SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

—CHAPTER THREE—

For the first time in our travels, I was nervous because Tunisia was a Muslim country. Jews and Christians accounted for 2% of the population.

In the 1980s, the media in the States didn’t display Muslims in the kindest light. In movies and TV shows, they were portrayed as fanatical, deranged, suicidal, psychotic, brainwashed, simple-minded terrorists.

I’m not sure we do them much justice today, either.

I stepped onto the stairs to the tarmac and was greeted with a devastating blast of heat. As we walked, Jen, doing her best to look at the bright side, assured me it wasn’t too bad as “it’s a dry heat.”

I almost turned around and left the country.

Folks throughout the airport dispelled my first crass, uneducated stereotype. Everyone we met in and around the airport was, without exception, easy-going and friendly. The customs agents were patient and considerate while I staggered around, trying to figure out what to do next. They found an employee who spoke English, and the gentleman navigated me through the process.

In my little world, Tunisia was uncharted territory. For all I knew, the entire country was a desert with tents and houses built from sand. A Tunisian’s primary activity was sitting around, sweating, and telling his fellow citizens that at least it was a dry heat.

Tunisia became the center of attention during World War Two. Tunisia was a French protectorate. “Protectorate,” in this case, meant, “You can pretend to run your country, but we, the French, will tell you what to do, and we promise to defend your country against foreign invasions.”

I can’t imagine Tunisians had their minds put to rest with the idea of depending on France’s military. I’m sure they were fully aware that the French would go El Foldo at the first sight of any threat, including a group of touring Girl Scouts armed with water pistols.

The French government tried to throw its weight around in the 1920s when the locals took umbrage at being bossed around by France. They, the locals, attempted to create their own constitution. France responded by arresting whomever they could find. However, in an attempt to make amends, France put some poor, underqualified Muslin “in charge” of the country, hoping to pacify the Muslim population.

For a country that has turned appeasement into an art form, France completely missed the mark because Italians, who were the country’s majority, are not Muslims. Inevitably, Tunisia’s puppet government was run out of town, and Italy took matters into its own hands. This disadvantaged the free world because Benito Mussolini ran Italy’s show. In World War Two, Benito told France, “You may leave now.”

Eventually, when it came to Tunisia, France did, indeed, go El Foldo and shoved off, saying, “Fine. Take it. We were leaving anyway.” This was hardly surprising. France, being France, decided to back the horse that was, at the time, in first place in the war and boldly stepped up by putting out a welcome mat for Adolph Hitler. Hitler essentially gave Mussolini the keys to Tunisia.

This meant Italian troops had control of a key supply line over the Mediterranean Sea.

Bad.

By default, Nazi Germany had ultimate control over the Mediterranean Sea.

Very bad.

Furthermore, the Axis forces could seize the Middle East and keep all that oil to themselves.

Extremely very bad.

If they took over the Middle East, Europe’s supply lines to Africa and Asia would be cut.

Game over. Goodbye freedom. Hello, New World Order.

In November 1942, the Allied forces, despite France’s best efforts to undermine them at every step, invaded Tunisia and, seven months later, drove the Axis forces out of Dodge. This was the first major battle the Allies won in World War Two.

Once Tunisia was liberated, guess who decided to jump ship and join the Allies? France! “Hey, guys. We’re back. It’s a good thing we liberated your country. It was tough, but France prevailed! Just as a reminder, we’re still in charge. You may have forgotten that. Look, we lost a lot of wine defending your freedom. You’re welcome.”

France faithfully defended this freedom by making a mess of everything. In 1956, the Tunisians ended the lunacy and achieved independence from France, who left saying, “Fine. Take it. We were leaving anyway.”

It’s just as well that France got its collective ass kicked out of Tunisia. It gave them more time and resources to devote to Vietnam.

Another success story.

In 1956, Tunisia applied for acceptance into the United Nations. Chances are the application is still sitting in someone’s in-tray at the UN.

Having established itself as an independent republic, Tunisia had an election. Habib Bourguiba was “elected” prime minister through a slew of undisclosed, underhanded agreements. Once the old Monarchy was completely flushed down the toilet, an anonymous governing body appointed him the new republic’s president.

That was in 1957. When Jen and I arrived in Tunis twenty-eight years later, he was still president.

