The Tourist By FireWire

Story No. 7

In a town on the Amazon River, a tourist is browsing the straw hats in a large general store.

Plenty of hats, but no wide brims my size. The captain says Manaus is an hour downriver. Covering the hole with duct tape will do the job until I get to the airport. Time to return to the boat.

A woman walks into the store and goes to a long counter where a clerk is standing. She says something to the clerk who turns and goes into a room behind the counter.

Holy Shazam! That woman is unreal! No way – no way in hell – can she be a dyke. Maybe a butch haircut and bib overalls are the style around here. I’ll wait until she walks out the store. No. I’ll take this hat, stand beside her at the counter, and pretend like I’m going to buy it. I’ll ask her if this is the right hat to wear on a steamer trip down the river.

A tall, heavy, thickset man walks slowly into the store and to the counter. He stands close to the woman— looking, leering. Without glancing at the man, the woman turns to walk away. The man pats her butt. The woman spins around and pushes the man hard with both hands. The man, surprised by her quick turnaround, caught with his feet together, stumbles backward, holding on to the counter. He recovers and takes a step towards her.

She’s giving the big boy up-and-down the river, but he’s not getting the message. That’s one tough mama, but she’s going to need help controlling the slime-ball gorilla.

Swiftly, silently, the tourist crosses the store and positions himself between the woman and the man. Standing inches from the surprised man, the tourist’s eyes stare impassively into the other man’s eyes while his peripheral vision watches the man’s shoulders for movement. The tourist is 245 pounds of tightly-packed dynamite primed to explode without warning. After a few seconds, the man steps backward, turns, and walks quickly out the door.

When the man is out the door, the tourist turns around and is surprised to see the woman standing to one side of him, closing her shoulder bag.

She snaps the bag shut, looks at him, and smiles. After a few moments she says, “Origada Senhor,” pauses, and walks out the door.

The tourist watches the woman walk to the door. He continues staring at the door after she has gone.

The clerk comes out the back room holding a package, about the size of a book, wrapped in brown paper. “Senhora?” the clerk says loudly.

The tourist turns to the clerk. “How much?”

“Twenty,” the clerk says.

The tourist hands the clerk a fifty-dollar bill. “I’ll deliver it. Keep the change.” The clerk hands him the package, and the tourist walks rapidly to the front door.

The tourist looks up and down the street, but doesn’t see her. He returns to the counter.

“Do you know the woman who ordered this package?” the tourist asks the clerk.

The clerk shakes his head.

The tourist retrieves his bag from the boat, checks into a hotel, and starts walking the streets in search of the woman.

Where did all these people come from? I’m never going to find her. I need a plan B. I’ll return to the store, stand outside, and hope she comes back for her package. I should have done that in the first place. There was nothing in my bag which couldn’t have been replaced.

Pushing through the crowd, he feels a brush against his left arm. The woman from the store is walking beside him.

He looks at the woman. “Speak English?” he asks.

“I’m from Peoria,” the woman says.

“Illinois?”

“Yes. I heard you have a package for me.”

The tourist hands her the package. “I was looking for you. I wanted to deliver it to you.”

“Thanks once again. Two good deeds deserve a reward,” the woman says. “Can I treat you to dinner?”

The tourist gives her two thumbs up. “You got it.”

The woman and the tourist are sitting at a floating restaurant on the Amazon River looking at their menus.

“What do you recommend?” the tourist asks the woman.

“The tucunaré. The English translation is peacock bass; it attracts sports fishermen from around the world, but I take it you aren’t here on a fishing trip.”

“You might say I’m between gigs. A while back, I was walking down the street in New York and saw a poster in a travel agency window which said, “Looking for Adventure? Take an Amazon Cruise.” So I thought, “Sounds exciting. I’ll give it a shot.” And here I am.”

“How has it been so far?”

“It’s been interesting, but not exciting—until this morning. Standing beside the hat rack in an old-fashion general store was not where I expected to find the adventure I had been looking for. Do you get hassled like that often?”

“Rarely. The word is out I don’t tolerate macho come-ons and my best friend is Maria Elena Silva, whose brother is the local police chief and whose father is the military commander of this district. If there is still a problem, then I have this.” She takes a small pistol from her purse. “Lorenzo, Maria Elena’s brother, gave this to me and told me to use it if I had to.”

“Do you know how to use it?” the tourist asks.

“Of course.” The woman offers the butt of the pistol to the tourist.

He reaches for the pistol. Without taking her eyes off the tourist, the woman twirls the pistol back towards her bringing the butt to her hand, unlocks the safety, and cocks the hammer, all in one swift motion.

