Trying to avoid trishaws and potholes, the taxi-driver drove us home that night in his blue taxi, a 1962 Opel Rekord. Dee was wearing her cat-eye glasses with the mother-of-pearl inlay on the stems that winked as we wound through the streets of S.I.A. I sat between Ali and Suz, and our shoulders touched. Dee sat in the front seat. She turned around now and then, smiling. The wind from the open window blew our hair in all directions, and we didn’t care.
The taxi driver was proud of his car, telling us it had the original engine. None of the doors could be opened from the inside, so in his debonair way, he opened each of our doors with a stylish flair.
Those were the days when we met at The S. on Friday nights for happy hour. We’d sip our gin and tonic; we’d speak of the gov. turnover that week and how the gov’t officials were getting fewer and fewer, and soon there would be only one. No one knew who was in charge, or who was out-of-charge. The country weighed in a balance, and the local people were deeply worried about an increase in the price of rice. Would they be able to feed their children?
Meanwhile, we sipped our g and t’s. Meanwhile, The Land of Plenty was fighting a war in Iraq. Meanwhile, in the Land of Plenty, the citizens were worried about an increase in the price of gas for their S.U.V.’s. Meanwhile, in that vintage 1962 Opel, we passed armed soldiers, and Dee’s cat-eye glasses blinked in the lights of a city of a quiet, anxious people.