Buddy and Roble

Today was the day that I promised to take Fagette to City Hall to see the Portuguese boy fight for the rights of his people to play chess outdoors at a stone table. Keeping in mind Marco’s wise words of tough love at breakfast the other morning I decided we should go shopping first. It was important that we displayed the correct look for such an august occasion. This was her first introduction to democracy in the purest sense. I’m still not sure it works but I’m willing to put it to a vote.
Shopping for Fagette was impossible. It’s easier to buy uranium for Iran. All she wanted was one more pants/dress outfit exactly like the one she’s wearing in the picture but in a different colour, she didn’t care what. I didn’t know how to respond to that. How can you be vague about colour? It’s like not caring if you live or die. I care so much I bought a sensational pair of orange Capri pants, these boxy patent leather shoes with Cuban heels the exact colour as the Pope's Mahnolo Blahniks and a flaming pink nubbly top from Garganzo. Take that death! Plus I just had to. It gave the child such joy. On the way to City Hall in our sharp new outfits, well hers just looked like she’d done her laundry, we got a ride from an incredibly sexy cab driver called Roble Shabirrap, originally from Somalia and presently from my dreams. He used to be a film maker in his country before it descended into anarchy. As I looked into his dark bedroom eyes reflected in his rearview mirror I knew that if I got within a foot of him I would descend there myself. He said he was quite big in the Horn of Africa, that he made a movie about a camel that cried that was seen all over the Horn. Said the word horn about eight times. Kept repeating it like Tom Green. He was dressed in the loose white pants and the long white shirt with socks and sandals combo I like so much and I mentioned to him how much I liked his look. He said he was only wearing his djullaba, that’s what he called it, because it was laundry day and that was all he had to wear. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not he was so dry. He complimented Fagette on her unique way of dressing and pointed out that it was a variation of what he wore, a long shirt/dress over pants. She beamed as her dangerous idiosyncrasy was validated and my heart sank as I knew I’d lost her to the world of common sense. Then he told her that her name meant ‘precious flower’ in his native language and I thought she was going to die. I thought I was going to be sick I was so turned on. He’s probably married. That type always is. I sure wish I got his number. Probably has a little daughter himself. The bastard. …


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