The tourist raises his hands. “I surrender,” he says. “I thought I was the one that scared off that bozo this morning. But it wasn’t me. He was looking down the barrel of your gun.”

She laughs and puts the pistol in the in her bag. “You ran him off. I had my hand in my bag just in case. After all, he was bigger than you.”

She extends her hand. “Now that we are friends, my name is Ellen Hanes, B.A. in English from Purdue University, ex-Peace Corps, and currently a construction company owner.”

He takes her hand. “Bobby Crawford and that’s a hard act to follow.”

She chuckles. “You were pretty impressive this morning.”

He shrugs. “Just happened to be looking for a hat and was swept along by events.”

They finish their meal and are watching the sun set over the river.

“What led you to become a construction company owner in the Amazon?” he asks. “That’s an unusual career path for a B.A. in English.”

“It arose from an unforeseen event, of course. After graduating from Purdue, I was interviewing for a high-school English teacher’s job when it occurred to me I didn’t want to be an English teacher after all. It occurred to me my life so far had been 'blah' and, as a result, I was a “blah'.”

She takes a sip of coffee.

The Peace Corps was recruiting on campus and, like you, I thought the Amazon sounded exciting. I chose Guyana because English was the official language, but, for some reason I never figured out, I was assigned to work with the Tucano Indians on the Essequibo River who only spoke Portuguese. After a year, in Guyana, I heard the Brazilian Ministry of Education was starting a pilot program for at-risk teens and had asked the Peace Corps if it had volunteers to be teacher-trainers. I volunteered, was accepted, and was assigned here.

She pauses, clasps her hands, and runs them down the back of her head.

“Now comes the unforeseen event. During that year with the Peace Corps, I became friends with another American. He was on a mission to show his father he wasn’t the worthless wannabe his father considered him to be. His father had founded and owned a major American construction company, so my friend came here to be away from his father’s interference and to start his own construction company from scratch. I worked with him at construction sites in the afternoons and on the weekends. At the end of the year, I left the Peace Corps and joined him full-time. Two years later, he returned to the states to run his father’s company. The day he left, I cut my hair and took over the company. It’s been exciting ever since.”

“Wow,” he says. “Some story.”

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“At the moment, New York.”

“I guess you go where gigs are,” she says.

“That’s about it.”

“What instrument do you play?”

“The guitar. And I sing too. Just small rock bands. I fill in when somebody can’t make it. It’s not big time, but I like it. Meeting other musicians and the satisfaction of knowing I can play at the professional level.”

“If you would like to stay for a while and experience the culture firsthand, I have a temporary opening in my company. I don’t pay much by American standards, but I can get you a discount at the hotel, and we can eat meals together at my expense. In the evenings and weekends, we can hang out with my friends. Most of them are college graduates, and all of them speak English, so you won’t have to worry about the language.”

“Sounds great. I worked construction as a carpenter during summers in college, so I have plenty of experience to offer.”

“I have carpenters. One of my big men went up-country to be with his family for a few weeks. What I need is someone to haul heavy things on the site which are too small for a crane until he returns. Would you be interested in a job like that?”

“Sure.‘Anything for culture!’ is my motto.”

“Then let’s celebrate the occasion,” she says taking the brown paper off the package from the store and revealing a gold foil paperboard box. She removes the box lid and offers the open box to him. “Which do you prefer?” she asks.

“I’ll take a dark chocolate with nuts.”

A week has passed. Ellen and Bobby are at a Saturday night party given by Ellen’s friend, Maria Elena and her husband, Roberto.

Ellen hands Bobby a drink and says, “Maria Elena and Roberto are very much taken by you.”

“They’re good folks, but I think Roberto is disappointed I don’t play soccer. Is Roberto some type of soccer all-star?”

“In his senior year, Roberto was the leading scorer for his college team,” Ellen says. “Now he plays on one of the municipal men’s teams. Mara Elena and I play on a municipal woman’s team named the Little Canaries. Tomorrow is soccer day here, the woman in the afternoon and the men in the evening. This week, I skipped practice because you were here, but next week, if you want, you can watch our practices. We practice on Tuesday and Thursday.”

“I’d like to. Is that how you met Maria Elena? Playing soccer?”

“Yes. We hit it right off.”

After a short pause, Ellen says, “Roberto knows not everyone is inclined to play competitive sports. As for me, I’m impressed that you had the drive and determination to make the most of your musical talent. Only a select few have what it takes to be a professional musician.”

A man joins them, puts his arm around Ellen’s shoulder, and kisses her on the cheek. “As always, your diamond outshines all others in the room,” he says to her.

