Das Road

  Cats howl outside. I open a can of tamales and eat them cold. I play more music. Curfew hour arrives.

  Through the sliding glass doors to my balcony, the latest episode of the insurrection begins to play out. People are gathering in the large vacant lot across the street. I’ve never seen such a thing before. Most of the demonstrations erupt on the north side of town, toward the bazaar. The chaos is spreading, as Jon said it would.

  I ease open the glass door, careful to conceal myself behind the curtain. The lot is filling rapidly with Iranian men. Young boys are pouring gasoline into bottles for Molotov cocktails.

  They’ve got plenty of fuel for that, I reflect bitterly.

  More protesters come and array themselves around the leaders. Some are wrapped in burial shrouds – ready to sacrifice themselves for the revolution. They move en masse to the main street.

  My lights suddenly go out, and the record player drags to a stop. I spin around, fighting back panic. My familiar apartment has become a darkened chamber of mystery. I hear gunfire in the distance, then closer in. Bullets ricochet off my building. People are being shot right out in the street!

  “Jesus!”

  I hit the deck just as a stray bullet punches through the glass door, embedding itself in the ceiling. Deafening volleys of rifle fire rattle the world, followed immediately by the defiant roar of the crowd:

  Allah u Akbar!

  Fires and bursting star shells fill the room with sick, red light, creating grotesque shadows on the walls. More gunfire and chanting. Time drags past as I cling to the floor, crawling as far from the windows as possible. Finally, I stand up and peer outside.

  The main demonstration has moved off, leaving a few inert figures sprawled on the pavement. The shooting and the chanting drop off into an ominous lull.

  Women somewhere in the neighborhood are wailing with grief. The air carries the stench of explosives and blood. I light a candle – like at a Catholic church, a remembrance for the dead. Then a group of demonstrators surges down the kuche, right below my window.

  Allah u Akbar! They shout. Javid Khomeini!

  People yell encouragement from their windows. I hear the Iranians in the second-floor apartment calling out. Are they tipping off the rioters about the American upstairs?

  The mob passes, and for a moment I think I’m safe. Then I hear it – somebody forcing open the street door, feet pounding up the stairs. They are coming for me!

  Oddly, I feel no fear. Just a strange objective interest, as if I am only a spectator. I think of Mom, can almost see her face hovering before me. This is going to be really hard on her. I move to the center of the room and wait for the door to burst open. Whatever happens, they will not find me cowering.

  A heavy pounding on the door.

  “Lakatos!” somebody calls. “Open up!”

  “W-what?”

  “Hurry, let us in!”

  As if in a dream, I lurch toward the door and unlock it. Two men in white outfits rush in and push the door shut behind them.

  They’re finally here, I think, the men from the loony bin.

  I look for a straitjacket, but they don’t have one.

  “Who are you guys?” I manage to say.

  “Corporate Security,” one of the men says. “Come with us.”

  Now that my initial shock has abated slightly, I recognize him as my interrogator from earlier today. His granite face is even more harsh in the flickering candle light.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “The Iranian cops are after you,” the second guy says. “They could be hear any time.”

  “Why?” I say.

  “The Glass disappearance.”

  “They can’t think I was responsible!”

  “You want to rot in jail while they investigate?” he snaps. “We can’t help you there. Now come on!”

  They’ve already opened the door again and have shoved me half way out. I grab my camera bag off the side table and follow them down the stairs.

  An ambulance sits at the curb around the corner, engine idling. Its Iranian driver looks anxiously out the window as we approach. I’ve seen this vehicle before, parked at our health clinic. It’s the corporate ambulance. The men in white throw me onto the stretcher in back and cover me up.

  “Make like you’re unconscious,” Granite face says.

  He stays with me, while the other guy sits up front with the driver. I lie still as a corpse, clutching Jewel Eye like a Teddy bear. We start moving. The vehicle glides along with incredible smoothness, even more so than the big Lincoln I once drove back home.

  The good old days! I’d give anything to be back working for Valley Oaks at this moment.

