Braveheart Bob

'So I was pulled up at this robot (stoplight) and this bloke walks up to the car with all these sunglasses. He says 'hey mon, how bouts some sunnies (sunglasses)?' and I tell him to piss off. He asks me again and I tell him to piss off. He was a huge guy though. He doesn't leave so I roll down my window and tell em I wanna try on a pair or two. He hands a few in and I'm laughing at how stupid this fella is cause I've got a plan.'

I sighed, half listening to the story from the short South African, while those around us seemed enraptured and glued to his words that were all pronounced in a deep Afrikaans accent.

'So I've managed to get three pairs from the huge bloke and I've got one on and he's asking me questions that I'm ignoring. Stupid questions. Then the light turned green and I shouted at em 'fuck off and go back to your own country!' and jammed on the gas and screeched away. He was running after me yelling and all I could do was laugh...I mean he could've killed me if he caught me, but heh...', he shrugged it off very macho-ly.

I pretended to be studying the bottles of Coca Cola in the glass doored fridge that was to my right, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of falsely thinking I was believing or enjoying his cruel story. A couple of the others at the table all chuckled and traded a few more stories about being bad-asses. I found it hard to bite my lip again when the conversation starter, the guy with the sunglasses story, started telling war stories about flying in Chad.

When the rebels invaded Abeche, for the 145th time, last November, I was conveniently sipping cold beers with Elizabeth on a beach off the coast of Thailand in the Andaman Sea. I wouldn't have it any other way. Not that I had planned it that way by any means, though had I known I probably would have decided it to be an ideal time for a beach cocktail getaway anyway. Yet Steve and Myriam had remained in Abeche along with other AirServ staff and all the other various NGOs staff as well.

When I returned, among other stories I heard, was the one about the pilot for WFP (which, ironically does not stand for World Food Program, but actually for We're Fucking Pussies) who had lost it and was sent home. The day after I arrived he was shipped off, and we all bid him a giggly farewell. The story goes that the rebels invaded, and after 24 hours the staff of WFP made a trek across town to seek refuge in the French Military Garrison. When it was clear the rebels had left the town the following evening many NGOs, WFP included, returned briefly to their compounds to survey the damage, if any. When the pilot in question returned to his compound with the rest of the crew he found a single empty cartridge in his bedroom, which had evidently come from a (drum roll please...) gun. Upon seeing a mysterious shell lying on his floor, pilot in question -we'll call him Bob for convenience sake-broke down into hysterical fits and began crying uncontrollably. Hours later when the WFP crew returned to the French Base Bob was still crying to the amusement and confusion of the French soldiers and other NGO staff. Aah, the fearless African bush pilot. Recovery did not come quick for Bob, in fact he and others requested he be removed from his posting and replaced immediately. Poor Bob.
It's funny, to me in a weird way, to see what sets people off, and what makes them crack in this sort of fashion. I don't want to think about what will make me do it, and I hope I never experience an attack of Bobitis.

I sat and thought about how it could be that Bob had forgot that I had known him, and his less that valorous history in Chad, as he sat 3 feet away and bragged about how brave, cunning and adventurous he is, and was. I read more Coke bottle labels instead of ruining his moment of glory. Someday Bobby-boy, someday.