Indian men would woo an albino gorilla because of their white appearance.
On a bus from Mirik to Siliguri, India, I felt as attractive as cottage cheese thighs. I had hiked the previous day through mud as well as cow and horse feces, perspiring in the sultry sun. I returned to my hostel dirt-drowned and as debilitated-drowsy as a hamster that had been administered an elephant tranquilizer. I slumbered without showering and regained brain waves the subsequent morning twenty minutes before my bus departure. I assembled my accoutrements with as much attention as President Bush gave his public speeches.
I bulged into the bus and submerged into the seat mollified that I had made it. As soon as my bags and I were settled, a newspaper manifested in front of my face, floating, as unexpected as one of my friends saying to a bar hook-up after seeing him naked, "This explains your car." I seat rotated."I love Bob Marley," a male with Steven Tyler's smile said. He altered the paper from my face to the top of the seat.
"Okay?" I replied, pondering if Motel 6 would reject the mission statement, Because you deserve better than a car's backseat.
"You want to read the newspaper?"
"Oh, no thank you. I just want to sit. And relax. Quietly."
"There's an article in this newspaper that talks about Bob Marley's relatives. They didn't even know about him! Read it."
"Oh, no thank you," I responded. I'm happy just sitting."
"But it's about Bob Marley! Read it.""Oh. Okay. Fine," and I plucked the paper from the seat. As I read about how Bob Marley's few living relations reside in England, had never heard of him until a week ago, and, when listened to his music, weren't impressed, Steven Tyler sentence-strayed about Bob Marley, Nickelback, Bob Marley, ACDC, Bob Marley, and Kurt Colbain and his Seattle origination. I recalled the name Kurt Colbain but not what band he was in. I knew as much about his hometown location as I knew about slurping laws in New Jersey. Apparently Kurt Colbain is from Seattle, and it's illegal to slurp soup in New Jersey.
"Am I boring you?" Steven Tyler queried.
"No. But I'm reading this Marley article. So I'm not going to respond as often to what you're saying."
"I think I'm boring you. Am I boring you?" he repeated.
"I'm reading the article you're making me read, and no, you're not boring me. But I'm reading."After being asked three more times in thirty seconds about my interest elevation, I returned the paper.
"My name is Sezzie. Like Bob Marley. See? Sezzie. Like Bob Marley!" Barmy beamed. He secured his shirt sleeves above his elbows and exposed a tattoo exhibition on his arms. They were enveloped in musical artists. The names and logos of ACDC and Nickelback, marijuana leaves and a Jamaican flag leafed his arms. Bob Marley's head hugged his left forearm. Sezzie beseeched me to stay at his uncle's house with him and greet his grandma. I replied that I couldn't, but thank you. He asked if we could be good friends. Sure. Sezzie bequeathed two black bracelets on me. My Godzilla hands didn't fit into the pygmy bracelets that had adorned his wrists. He goat-grunted as he extended the bracelets to fit. Once he forced them on with the effort it takes to lift a two-hundred-pound plumber, my wrists felt like they were nipples in nipple clamps.
I placed Bob Marley on my iPod and issued it to Sezzie. He sang No Woman No Cry, Buffalo Soldier, and seven more songs in a voice remarkably reminiscent of Janice's singing on the television show Friends. The passengers surrounding us stared at me like I had injected Swine Flu into their corneas.
After another hour of Indian driving, Sezzie singing to ACDC and Nickelback and me simulating sleep or watching out the window, Sezzie exited. I reclined my head into my seat, closed my eyes and contemplated how I could acquire a tank. As I sold my Jetta before my South America excursion, I am car-less. And I prefer driving defensively. A tank would be ideal.
Hand hooks abruptly appeared on either side of my face. My head hammered forward and the side of my mouth collided with Sezzie's lips. As he ran away I recalled reading a road accident report saying, "The other car collided with mine without giving any warning."