A country with one person in charge for that long is, most likely, one horrendous human rights violation. That wasn’t altogether the case in Tunisia. Oppression, while present, was hardly on the scale of Iran or Iraq.

To my surprise, women moved freely, had access to education, and could not be forced to marry any knuckle-dragging moron assigned to them. Women were able to pick out their own knuckle-dragging morons. Regardless of a country’s political affiliation or internal policies, women will continue to be surrounded by them.

It’s a law of nature, I think. For every action, there is an equal and opposite knuckle-dragging moron.

To my surprise, freedom of religion appeared to be fully supported.

However, all was not cookies and cream.

Habib Bourguiba was losing his grip on the throne and with reality. He began to look like another unhinged dictator. He started forming unhealthy alliances, repressing the discontented, and stepping on the toes of foreign leaders who responded in unfriendly ways.

Of course, a president’s bad behavior wouldn’t be held against him as long as the country’s economy was hitting all eight cylinders.

Unfortunately for Habib, it wasn’t. In the early 1980s, Tunisia’s finances were in the shredder. In 1983, seeking an infusion of capital, the government turned to the International Monetary Fund for a loan, and the IMF was happy to oblige.

Now, borrowing money from the IMF had some strings attached. Tunisia was obliged to agree to implement specific austerity measures. These measures generally included cutting government spending, raising taxes, reducing public sector wages, cutting social services, removing subsidies on fuel and food, and privatizing any government function that wasn’t nailed down.

The idea was to reduce deficit spending and lower the country’s debt.

The IMF pitched this to Tunisia on the grounds that austerity programs “have worked so well in other countries.”

The loan conditions were based on a comical formula establishing a country’s surplus-to-GDP ratio. This ratio considered the interest rate on the country’s debt, GDP growth, and debt-to-GDP ratio.

These variables could work against a country. If you made drastic cuts to government spending, you would reduce your GDP in the short term and cause your debt-to-GDP ratio to increase, requiring you to continually take more drastic “austerity measures” to keep your surplus to the IMF’s satisfaction.

As a rule, the results had an impressive record of catastrophic failure.

This was the case in Tunisia, where the private sector cut jobs, unemployment increased, the government pulled the rug out from those who depended on it, and the poverty rate rose. As a result, the poor became poorer and in greater need of government services that were no longer available.

You might think that Extremist groups would seize the moment and recruit those who’ve been negatively affected by these measures.

You would be right. Independent studies have shown a remarkable increase in the growth of these types of groups. Germany implemented an austerity program in the 1920s, and we saw how well that worked.

Once the program was implemented in Tunisia, the cost of bread doubled, leading to riots in December 1983. The following month, the government decided to subsidize bread again, resulting in more debt, a greater surplus requirement, further cuts, and higher taxes.

Rinse and repeat.

I  believe the IMF had good intentions. Of course, the road to Hell is paved with them, too.

Even those at the IMF acknowledged that, as Plan-As go, this one sucked.

Back to Tunisia in 1985…

Jen was keen to show me some of the sites, so we took a small bus from the airport to a historical district in Tunis, where a few million mosques can be found. Of interest to her was the Al-Zaytuna Mosque. The place was enormous, beautiful, and revered by Muslims, serving as a place for prayer and an institute for higher learning of Islamic theology and practices.

We left our luggage at a nearby hotel, where the staff, for a fee, was happy to keep an eye on it.

As we walked around, she said, “Some of it goes back to the 9^th century.”

“Some of what?”

“The building. Some of the foundation, like, is from the ninth century.”

“Just like the water heater in my apartment building.”

According to Jen, the mosque was built over the ruins of a Christian church constructed when the Byzantine Empire was still doing business.

The church, she said, was dedicated to Olivia of Palermo, with whom Jen felt a strong affinity. As a young girl, Olivia was, I gathered, the hottest girl around and constantly being hit on by every Giuseppe, Lorenzo, and Silvio in Palermo. None of them did it for her. She decided men were worth avoiding at all costs. Instead, she went with Plan B, which was doing God’s work.

 As a preteen, Olivia was comforting the sick, giving to the poor, performing an occasional miracle, spreading the word, and turning nearly everyone in Palermo into Christians.

“Jen, as a preteen, I spent my waking hours skipping school, shoplifting, sneaking shots from the numerous Scotch bottles in the house, and wondering what girls looked like with their clothes off.”

She giggled. “Me, too, except for the girl part.”