Ellen smiles at the man. “Lorenzo, this is Bobby Crawford. Bobby, this is Lorenzo Rei, Maria Elena’s brother.

After shaking hands with Bobby, Lorenzo says, “I have heard nothing but good things about you from Maria Elena and Roberto, so I am glad to finally to meet you.” He puts his arm around Ellen again and says to Bobby, “Ellen is my sister. Make sure no harm befalls her. Enjoy your visit. If I can be of assistance, please call me.” He gives Ellen a hug and walks away.

“I wouldn’t want to be on his unwanted list,” Bobby says.

“What do you mean?” Ellen asks.

“His eyes were drilling a hole through me while he was saying you were his sister, and if anything bad happened to you, he would come calling.”

Ellen chuckles. “I hope you were paying attention.”

“You bet I was.” He looks towards the band’s platform. “The band has an extra guitar. Do you think I could sit in on a couple of songs with them? They’ve been playing American rock all night.”

“I’m sure you can. Everyone would enjoy seeing you on stage. Let me ask Welton, the band’s manager, before they return from break. I’ll be right back.”

It’s late the following Sunday morning. Ellen and Bobby are at breakfast.

“How do you like my uniform?” Ellen asks.

“Nice. You know, since I met you, I’ve learned a lot about the health risks associated with being here.”

“What health risks?”

“I’ve learned that bib overalls are dangerous, soccer uniforms are contagious, and a black cocktail dress is life-threatening.”

For a moment she looks at him as if he is wearing his baseball cap sideways, then she chuckles. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Barely,” he says. “By the way, was the big diamond you were wearing last night real, or a Brazilian look-like-a-diamond?”

“Do you mean this?” she says pulling the silver chain from under her uniform top and dangling a large, brilliant, sparkling pendent.”

“That’s it. It looks even bigger in the daytime.”

She puts the pendent back under her uniform. “It’s real. When I was in the Peace Corps in Guyana, I had been with the Tucanos about six months when one of the older Tucano women, Sa, asked if I would like to go with her and some of the other older woman to pan for gold by the river. It sounded like fun, so I went along. I squatted down on the edge of the river with my little pan and moved it around under the water like Sa was doing—not a clue as to what I was doing. Sa lifted her pan, and I saw a little shiny flake when she moved the sand around. I lifted my pan and moved the sand around, but all I had was a large piece of mud-covered quartz. Sa touched me on the arm and nodded for me to follow her. When we were behind some trees, she took the stone out of the pan, wiped the mud off, and handed it to me. She said in a low voice, “Put this in your pocket and don’t take it out until you are alone with your mother.”

“How long did you keep it in your pocket?”

“A month. At the end of that month, I returned to Peoria on annual leave. I took the stone to our family jeweler who took one look at it and said, “Oh Boy!” He sent it to New York for cutting, and I picked up the pendent before I transferred here. I haven’t taken it off since.”

“Is it insured?”

“I inquired about insurance, but couldn’t get it unless I kept the diamond in a safe deposit box and wore it on an occasional basis in a secure location. Well, that’s just not the way I live. I use what I own. If something is important to me, I want to use it. I want it with me all the time—not just on special occasions. The pendent and the pistol are the only two things I own that mean anything to me, and they go where I go, and they sleep where I sleep.”

“Ellen opens her pocket book and takes out a business card. You made a big impression on Welton last night.”

“Who?”

“Welton. The business manager for the band.”

“Oh yes.”

“The company he works for manages the top bands in Brazil. He asked if you would like to audition for an opening with the Unchronics, a very popular national group based in Manaus. I’ve heard they make good money—comparable to bands back home.” She slowly, shyly slides the business card towards him. “Welton’s private number is on the back. I told him you were between gigs.”

Bobby takes the card. He looks at it for a few moments. He clears his throat. “It’s time to set the record straight. While I do play the guitar and sing professionally—I even belong to the musicians’ union—Local 802—it’s not my main line of business. I play music during the off-season as a hobby, something I enjoy doing. My main line of business is professional football. I’m a linebacker for the New York Giants.”

Ellen stares at him for several seconds.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asks.

“I didn’t want to change our relationship. When people—women—find out I’m a professional football player, I get the rush, but I never know if it’s sincere. Maybe it’s not me; maybe it’s the prestige of dating a football player. It doesn’t bother most guys; they understand it comes with the job. But it bothers me. It always has. I just wanted us to be two average people getting to know each other. That’s all.”

“I can imagine why you would feel like that. Why don’t we just keep on going like we were?"

Bobby smiles and nods. “Super.” After a moment, he says “There is another issue. I have to leave in two weeks for the start of the season.”