  Soldiers stop us and talk with the driver in Farsi. The security man grips my arm hard and holds a finger to his lips. His hand feels strong enough to snap my arm like kindling. Gunfire crackles nearby.

  Then we are outside the city and the ambulance pulls over. Another driver awaits in a car. The security men change out of their whites. We all pile into the sedan with me sandwiched in back between the muscle.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  “To the first plane out of Iran.”

  We drive silently through the darkness, arriving at Mehrabad Airport in the early morning.

  The place is an absolute madhouse, much worse than when I’d come with Bob. Frightened people desperate to get out of the country fill every square inch. My escorts bull me through the crowd and onto an airliner. Only then does their hard professionalism lessen a bit.

  “Good luck, Tyler!” one says.

  “I wish it was me getting on that plane,” the other says.

  They shove a manila envelope into my hands. Then they are gone.

  I walk down the aisle of the giant airplane in a daze. Anxious people fill every seat. For a moment my claustrophobia kicks in and I want to get off. No way! Nothing less than a nuclear blast will get me off this plane.

  I flop into an aisle seat near the back. Soon the plane starts rolling. From my position, I cannot see outside the window without craning my neck, and I make no effort to do so. We accelerate down the runway and depart.

  A middle-aged man dressed in a tweed jacket sits beside me; he looks kind of like my philosophy professor back in college. He is looking at me a bit askance. Even among so many frazzled people, I must appear especially awful.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “do you happen to know where we’re going?”

  His eyebrows shoot up in astonishment.

  “Why, Bombay, India,” he replies in a French accent.

  “Really?” I say. “That’s ... fine.”

  I fumble open the envelope. Inside are connecting flight tickets to the States, my passport, and a supply of American cash. The beverage cart wheels up.

  “Do you like scotch?” the Frenchman asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “A double scotch with ice, please.” He presses a bill on the stewardess. “For my young friend here.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You look like you need it.”

  Nine: Home Again

  64: Escape to the East

  Even a bad ending is better than no ending at all. – Mrs. van Daan, speaking in Diary of a Young Girl, by Anne Frank

  I arrive at Bombay airport after a routine flight. No turbulence or air sickness, no sudden insights as to what everything meant – just stunned relief. I feel as if I’ve been knocked cold in one reality and revived in another.

  Hours earlier, I was a foreign pariah adrift in a revolutionary winter; now I am in hot Bombay, shuffling off the plane in my grungy clothes like some indigent tourist. Having no baggage to claim, I disentangle myself quickly from the flight crowd and head for a telephone. After a certain amount of hassle, I manage to place a call home.

  “No one is available now,” Mom’s voice says on the answering machine tape. “Please leave a message.”

  Beep!

  I am a bit surpri
sed. Always before, Ed’s voice had been in the recorded greeting.

  “Hello!” I say. “This is Tyler calling from Bombay, India. Well, I got out of Iran okay ... I’ll be in touch. Bye.”

  I hang up the phone. Three options present themselves:

  1) Wait five hours and catch my connecting flight to the States.

  2) Remain in India for a while.

  3) Go someplace else.

  My exhausted brain isn’t working well, and thoughts do not come easily in the terminal confines. A stroll is what I need. I step outside into air so humid that I can practically swim in it. I peal off the Cheju Do sweater. My black T-shirt underneath bears a Rated “D” for Drunk logo.

  A filthy canal sprawls between the airport and the nearby town area. Numerous poverty-stricken dwellings sit upon the banks, ramshackle affairs built from scrap materials.

  I have never seen such squalor before. Excrement covers the ground by the houses, combining its stench with that of the fetid canal water. Dark, gaunt people creep about like ungainly insects. They must be the ‘untouchables’ on the very bottom rung of Indian society.

  I am profoundly shocked, but at least this harsh vista serves to clarify matters for me. Compared to such wretchedness, my anxieties seem petty – hilarious almost. I hurry across the bridge.