It seems that Olivia had come to the attention of Palermo’s leadership, who decided that all these good deeds were making them look bad. So, when she was 12 or 13, they shipped her off to Tunisia where, for the next few years, she got her ass handed to her by those running the show in Tunis who tortured her and tried to get her killed. Olivia was getting under their skin because she was converting everyone within earshot.

I’m unsure if she ended up back in Palermo or stayed in Tunisia. I was beginning to glaze over during Jen’s recounting. Either way, the boys in charge were Muslim, and her Christian ways were not to their liking.

She was deposited in some place crowded with wild animals who would surely have her as an appetizer in no time. No such luck, as the animals took a liking to her. The governor tried various methods of torture, but she was unscathed by the experiences.

Jen then said a group of men attacked her for a little nonconsensual group sex, and she converted them all to Christianity.

Ooooooh, shit. That’s why we’re here. To pay homage because she channeled her inner Olivia when she was kidnapped. Whoa. She’s probably reliving every moment while thinking about Olivia, her inspiration.

Okay, moron. Say something useful, for once.

“Well, I’m humbled like never before.”

“Truer words…” She semi-smiled.

Well, thank God (so to speak), I got that one right.

Jen hadn’t shared details on her kidnapping. I didn’t expect her to. She knew I had the postcard version of the facts.

We walked silently until I thought it was time to acknowledge their grace under pressure.

“I will continue to be amazed until the end of time.”

“By her?”

“And you.”

“Oh, I’m not close to…”

I jumped in. “Ahem. Arguments to the contrary will not be accepted. The committee, which is never wrong, has spoken. This decision has been etched in granite. The committee will not entertain those with differing views, as etching over an etching takes forever. Humbled and amazed we are. Humbled and amazed we shall remain—the end. Have a nice day. Nothing you can do about it. So there. Ha-ha, I win.”

“Mister Funny Man.”

To wrap up the story about Olivia, when she was sixteen or so, the guy in charge couldn’t take all the good juju she kept spreading and had her beheaded, after which she turned into a dove and flew away, which probably pissed him off to no end.

While strolling, I asked, “As a Christian, are you bothered by being surrounded by Muslims in a mosque built for Muslims? Especially one built over the ruins of a church?”

“Nope!” Pause. “Like, I don’t believe in what they believe. I never will. But I respect anyone with so much belief in a faith that preaches love.”

“Now that’s the kind of grown-up response we rarely hear.”

“Truer words, again.”

We left the mosque and walked through a market where all the sellers tried to sell me a carton of cigarettes by shoving them in my face and yelling at me.

Regarding sales technique, I don’t think these folks attended the “Winning with Relationship Selling by Dale Carnagie” sales seminar. They were probably out of town that week. Maybe they sat in on the “Art of War by Sun Tzu” seminar and mistook it for sales training.

It wasn’t just me. Jen was suffering the same fate. It was how business was done.

If you’re from the Western world and in Tunisia, don’t try negotiating. You will lose, and you will lose badly. If you give it a shot, be prepared to pay twice the original asking price. The street vendors are that good.

“Winning with Rage: The Charlie Manson Sales Success Story.” That’s probably the book they read.

As we fought through, I noticed my attitude toward humanity was taking a nosedive. “Jen, may I ask you a rather direct question?”

“May I give you a direct answer?”

“Can we get the hell out of here?”

“Turn left. We can walk faster.”

“The Sales of Wrath: How to Replace Your Crippling Self-Doubt with Sheer Contempt for Humanity SO YOU CAN CLOSE THAT SALE!”

We finally escaped the Sales Walk of Death and found a place to eat. In a fit of atypical common sense, I had already exchanged some American money for the local currency, the dinar, which included a pile of coins ranging from 5 dinars to 0.005 dinars. The enjoyable part was that all the coins were about the same size; the distinctions were based on color and the illegible inscriptions. If you are color blind (and I am) and don’t have a magnifying glass (and I didn’t), then you are in deep trouble buying anything in Tunisia.

In 1985, credit cards were useless in Tunisia. American currency was not accepted, so you had to use their currency and hope for the best.

We found a place to eat. Lack of cafés and coffee shops is not the problem in Tunis.

The cuisine was an eye-opening experience, or, as a friend advised me, “Man, they got couscous up the ass. They put it in everything. Shit’s spicy, too.”