Ellen shrugs. “That’s two weeks away.”

A week has passed. It’s Sunday afternoon; the women’s municipal soccer games are in play. Bobby is in the stands watching Ellen’s team, the Little Canaries, when Roberto sits down beside him.

“How are our Little Canaries doing?” Roberto asks.

“No score, but Ellen and Maria Elena are keeping the goalie busy.”

“Those two deliver a good one-two punch. Ellen strikes them from the left and Mary Elena strikes them from the right.”

“Roberto, there is something I have been wanting to ask you.”

“Go ahead. Shoot.”

“What happened between Ellen and the guy who went back to the states? From what she told me, and the way she said it, I assumed he dumped her.”

“Dumped?”

“Dumped like he left Brazil without asking her to go along.”

“No. Most definitely not. I have first-hand knowledge of the events: first from Justino, Ellen’s lead foreman, and second from Maria Elena.”

“I know Justino. I’ve been working for him the past two weeks. Good man.”

“Chris Mason was the guy. Extremely go-get-it, but charming and considerate at the same time making him popular as well as admired for what he had done: building a profitable construction company in less than two years with nothing but his hands and his brain.”

“That’s what I’ve heard from the men at the construction site,” Bobby says. “They told me he was estranged from his father.”

“True. Justino was nearby when Chris’ father came to the construction site to ask his son’s forgiveness. The father said he would give up day-to-day operations and let Chris run the company if he would come back to the states. At that time, Chris introduced Ellen to his father and said Ellen would be coming back with him. The father embraced Ellen and said, “Welcome to the family.”

After a few moments, Bobby says, “She didn’t go.”

“That’s correct. Chris left for the states about three months ago, alone. About a week before you came—it was a week exactly—he returned—unannounced. He called Maria Elena from the airport and asked if Ellen had a boyfriend. He said he was going to ask Ellen to reconsider.”

After a few moments, Bobby asks, “Reconsider what? Not returning to the states with him?”

“Probably. But, there is a problem. Ellen does not gossip. She keeps the affairs of her heart to herself, not even discussing them with Maria Elena. Before Ellen met Chris, Maria Elena and I thought she had no interest in men or women other than friendship. A woman content to sleep alone at night.”

After her soccer game, Ellen drops Bobby off at his hotel.

“I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half. We can buy the wine on the way to Izabel’s,” Ellen says.

“All right.” Bobby starts to open the truck door and pauses. “This isn’t related to this evening, but it’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. Has your friend, the one who started the company, ever called to see how things were going?”

She frowns. “So you’ve heard the story.”

“Just what you told me, and that shortly before I arrived, he came back to see you.”

She gives him a hard look. “Why do you want to know what happened? I barely know you.”

“You’re right. It’s none of my business. But you can’t blame me for wanting to know why you didn’t choose to return to the states with him. By all accounts, he was the kind of man most women can only dream about.”

He reaches for the door handle.

“My heart said, ‘He’s not the one.’ Ellen says.”

He stops, turns towards her, and waits for her to continue.

After several moments, she says. “What I mean is when it came time to leave, I knew I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with him. I can’t put my finger on the reason, and, even now, I’m not sure I made the right decision. Telling him I wasn’t going with him was the most emotionally disturbing thing I’ve ever experienced. I never, never want to go through that again. Even now the memory of that night intrudes into my consciousness.”

There is silence for a few moments before Bobby says, “Thank you for sharing that with me. I have no doubt it was an extremely traumatic experience.” He opens the truck door and pauses. “Shortly before I came to the Amazon,” he says, “I talked to my mother about a subject along those lines. My mother, who married late in life, said, “The real thing travels its own road at its own speed, but when it arrives . . . you will know it . . . and you will be forever thankful you waited.”

It’s Saturday morning, the last day of Bobby’s vacation in Brazil. In the afternoon, he will ride a steamer down the Amazon to Manaus and the airport.

“We have a few hours left before you leave. Is there anything you would like to do?” Ellen asks.

“When I get back, the first question will be, ‘Well Bobby, how many of them piranhas did you chew up, ’ so I would like to see what one looks like before I leave.”

“I know just the spot. Let’s get the boat. It’s a half-hour ride upriver.”

They go North on the Amazon and turn into a narrow river. They stop at a section of the river with a beach lined with sunning crocodiles.

“This is a dangerous part of the river to run out of gas,” Ellen says. “See those crocs on the beach. They are man-eaters who have no qualms about attacking a small boat like ours if they are hungry.”

“I guess not since they are bigger than the boat. Their jaws are big too.”