  The town is bustling and crowded. I wander around the commercial streets, letting the pedestrian flow determine my route. A vendor is selling betel nut chew in a selection of flavors, guaranteed to provide a mild rush. I buy the anise-flavored variety.

  Standing on a corner under a bit of awning shade, baking inside my jeans and hiking boots, I contemplate my options. India stretches around me, vast, hot, and complex. Even at my most alert, a trip through this country would be a huge undertaking. In my present state of semi-collapse such an effort is out of the question.

  I head back to the airport, shutting out the horrid canal bank scene as much as possible and spitting my exhausted betel nut into the water. No, I can’t stay in India, but I am in no condition to return home yet, either. What I need now is a friend who can understand what I have been through. I need to see Bob West.

  Fortunately, I have his phone number in my wallet, and I am able to get a call through to him.

  ***

  I arrive in Bangkok late afternoon and ride a bus toward Bob’s house. The city is wonderfully bright, with palm trees rustling along the road sides – an incredible contrast to the Iranian winter I’ve just escaped. Some of my paranoia starts to ebb.

  Bob’s house is modern and airy, in keeping with the general optimism of Bangkok. Bob greets me warmly. He’s managed to keep off the weight he’d lost, and he is nicely tanned. His face, liberated from its burden of flab, is actually rather handsome. His eyes are sad, though.

  “You look great, Bob,” I say.

  He places an arm over my shoulder. “I wish I could say the same about you, pal. Thank God you’re out of that place!”

  Standing beside this rejuvenated guy, I feel like a withered old man. The Iranian winter has penetrated so deeply that I don’t know if I can ever warm it out again.

  65: Bangkok R&R

  From the DAS ROAD diary, by Bob West

  I thought I was finished writing this diary, but now that Tyler is here, I’m not so sure. Maybe he’ll take me along again on one of his adventures.

  He really looked awful when he arrived, dressed for the Iranian winter and with “Jewel Eye” slung over his shoulder as his only luggage. I cracked a lame joke.

  “I know you like to travel light,” I said, “but this is ridiculous.”

  He took a long shower while I scrabbled around to find something for him to wear. Fortunately, the previous tenant left some clothes behind that sort of fit Tyler. Anything of mine would be much too large.

  “Burn that outfit you came in, eh?” I told him when he got out of the shower.

  “I will,” he said, “except for the Cheju Do sweater.”

  We sprawled out by the TV with Cokes. The news blared reports from Tehran – rampaging mobs, gunfire, mayhem. Then the scene shifted to the frantic crowds trying to escape at Mehrabad Airport. I finally switched off the TV.

  “Enough of that crap,” I said. “It’s all in the past.”

  “Not for the people back there, it isn’t,” Tyler said.

  “God help them,” I said.

  It was way too easy to imagine myself back there, especially in that airport madhouse. It was time to turn our minds to more pleasant things.

  “Let’s get circulating, eh, Tyler!” I said.

  Tyler’s Account

  We enjoy a fine restaurant dinner. I’ve been on starvation rations so long that I scarcely realize how famished I am. Long dormant taste buds flicker back to life. Bob eats quietly, glancing my direction now and then. When I look up, he masks his troubled expression with a smile.

  Finally, I settle back, satiated. The Thai food I’ve consumed sits tentatively on my stomach, trying to decided if it is going to cause problems or not. Bob ventures some conversation.

  “So, what are your plans, Tyler?”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t any idea, yet.”

  “If you want to stay in Bangkok, I can find out about English teaching jobs for you,” Bob says. “The market is fairly good right now.”

  I take a long, soothing draught of tea. Somewhere in the intricacies of my gastro-intestinal system, a decision is made that the meal I’ve eaten will be properly digested after all.

  “Let met think about that, Bob. I’ll let you know soon.”

  Still thirsty, I order a Coke. Bob gets one, too. While we drink, I relate the story of my final weeks in Iran. Bob’s eyes widen as my narrative progresses ...