Well, it wasn’t in everything, but there was plenty of it, and it had, to varying degrees, some heat. I didn’t find any of them too spicy except for some fish I ate that caused my frontal lobe to shut down. It took thirty years for my eyes to stop watering. I still don’t have all the feeling back in my tongue.

There was plenty of pasta made from couscous, of course. The fish was incredible, probably because it had just been caught from the Mediterranean Sea thirty minutes earlier.

Drinking coffee was a social experience. It’s not Starbucks, where someone hired two days ago pours coffee into a paper cup, plops it down on a germ-covered table, and yells something approximating your name. (I’ve been called, among other things, Drum, Ruth, Dreck, Brew, and Jew.)

At my insistence, we stopped for coffee. In Tunisian coffeehouses, the baristas are usually the owners and brew your coffee as though they’re painting the Sistine Chapel. The traditional version is served in a demitasse with some sweet water. The coffee grounds aren’t filtered. That will get your attention if you’re not prepared.

“How to Discover What Your Customers Want and Hate Them for It.”

We briefly walked to the Cathedral of Saint Vincent of…somewhere. I can’t remember. The place also held significance for our girl Olivia of Palermo.

“I’m OK, You’re OK, as Long as You Make this Sale; Otherwise, Don’t Bother Coming to Work Tomorrow: Motivational Management for Your Team of Losers.”

We tried to enter Vinnie’s Cathedral, but it was locked. We circled the building, looking for a way in. I asked if she wanted me to smash in one of the windows and get in that way. She didn’t.

Returning to the front of the building, we walked up the steps to the entrance. I was startled to see Jen kneel and pray, reciting something that sounded like one of those scripted Catholic prayers. Assuming she wanted to be left alone, I backed up. While still looking forward, she said, “Please stay.”

I crouched next to her.

I then discovered that my girl Olivia has her own official prayer, which Catholics worldwide recite.

Now, that is one hell of a resume item. Something I’d bring up during the job interview. “My last job? I healed a bunch of sick people, performed miracles whenever the boss told me, and turned, oh, I dunno, a hundred thousand nasty-ass people into good Christians. My last performance review was so good that the Catholic Church wrote an official prayer for me. Humans around the world pray to me. Uh-huh, you heard me. Can any of your other candidates say that? No, I didn’t think so. Whadda ya’ say, Chief? Start tomorrow?”

I listened as Jen prayed to little old Olivia. I can’t do the verbiage justice, but the gist was acknowledging that Olivia, while on the planet, had it as bad as one person can have it but stood her ground. Perhaps she, Olivia, can share that strength, as, soon, things may get a little ugly here on Earth. When that inevitable day comes, having her kind of faith will help, especially in remembering that God is running the show and that this whole thing was His idea.

Well, that’s what I gleaned. I could be way off.

As she repeated her prayer to my girl Olivia, I thought about all the people with abundant faith I had met over the years. I reminded myself that, although I wasn’t in their spiritual boat, I was grateful to have known them.

Jen stopped talking and, still kneeling, stared straight ahead. She remained motionless for what felt like a couple of weeks. Feeling painfully self-conscious, I looked behind me to break the tension between my ears. A few people stood at attention at the bottom of the steps and watched her. I was two feet to her right, but, much to my relief, no one noticed me.

Where is she right now? What or who does she see? Olivia? Is it me, or is it suddenly getting hot around here? She’s giving an Academy Award-worthy performance of a statue and has turned the vibe on its head. How does that work? Or, as the great football coach Vince Lombardi once passionately asked his team, “What the hell’s going on out here?”

Six people had congregated behind us.

Finally, Jen stood and turned to see those watching her. They looked at each other and, I guessed, enjoyed an ethereal moment.

She sighed. “I made a promise.” Pause. “I promised.”

“With whom? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Azza.”

Azza was the woman we’d be staying with while in Tunisia. Other than telling me Azza was learning English, Jen shared no information.

We walked slowly and quietly down what could be called Main Street. It reminded me of the Champs-Élysées, except it was clean, the people were friendly, the coffee was good, and the sidewalks weren’t covered with dog poop.

Jen stopped to make a phone call.

We found an English-speaking cab driver who agreed not to renegotiate the price, returned to the hotel, picked up our luggage, and drove to Azza’s apartment. Jen was eerily silent during the drive and immune to small talk.