“They come up under the boat and capsize it. I’m cutting the motor so we don’t attract their attention, but keep an eye on them. If one of them slides into the water, we are out of here—pronto.”

She turns the boat motor off and says, “Now, hold on to your seat with both hands like I’m doing.”

Bobby grips the plank he is sitting on with both hands.

“Slowly look over the side of the boat,” Ellen says.

“Man, the water is alive with those little devils,” Bobby says.

“And they are always hungry.”

Bobby suddenly slaps his forearm. “That mosquito was the size of a bird.”

“No surprise. This is the Amazon jungle.” She reaches into her bag and takes out a small plastic bottle. Handing it to him, she says “Put—OH!”

The boat suddenly lurches to one side. In the blink of an eye, Bobby grabs Ellen’s arm, pulling her away from the water and close to him.

“God you’re quick,” she says. “I didn't have time to scream.”

“Adrenalin is a powerful thing.”

The jungle becomes silent as their eyes signal the time has come. He slowly moves his head until his lips touch hers. As they kiss, she puts her hand behind his head and holds his mouth tight against hers.

“That was good,” she says.

He smiles. “It was deadly.”

Ellen moves quickly back to the motor and starts it. “We must be insane. That croc could be back at any moment.”

Ellen and Bobby have just returned to the dock and are sitting in the boat.

Ellen points to a nearby river boat. “There’s your steamer. We’re back just in time. They are preparing to board.”

Bobby looks at the steamer, turns back towards Ellen, and says, “Ellen, before we part, there is something I must tell you. I want you to know these three weeks with you have been the best weeks of my life. The minute you walked into that store, it was thunder and lightning all the way down to the bottom of my flip-flops. I was hooked. But now, my feelings for you are way beyond physical attraction. I held back telling you how much I cared for you because I didn’t want to endanger our friendship, but now the clock has run out. If I don’t tell you now, I will forever regret it. If you don’t feel the same way, I will understand and move on. After all, it’s only been three weeks. How can anyone possibly be in love after only three weeks?”

He pauses and waits.

“I’ve been dreading this day,” she says.

She moves her finger slowly along the top of his leg.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“Why don’t you come back to New York and hang out with me—for three weeks. Justino can run the company for three weeks. You don’t even have to pack. I’ll buy you whatever you need, and you can stay in a hotel like I did. You can be the tourist.”

She looks at him for a few moments.

“My body is screaming, ‘GO!’ But my heart says, ‘Be Careful!’”

She looks down.

“ . . . it’s afraid.”

Bobby nods. “I understand.”

He purses his lips for a few seconds.

“In eleven weeks, the team has four days off, a mid-season break,” he says. “Depending on flight schedules, I could fly down and spend one, maybe two days, with you. Would you like me to come?”

“Yes.”

“You know, don’t you,” he says, “that kiss is going to keep me awake at night.”

“I know. It’s going to keep me awake too,” she says.

Ellen looks towards the steamer. “It’s time to go; the steamer is loading. I’ll ride with you to the airport.”

Ellen and Bobby are at the airport. His plane is preparing to board.

“How are the telephone connections from the states?” Bobby asks.

“Erratic at best. All calls are by cell phone unless it’s a federal government office or an international corporation. You have to keep trying until you get through.”

“If you get a chance to watch any of our games,” Bobby says, “I’m the left linebacker; my number is 56. If you don’t see me when we are on defense, look for me somewhere on the ground.”

Ellen looks down at the floor and tries to force a smile.

“It’s departure time,” he says, “but before I go, I want you to have something to remember me by. Like you, I travel in life without much material baggage. Had we met six months earlier, I would have had to buy something to give you. But now I have something.”

Bobby takes a black velvet pouch from his front pocket. Opening the pouch carefully, he takes out a massive silver ring emblazoned with a multitude of diamonds.

“This is my Super Bowl ring.” He points to the side of the ring. “See. Here’s my name.”

He takes the palm of her hand and places the ring on it.

“I know this ring is big. I know it’s flashy. You could even say it’s gaudy. But it’s that way because it holds many memories—many emotions.”

He closes her hand around the ring.

“When it’s late at night, and you are wondering about me. Hold this ring close to your heart . . . your heart will know . . . that I love you.”

He clasps both hands around hers and holds them for a few moments before releasing them. “Take care,” he says and turns towards the departure gate.

Bobby is almost at the departure gate when he stops suddenly and turns around. “I almost forgot. Is there anything you want me to bring you when I return?”

Taking the silver chain from around her neck, Ellen slides his ring onto it and tosses her pendent to him.

“A suitcase.”

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