  “Damn!” he says when I’ve finished my account. “I figured Jon would do something crazy sooner or later. You’re lucky you’re not in prison.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, unable to suppress a shudder.

  Bob regards his empty Coke bottle philosophically.

  “You know what, Tyler. I think we need something stronger than this.”

  We head to the Pat Pong district and enter one of the bars. I recognize it as the same one we patronized on our trip last year. A pretty bar girl detaches herself from the group of foreigners she’d been sitting with and comes to our table.

  “Bobby!” she cries. “You come back!”

  She flings her arms around Bob’s neck and kisses his cheek.

  “Of course, Rosie. Didn’t I say I would?”

  She glances my way, looks startled for a moment, then smiles.

  “Who your friend, Bobby?”

  “This is Tyler,” Bob says.

  She shakes my hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Tyler.”

  The formal gesture seems out of place in the atmosphere of raucous music, booze, and hedonism. Rosie herself appears out of place. She is impossibly sweet, as if she’s just fallen out of her mother’s arms. She must have just recently come in from the countryside and has not yet attained a hard edge.

  “I be right back.” She scurries off.

  “What do you think of her?” Bob asks.

  “Sweet, with a capital S,” I say. “So, it’s Bobby now, huh?”

  “Yeah. I used to hate that name, but anything she wants to call me is just fine.”

  Rosie comes back with a second girl for me. I order drinks all around.

  Bob raises his glass. “Viva Khomeini!”

  “Right,” I say without enthusiasm.

  My girl is beautiful. After the long dry spell of Iran, I scarcely remember that such creatures exist. Her smile is strictly professional, though. To her, I am just another trick. Bob and Rosie are off in their own little world, sitting with faces close together, laughing, sipping from each other’s drinks – like two giggly adolescents.

  Bob pulls himself away long enough to comment, “My entire life was on hold until I got here, Tyler.”

  My girl checks her makeup in a sm
all hand-held mirror. I catch a glimpse of myself and am shocked at the gray, haggard face looking back.

  66: Northward

  After two days of Bangkok R&R, I feel like a new man – at least compared to the reprobate who stumbled off the airliner from India. But as my physical condition improves, my mental state evolves into something weird. I become restless and discontented. The great city around me seems too confining.

  I consider returning to the beaches at Phuket, but the thought of so much idleness irritates me. I need action to settle my disordered emotions, movement across great distances, like the time I went sky diving near Rosewood.

  “I’d like to head north tomorrow,” I tell Bob.

  He looks up from his sofa, “Where, exactly?”

  “I thought Chiang Rai,” I said. “Go hiking.”

  “That’s the Golden Triangle, where they grow the opium poppies,” Bob says. “Things can get dicey up there.”

  I shrug. “There are supposed to be some interesting hill tribes.”

  “Yeah,” Bob says, “interesting drug runners, too. Cross them and you’re in deep shit.”

  “I don’t intend to cross anybody,” I say.

  “It can get pretty dangerous,” Bob shoots back. “You could meet somebody willing to cut your throat for your passport or that fancy camera.”

  I shrug again.

  Bob gets to his feet. “Didn’t you have enough excitement in Iran?”

  “Come on Bob, you’re exaggerating,” I say. “People hike up there all the time.”

  “You never hear about the ones who get in trouble,” Bob says. “Just recently, this couple back in the States got a call from the US embassy here. ‘Your son died while smuggling drugs,’ the embassy said. ‘We’ll ship you the body.’”

  “Wow, that’s cold,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Bob says. “And the next day their son, who wasn’t dead after all, calls home requesting money. ‘Why’s everybody so upset?’ he wonders, ‘Did I ask for too much?’”

  “So, how does the corpse fit in?” I ask.

  “Drug smugglers stole their son’s passport,” Bob says. “The mule using his identity swallowed some condoms filled with heroin so he could sneak through customs. One of the condoms broke, and he O.D’d.”

  “Sounds like those cheap Korean things,” I say. “Imagine the rush to call back the embassy!”

  I hold an imaginary telephone to my ear.