I asked her about Azza. How did they meet?

“It’s a long story.”

What was the promise all about, I wondered.

“It’s a long story.”

“Have you guys known each other for a long time?”

“Nope.”

I gave up.

We arrived at a two-story block house surrounded by a large concrete wall with an iron-barred security door. A young woman on the second-floor balcony watched us as we left the car. She spotted Jen, screamed joyfully, sprinted down the stairs, and opened the front door. They leaped into each other’s arms and began crying loudly. In a tight embrace, they continued sobbing, saying nothing. They showed no signs of stopping, so I set the suitcases down and quietly stepped away.

A few minutes later, they disembarked, held hands, and chatted. Jen scanned the great outdoors until she spotted me and waved me back. “Why are you all the way over there? She won’t bite.”

I returned. “I didn’t want to cast a blight upon your private moment.”

Jen giggled between sniffles. “Cast a blight. Told you he was funny. Azza, this is Drew. He won’t bite, either.”

Azza looked nervous.

Not knowing the custom, I didn’t attempt to shake hands. I gave a short bow and said, “Asslema. Tasharrafna. I hope I got that right.”

Azza stared at my feet. “I am honor, too. Jen tell me much on you.”

I turned to Jen and said, “You didn’t tell her about Toronto, did you?

She replied, “Only the bad parts.”

“Great. That’s great. No really. Thank you so much. Guess I won’t be welcomed here. I’ll be standing on the side of the road until further notice. You guys have a wonderful time. Throw me a little couscous.”

That was enough to break the ice. Still fighting back tears, Azza briefly laughed and said to Jen, “It is funny.”

We walked up the outdoor stairs and entered her apartment.

An iron-barred screen door had a padlock dangling from it. The apartment door had two large locks.

Azza had the entire second floor, while her parents and brother lived below. It was spacious, and the Arabic furniture was beautiful. There was one bedroom with a large lock hanging from the door, which worried me.

We sat for twenty minutes of stilted conversation.

They barely know each other. Weird.

During one of the awkward silences, I said, “You guys must have some catching up to do. I noticed someone had the good taste to put a beach a few blocks away. What sayeth y’all if I took a long romantic walk by myself?”

The girls thought it wasn’t necessary. By this point, it was early evening, and we all agreed to pack it in, as it had been a long day. The arrangement was for me to sleep on a row of large cushions in the main room while Jen and Azza slept in the bedroom. This way, boys and girls would have their own bathrooms.

Oh, yeah. I shouldn’t take it personally when they took that large padlock and locked themselves in the bedroom.

Azza explained that in Tunisia, boys and girls must be married before sleeping in the same room. The lock on the bedroom served as evidence that we were taking the rules seriously. Additionally, her parents preferred this arrangement to discourage any potential moral erosion on the part of the male visitor.

Not that she didn’t trust me! Of course not. That wasn’t her concern at all. In her opinion, having me in her apartment was fabulous. Not uncomfortable in the least. Hunky-dory all the way!

It’s just part of the daily ritual, kinda like routine dusting. It’s tradition, more than anything else. Have I seen “Fiddler on the Roof?” Honestly, it’s like that.

Gotta check all the boxes, you know!

I endured her psycho-babble and, eventually, told Azza that I understood, but as I watched her padlock the iron screen door and engage the two bolts on the front door, I didn’t believe a word of what she said.

“You’re safe. You can ask Jen. But please don’t mention that little misunderstanding in Toronto to her. Best to leave it in the hands of qualified medical professionals.”

From the bedroom, Jen laughed and shouted, “Shut up!”

And I do take it personally.

At 9 pm, we retired to our assigned rooms. Azza urged me to eat all the food in her refrigerator. Jen announced that we’d wake up early but didn’t explain why. They locked themselves inside. It wasn’t long before I heard them crying again. They tried to keep their conversation as quiet as possible. I tried not to listen. There were times when none of us succeeded.

I had smuggled a bottle of bourbon into the country, of course. After a few shots, I stretched out on the unbelievably comfortable cushions.

What is up with those two? Lovers? No.

What’s the common thread that causes two people to cry hysterically at first sight?

They held each other like vice grips. There was plenty of communication, but no words were spoken—just an explosion of tears.

I decided that the best course of action was to raid the refrigerator. I opened it, expecting piles of couscous to tumble onto the floor. Instead, I found rows of plastic containers filled with fully prepared meals.

