Page 28 - The Gluckman Occasional 7

Oil Boy
(a dramatic monologue)

Ha-ha-ha! That’s quite a story! I guess that’ll teach you not to
hide your money in your shoe! You know, that reminds me of
something that happened to me—well, not actually to me, but I
got it straight from the guy it did happen to. Let me finish off this
beer first before it gets warm. Aah. There.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. It was the last day I spent in
Eldashti, a miserable hell-hole but richer than God. You ever
been there? No? Well, I was on a six-month contract working on
a private air-strip for one of the small-fry sheikhs. The guy
couldn’t be bothered landing his Lear jet at the airport in the
capital, because he’d have to take a twenty-minute limousine ride
out to his villa, so he hired some expatriates to come in and show
the locals how to pour cement in a straight line.

Well, they told me it wasn’t the hot season when I got there but
you could have fooled me. We had to pump water on the cement
at night to keep it from setting too fast. Nobody talks about the
desert there, because it’s all desert, like a hundred and twenty in
the shade on a cool day. Let me tell you, I couldn’t wait to get
into Malkuna— that’s the capital—on weekends and hole up in
the Intercontinental Hotel. I’d lay for hours on the bed, letting
the air-conditioner raise goose-bumps on my arms and legs. Of
course, I’d also go downstairs to eat and pass a bit of time in the
bar. It had a nice view of the city.

Nightlife? You’ve got to be kidding! That’s a very strict Moslem
country, my friend. Nothing doing. Of course, what goes on
there inside anyone’s house is their own business, but I didn’t
know anybody well enough to find out for myself. In fact, I don’t
think they ever invited Americans into their homes; want to keep
their women safe from prying eyes, I guess. Ah, that brings me