The Fuzz

Our reports, far overdue and whispering of taking hours upon hours for us to complete, had to wait. We had a meeting, with Policeman. Another guy I’d never met, some new source to exploit. New to me anyway. So we head off to the cage; the front gate security which demands entrance through various vetting and security points. At one point, a chain link cage, and some guards. That’s where we’d meet him.

Getting out of the car and stepping onto the gravel parking lot Susan quips: “There is not enough rocks and gravel here. They need to put more, so that I cannot walk at all!” I laugh at this sweet older lady whose English is wonderfully changed in translation.

He wasn’t there though. Instead a young man who seemed upset was yelling at the guards. Yelling that he is sick of being on the blacklist and he just wants to get a job so that he can come on the base. The guards, they don’t care. They tell him to come back next month and see if he’s still on the list. Susan asks, “What kind of a black list is this that you can get off it in a month?” I laugh. The guy glares. So I approach.

“Hey man. What’s up?”
“Trying to get entrance so I can get a job.” His English is good, slight accent, but understandable and pronounced well.
“Why were you black-listed?” I didn’t even know you should be black-listed, to be honest.
“I brought some things on base, twice, 2 years ago.” He’s wearing something like jeans and a faux designer shirt. Decent belt. Track shoes.
“Haha. They don’t fuck around, huh? Your English is good.” Remember, in case of nothing to say, offer a compliment.
“I also speak Russian, Kurdish, Turkish.” There we go, offer up the things I want to know anyway.
“Oh yeah? How’d you learn all of that? And why are you trying to get a job?”
“I learned it in school and from university. I want a job so I can get a Visa and get out of this country, I hate it here this place is horrible.” Motive, if nothing else.

Work him a little more and like a professional pick up artist walk away with his phone number, a promise to talk, and a crippled hand shake through the fence. The Policeman calls and informs us, his car is broken down. At least we can get back to the office and write those reports we’ve been neglecting.

I never called. I wonder if he’s still waiting by the phone, yearning to hear an American voice. Or possibly, plotting against one.