On the bottom row stood one Baked Alaska.

You have got to be kidding. A Baked Alaska? In Tunisia? Maybe it’s called Baked Alaskan Couscous. Who the hell knows?

I ate some bread and had another shot of bourbon.

Jen and Azza had calmed down. They were murmuring. I was hoping to fall asleep.

It’s not just connective tissue with these two. It’s the same tissue.

Long lost family? No.

They’re strangers who seem to know each other too well. How does that work?

I started drifting off to sleep.

Why is there a Baked Alaska in the refrigerator? Who thought that was a good idea?

And what the hell is it with all the locks?

Tired. Seriously tired…

What is going on with those…two…? What….tired…

I suddenly sat up.

Oh, no. Oh, fucking hell! They were both kidnapped. And today is the first time they can share the anguish.

The bedroom was silent. I hoped they were asleep.

Staring into the darkness, I thought about the hell they endured.

And how they survived.

And how I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.

And how they managed to face another day.

And how determined Jen was to pray in public and not give a rat’s ass what anyone thought.

And about all the damage done to Jen and Azza.

Mostly, I thought about their kidnappers—the ones whose souls had turned into dark, bloody, disgusting, brutal killing fields.

Fortunately, I fell asleep before I could get too carried away with anger.

At 8 am the following day, I felt a finger repetitively tapping on my shoulder.

“Ten more minutes, please.”

I saw Azza take a sudden step backward, repeatedly apologizing for bothering me.

“It’s alright. I’ll get over it. Eventually. Maybe not. Hard to tell. Where am I? Who am I? Where are my crayons? Death, where is thy sting? How’re you?”

Azza looked bewildered.

Jen yelled from the bedroom, “Ignore him. He’ll figure everything out. We need to get going.”

I looked up. “‘Get going,’ you say. Where, one wonders. Is there logic behind this get-going nonsense? Well? We’re waiting.”

Jen walked toward me. “Church, of course.”

“Is it…Sunday?”

“Do you usually not know what day it is?”

“Do I have to answer that? These things get confusing. I’m dealing with a lot these days. Throwing additional obligations at me isn’t fair. Especially if a cerebral component is involved, you should know this by now. What was the question?”

“Yes, it’s Sunday. We need to have breakfast. I know, I know, you and breakfast have an understanding. It may take an hour to get there.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jen, I’m not keen to see the inside of another church. The thought gives me the creeps. I can’t bring myself to do it. Give the people at church a kiss for me and tell them I’ll write. I shall monitor the situation here with grand resolve behind me and a bad attitude as my sacred guide! Don’t you hate it when people say situation? ‘This is a difficult situation.’ It’s not just difficult. It’s situationally difficult. What was the question?”

I discovered Jen’s powers of persuasion. I can’t remember what she said, but her verbal arm-twisting succeeded.

I gave in. “You are evil. Concentrated evil in a can. A monument to evil…ness. Now, I will be wallowing in pain and torment. It’s all your fault. You monster! I’m taking a shower. As your way of acknowledging my forthcoming suffering, would you make some coffee? You’re welcome to filter the coffee grounds because yesterday’s coffee continues to haunt me.”

Once she stopped laughing, Jen glanced at Azza. “This is what I have been dealing with.” She looked at me. “Of course, I am honored to be your coffee girl. Do you want me to pick up your dry cleaning, Your Hiney?”

“That’s Mister Hiney. A little respect.”

I was still flat on my back. I was fully dressed but had a light blanket over me. As I started to pull the blanket off, Azza quickly walked into the bedroom.

I looked at Jen. “Is she always this distressed around men or just me?”

She shrugged. “It’s not you.”

I whispered, “She suffered the same horrible fate as you. Safe assumption?”

She nodded. “Yup.” Pause. “Yup. She sure did.” Long pause. “She can barely talk about it.”

That sounds familiar. If I were her, what would I want?

Space. Miles and miles of space. Duly noted.

After another silence, I said, “Mongo take shower now. Mongo make own coffee. Mongo pick up dry cleaning. Mongo return. Clean Mongo.”

“Got you covered on coffee.”

I showered and put on the most presentable clothing I had. When I returned to the kitchen, a cup of coffee awaited me. Azza and Jen were cooking. Azza, acting much more friendly, insisted I have breakfast.

