Follow the Cancerous Road

As we walked through the U.S. aid compound- past the generator, past the small grocery with the 7-11 sign on its storefront, past more uniformed men with guns- I looked up at the night sky scattered with constellations and located Orion's Belt with his 4 extremities. It was the only constellation I knew how to locate, and only recently learned how to at that. As we neared the bar, we heard the music blaring from within the walls even before it came within view. I looked down at the ground and noticed the extreme lumpiness of the asphalt.

“Look at the ground! Doesn't it look...cancerous?” I said, struggling to find the right word.

“Cancerous? What a funny way to describe asphalt.”

We shoed our way over the cancerous asphalt, threw open the door, and were met by a blast of toasty air and musical notes. Ah, the warmth! It was a most welcome warm welcome to the Edge Experience #7, characterized by death-defying darts, vicious biting, and classic American dancing, hurrah! Several sandwiches were made-  a delicious Angie sandwich, a NY-style sandwich,...alas, the Brits would have none of it so we had to go without the Marmite flavor. I had forgotten how squeamish foreigners are about the way we dance. Sandwiches, trains, and the grind- so gloriously vulgar, so American! I stood at the counter waiting to get a drink and absorbing the comfortable familiarity of the Edge environment with its campy music (they were playing Mika!). I was starting to get used to the weekly routine at this underground bar, where anything goes and nobody cares enough to judge you. It was like a catharsis, a much-needed release, this weekly meeting of US army members, mercenaries, Ethiopian prostitutes, guys named Fred, and of course us teachers, all for a crazy night of dancing. 

It was a lethargic beginning this night, where we all sat around pooped out from a long week of yelling at kids and trying to stuff knowledge into their little brains, but then a round of tequila was bought by a benevolent stranger-friend named Marsha, and suddenly the techno beat was surging through our blood and oozing through our extremities making them twitch and nod into Movement. Things got crazy on the dance floor pretty soon after, and hm, we seemed to have more to catharsisize than usual tonight because things got pretty heated between me and one of the teachers. 

Eventually, I danced and pranced my way outside to take a break. Naz, a sweet guy still only 19, led a couple of us to a shed next to the empty backyard pool, opened it, and out came the adorable black puppy that I'd seen last week! I played with Rico and talked with him like I do with my kindergarteners, my voice nuanced with happy tones, happy tones, and more happy tones. How alike they were, this puppy and my 5-year-olds! The way this puppy so eagerly jumped and leapt all over me for pets and coddles and rubs was exactly how my 5-year-olds attacked me daily for hugs and high-fives. Hmph! They were like puppies the lot of them. Interestingly, the Canadian in dreadlocks tells me I am more like them than I realize. “You know, as much as you like to imitate them,” she said the other day, “you're like one of them yourself.” Hm, my imitations may be superceding me. Acting, like fugues, was a dangerous art form. 

I went back inside to dance some more, but after only a couple songs (with a Latin beat- nice one, DJ!), came back out to play with Rico some more, but Naz had locked him back inside the shed. Ah well. Instead of going back inside right away, I hung around out in the backyard, gazing at the stars and enjoying the solitude of the night, and peering into the window, yellow-orange and black with light and shadows of people, and throbbing with the heavy bass that accompanied the oldy melodies. I was happy now, I thought to myself. Now at the Edge, now in Kurdistan. I found myself thinking suddenly about instant gratification and its opposite- rewards gained after years of hard work. How much of my happiness these days was reached through instant gratification? Was I working toward anything that would reap rewards years later? Maybe, and I didn't know it. One never knows what will go down as useful in the long-run. It could be anything, or everything, but never nothing, I didn't think. 

Later, back inside, I wandered over to the newly painted dart wall and threw some really bad ones- the kinds where the dart just bounces off the dartboard and falls to the floor, its head breaking off from the needle. Naz and some of the other guys in the vicinity took pity and gave me some helpful pointers like “don't move your body, just your arm” and “just throw really hard”, and soon the darts were bouncing and splitting less often, and I even managed to hit the bulls-eye once. Even so, I kept warning people to stay far away while I aimed. “I don't want to kill you, I don't want to pierce your skull with this dart!” I explained earnestly to a thickheaded, thick-bodied dude who wouldn't get out of my way. Didn't he understand? “Please move, I don't want to kill you!” I repeated. “Kill me,” he replied, his smile unreadable. Huh? “Kill me,” he insisted again. Confused, I wondered suddenly and randomly if he was one of those murderous Blackwater soldiers. He certainly was big enough. Instead of pursuing the matter, though, I just returned my focus to the dartboard and aimed again. This time, the bulky guy moved, perhaps fearing that I was too drunk to know he was standing in the way. I shot, and no one's skull was pierced (and very possibly, neither was the dartboard). 

It was around this time, while I was standing around the dart wall, that Val came over and jovially bit me on the shoulder. I cried out in real pain. This was no cute little joke bite! “What the hell Val?” I demanded while crouched down on the floor holding onto my damaged shoulder. “Sorry!” she apologized remorsefully, “I just watched 'Interview With a Vampire' and now, I'm going around biting people.”

Go figure. We left soon after the biting, toed our way over the cancerous asphalt once again, past the armed guards, past the 7-11 sign, past the generator, and out the iron gate. The taxis had yet to arrive, so I hopped up on a stray piece of ledge next to Matt Damon and looked up at the stars again, searching for my twinkly friend Orion, but I could not locate his studded waist accessory, nor his extremities. Perhaps they had been left back at the Edge, still pulsing and twitching and nodding to the music.