. If this is true, please understand that you will not only be disappointed by the outcome, you will deny the surly, wayward throngs who stumble into Joe’s Last Stand Saloon the most beautiful sight to befall their eyes in recent, middle and distant memory. That sight would be you, my love, hovering behind the bar with those long coppery locks in tow, tucking mischievous strands back into place as you fill glasses with beer and men with envy. Our children will be gorgeous Jeri.
If the word of a wily old Texan ex-pat can be trusted, there’s a bar within spitting distance of my palatial hotel that serves Fortaleza tequila by the double shot and Dos Equis by the bottle. He asked if I’d believe that just last week two American men were kidnapped in that very bar, to which I told him I would believe no less. My odds of surviving this place are roughly one in four. For a double-shot of Fortaleza, I completely accept this.
The enclosed photo captures this place at its best. This may also be considered its worst. Such is the fucking conundrum of Africa.
You don’t need to say it, Jeri girl. I already know.
Ta!
- Mysterious Joe’s Last Stand Guy
p.s. The food here is best described as a culinary urinal. Don’t order dog.
7.
“What the heck is faloose?” Joe Brown asked irritably as he sat at the bar and scratched his pale, mirror bald head. The owner of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon sat hunched over the counter, the latest letter clinched in his large hands.
“I think he means ‘money’ Joe,” Chip answered from the barstool next to him.
“Then why didn’t he just say that?” the old bar owner grumbled before continuing to read. In her corner behind the counter, Jeri sat curled up on her barstool, slowly thumbing through a thick novel. Besides the three of them, the saloon stood nearly empty.
“Ah shit,” Joe exclaimed, slapping the letter irritably. “Do I really need to worry about some package arriving? The last thing I need is some goddamn Nigerian casino owner mailing some kind of letter-bomb vendetta ‘cause this guy didn’t pay his damn debt.”
Jeri and Chip exchanged grins as Joe sat with a wide-eyed look of concern stamped to his reddening face. His short, stocky frame was perched tensely on his barstool.
“I think you’re safe Joe,” Jeri said with a wry grin. “I think our mystery writer is just kidding around.”
“Not ours, Jeri… yours,” Joe retorted gruffly. “This guy obviously isn’t writing for anybody but you. But don’t think for one second I won’t throw out any weird shit that shows up in the mail. I mean it. If anything bigger than a postcard arrives here smelling like Allah Ak-bar, I’m calling the authorities. Jesus Christ, I’ve got casino-running terrorists on my ass now.”
Jeri could hear the inflection of amusement in Joe’s voice. Were he really worried, she knew from experience, he wouldn’t be talking about it. She went back to reading her book.
A minute later Joe dropped the letter onto the bar and slowly shook his head. “Damndest love letter I’ve ever read. That’s for sure.”
“You should read the first two,” Chip mumbled.
The saloon owner pulled the Polaroid from the envelope and squinted at the image. “Well hell,” he exclaimed, holding it close, “you can’t even see him in this damn picture. Good god, why would anyone want to be in a shithole place like that?”
Jeri ignored Joe’s question and pretended to read her book. In truth, she didn’t even see the page in front of her; her mind was fixated on the memorized image of the photo Joe was holding. It was of a busy third-world road captured in midday, the sun hidden behind a gray-green phalanx of low clouds. The road was choked beyond capacity with a vibrant collection of cars, scooters, animals, taxis, and people; all packed tightly together in the chaos of traffic. In the background, a long row of squat, one-story structures were carved into small merchant stalls, each of them filled with myriads of colorful items that nearly spilled out onto the muddy, unpaved road. Nearly everything in the photo appeared to be in rapid, noisy, un-orchestrated motion towards some unseen destination.
Everything except for him.
He stood in the middle of the road, immediately recognizable in his blue Joe’s Last Stand t-shirt. As the image floated in her mind, Jeri could vividly recall every feature– his tan, muscled arms casually folded across his chest, his broad shoulders relaxed in a posture of unnatural calm, his body as still as stone in the churning melee of madness that surrounded him.