Perhaps Jen told her I wasn’t the monster I appear to be. I don’t want to be anyone’s monster. But I am a monster. I’m a monster to myself. Others, too. I guess. Don’t be a monster. Don’t be a monster. Don’t be….

Not wanting to insult her, I took her up on the offer. The food was fabulous, although I didn’t know what was in it.

Maybe, Couscous Benedict. Couscous Lorraine. Red Velvet Couscous Rolls. Couscous Pancakes with Brown Butter-Couscous Syrup and Couscous Compote. Who knows?

The place I was being dragged to was called Saint George’s Anglican Church.

I asked, “So, who is Saint George when he’s not home?”

Jen was astonished. “You don’t know Saint George?”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

While Azza drove to his church, I received a history lesson about Saint George. Azza found it cute that I insisted on sitting in the back seat. I wasn’t pretending to be gallant. I want to spread myself out on the full width in the back. I didn’t tell her that.

Azza, for a traumatized young woman, drove like a maniacal New York City cab driver. I was very impressed. I told her as much and received a gleeful laugh. So that was good.

According to Jen and Azza, George was a martyr and a major player in the saint world. He may have been a CEO. He was a C-Level or, as they refer to it in the religion business, a “megalomartyr.”

I’m unsure how the career paths work. I asked if it’s like the tech world, where one must pass an advanced megaolmartyr certification exam. No, actually. It’s more of an ad-hoc process. It’s difficult to say because those who make these decisions won’t share any information with anyone.

At any rate, George’s life sounded similar to Olivia’s. He was a nice person, spread the Good News, helped the poor, repeatedly tortured for his trouble, and got his head chopped off.

Back then, if you were a torture equipment salesperson, you were working overtime. The demand for horrific and twisted methods of torture was skyrocketing. It was the pharmaceuticals market of its time.

After he lost his head, George was fast-tracked to big-time sainthood, where George hit the big time. There is a boatload of Saint George patronages: countries, cities, religions, militaries, agriculture, and cultures.

He’s the Patron Saint of the Boy Scouts.

He’s even the Patron Saint of Herpes.

I’m not kidding. If there’s a herpes prayer, then I don’t want to hear it.

That started Jen’s bizarre explanation of Big George’s history.

She said George put himself on the religious map by slewing a dragon in the third century.  

Well, I immediately raised my hand. “A dragon? You’re sure it was a dragon. I don’t think dragons existed on…”

Jen continued without acknowledging me. The interesting part of the story is that George didn’t just bump off any dragon. This dragon had moved at an impressive pace along the evolutionary trail because he was actively extorting the people living in a village. I didn’t realize that dragons had a talent for that sort of thing.

Evidently, some do.

After taking everything from the villagers, the dragon demanded periodic human sacrifices. One day, he required the local king to deliver his daughter for a sacrifice, and the king agreed.

Enter Big George, who came along and spotted the daughter, who was sitting around throwing a fit because she was about to be tossed into the dragon’s den. George stepped up, used a lance to slay the dragon, and carried the poor, dumb slob daughter to safety.

Okay, a few things.

First, what the hell kind of king agrees to sacrifice his daughter? You’re the king. Pick someone else, jack-ass.  And don’t hold your breath on winning that Father-of-the-Year award.

Next, if it was that easy, why didn’t some loser villager get a lance and take care of the dragon sooner? Were they out of lances? No money in the lance budget? Pull some cash from that torture equipment account, you sick bastards.

Finally, I’m still struggling to get my arms around the dragons that can pull off extortion schemes. Have you heard about these dragons?

 At any rate, King Dipshit crawled out from under his rock and offered Big George a mountain of treasure for saving his daughter, who probably ran off with her greasy, high school dropout, biker boyfriend just to piss off Loser Boy Dad.

George, to his great credit, told the king to give the treasure to people who needed it. This shocked the villagers to such an extent that they all became Christians. I don’t know how that worked. I wasn’t up to speed on the particulars of mass conversions, but I took her word for it.

Still, I pushed back on one point. “Can we go back to the dragon? You’re positive it was a dragon. Do you have any idea what kind of dragon we are talking about? Black Dragon? Doberman Dragon? Cocker Dragon?”

Jen insisted it was a dragon…of sorts. As far as the type is concerned, it could be best described as a Metaphorical Dragon.

I immediately raised my hand again. “Are you saying Big George lanced a metaphor?”

