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Do Not Attempt to Snapshot the Locals
Duane read it in the both the Fodor and Michellin travel guides, but he
decided to ignore the warning. What was the purpose of traveling if not to
record the journey on his digital camera, download the images when he got
back to his hotel room, post them on his web page and email the link to all
of his acquaintances back home? Surely there was no law against
photography. That would be so un-American.
Yet here he was, in the back room of the clandestine headquarters of the
Revolutionary Guard, chained to the foot of a Cold War era Russian army
surplus bed, eating baba ghanoush and beaten every half hour by the bearded
guard, while the translator with the Bombay accent relayed questions and
answers back and forth.
"Do you believe the camera will steal your soul?" Duane asked.
Thwap! The guard's whip slashed across his back, followed by, what was to
Duane, unintelligible gibberish.
"I'll ask the questions," translated the interpreter. "That is a primitive
superstition. Do you think you are dealing with a Stone Age society? You
are here because you photograph our women."
"I recognize your voice," said Duane to the interpreter. "I think you
helped me with a computer problem. Are you Maverick?"
The interpreter translated it to the guard.
Schmack! The whip cut a welt in the skin over Duane's latissimus dorsi. "I
am not customer service," said the guard in English. "Maverick is the
interpreter's brother."
Maverick's brother interpreted the guard's English into English, then
interpreted what followed, "You didn't tell us why you were photographing
the women."
"Were those women?" asked Duane. "How can you tell? They were completely
covered. There could be anything under those robes."
"This one has her eyes uncovered," said the guard, forgetting to use his
native tongue.
"Harumph!" uttered an unseen presence over the speaker next to the
surveillance camera.
Whappety, whappety, whap! The guard did some serpentine wrist twists and
ripped a cursive "M" into Duane's left buttock.
The interpreter immediately repeated Duane's words in the local language and
the guard reverted to the native tongue, which the interpreter translated.
"We know it was a woman, because only women wear the veil."
"Why are you translating if you both speak English?" asked Duane.
"Did you ever stop to think that I might not speak English?" said the voice
over the speaker.
"Apparently you do," said Duane.
"Work with us," said Maverick's brother. "It's a union rule. Every scene
in a foreign setting must have a translator."
Suddenly, the lights went out and the air raid siren screamed. Explosions
fractured the silence and the scent of gunfire drifted under the door. A
well-placed kick shattered the lock and the door swung open to reveal a
well-endowed brunette in star-spangled hot pants and a gold and red bustier.
"Dammit," said the voice over the speaker. "Not again."
"Ooops, sorry, wrong set," said the superheroine as she turned and undulated
away, twirling her golden lasso and rolling her hips. Thwit, thwit.
"I love the sound of spandex in the morning," said Maverick's brother.
"The hour was up anyway," said the speaker voice. "Shall we schedule you
again for next week?"
"Sure," said Duane. "Can I try the superheroine scene next time?"
"As you wish," said the voice. "She has an opening on her schedule at 2
p.m."
"I'll have to reschedule an appointment to have my moustache waxed," said
Duane, "but I'll do it."
John A. Ward was born on Staten
Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck Magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio
running, writing and living with his dance partner. He has published in
Doorknobs & Bodypaint, Clockwise Cat, Apollo's Lyre, Ascent Aspirations,
Static Movement, Toasted Cheese, Green Tricycle, Alighted Ezine, Lit Bits,
Cenotaph Pocket Edition, The San Antonio Express-News, Antithesis Common,
Wild Child, Holy Cuspidor, Idlewheel, Cautionary Tale, Sentence, Sun Poetic
Times, Byline, Quirk, ken*again, R-KV-R-Y, The Smoking Poet, Long Story
Short and Rose & Thorn.
Email: John A. Ward
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