Well, yes. She admitted this did seem odd. Another notable aspect was that none of this may have happened in the first place. Regardless, George rode the coattails of this potentially untrue story all the way to megalomartyrdom.

Churches were built for this guy all over the world.

This is truly the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard.

We arrived early for the service. As we approached the church, my discomfort needle went to eleven. I probably looked like someone preparing for a firing squad. There was a cemetery on the grounds, presumably for other wicked, heathen sinners who faced the same firing squad.

Jen asked if I was okay.

“No. Don’t wanna go. Hate these places”

Slowly I turn into Quasimodo. The monster has reared his ugly head. With any luck at all, everyone will scatter when they see me. Church will be cancelled. That’ll get me out of this.

Azza didn’t look frightened for the first time since we made our acquaintance. “Why is it?”

I explained my two years of mandatory church attendance as a child. The congregation, most of whom looked like they hadn’t taken a dump in a month, wanted nothing to do with me. The person in charge of greeting attendees refused to acknowledge me. The priest told me not to bother him. I felt that the people around me were united in their disdain for yours truly. Speaking of disdain, I discovered early on that God hated me, too, because there was no coming back from all the sins I had committed. So, once my ticket was punched, off to Hell I’d go.

After a couple of years of walking home feeling depressed and holding back tears, my parents, who didn’t attend a single service, agreed to abandon the idea of church. Presumably, because they no longer cared what the neighbors thought.

Because church made me feel like a monster. Quite the revelation on my part. Thirty years too late but I’m not that quick on the uptake. Am I? No. No, I am not.

I may have laid it on too thick. Azza’s eyes welled up. Jen stared at the ground and said, “Sad.”

Azza said she was sorry that occurred. “Thank you, Azza. You’re very kind. I appreciate that. You’re the last person who needs to apologize to anyone.”

There wasn’t a designated greeter at the church who was supposed to pretend to be glad we showed up. About two dozen people were outside, eager to meet us. I have a strong bullshit detector and could tell these people weren’t lying.

The congregation appeared to have recently made practical use of a bathroom. They were nice. Surprisingly, the priest was happy to be there and delivered a very energetic yet lighthearted sermon. I had no idea what he was talking about. It may have been something about goats.

I enjoyed the presentation, though. This is because I’m shallow.

The experience was a relief. I was calmer on the drive back to Azza’s place. The conversation among the three of us was easier and much livelier.

After we arrived at the apartment, Azza wanted to know if I wanted to take in the beach for the afternoon.

I assured her that I did.

I put on some gym shorts, sneakers and a T-shirt. The girls dressed very conservatively. We walked down the stairs. Azza took a detour to the first floor and conversed with an adult male. Out of earshot, Jen and I stood by the outdoor gate and watched her.

I asked, “Would that be the father?”

“I think so.” Jen paused. “She’s telling him we’re going to the beach.”

The presumptive father stepped to one side and stared at me. I gave him a head nod.

“I think the dad is sizing me up. Should I be concerned?”

Jen giggled. “Yup.”

Presumably, Dad approved. Azza walked towards us and indicated all systems were go. We left while Dad stared at me. I waved to him. He nodded in return.

Jen must have suggested the beach excursion to Azza. For my sake. Does she know I’m feeling like a monster? It wouldn’t surprise me if she did.

We walked to the beach, which was stunning. The weather was perfect, and the water was crystal clear. Everyone we encountered was friendly. A couple of folks knew Azza and were emotional in their greetings.

We stretched out on the beach. I noticed my hyper-vigilance. So did the girls. If one of them walked somewhere, even a few yards, I stood up and kept an eye out for random attackers. When they both went to the potty, I sauntered thirty feet behind them.

Am I doing this for your sake? Hell, no. It’s to keep my monstrous self at bay. I’m just trying to feel better about myself. Nothing more.  

I laughed. “Sorry. Can’t help it.”

Azza said, “Is your turn not say sorry.”

I quoted Monty Python. “Look! No one is to apologize to anyone until I blow this whistle. Even if, and I want to make this perfectly clear, even if they do say they’re sorry!”

It is always my turn to say sorry.

Jen looked at Azza. “Yes, he’s always like this.”

Yes, he is. Is that a good thing? I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s good at all.

But it’s all I have.

—END OF CHAPTER THREE—

Next Chapter