(Dear reader: Going to take you back a few months for a previously-written piece: we were living in Greece and had a good friend worthy of
documenting. Please suffer me the footnotes; I was reading The Pale
King at the time.) (Also, we decided to make an exception and allow for a
few photographs.)(Also, it is written in the rarely-used 2nd person. I have no
explanation for this.)
Lefty is the first person you meet, again, upon disembarking. [1] In fact, he is the first person you see while still in the cargo holding
area, as ropes are tied off and bridge is lowered. In fact, this is the
second time this holds true – one year ago, same time, same place, same
story. This is the first inkling of a sensation that you will be in bed
with for the duration of your stay. You only and initially half-wonder if
it is possible to feel plagued by it, and lazily contemplate if it would be
right to be indeed plagued by it, but you know yourself well enough to
understand that it will actually be comforting.
You quickly gather that Lefty likes the company of a pretty girl, and you hunch that he would just be another village face if it weren’t for the girl on your arm, and you would not be thinking about him and his offer of a ride at all, but instead focusing your attention on the dire situation of being dropped off at a port at 3:30 in the morning with no visible means of transporting to the village beyond an overpriced taxi and a front to your sense of frugality, as well as a blow to your self-perceived travel-wise wit. And you’re alright with that. You think, “Use what you got.” [2] You hypothesize that Lefty likes what being seen in public with an attractive foreigner can do for him socially – for his image.
You quickly gather that Lefty likes the company of a pretty girl, and you hunch that he would just be another village face if it weren’t for the girl on your arm, and you would not be thinking about him and his offer of a ride at all, but instead focusing your attention on the dire situation of being dropped off at a port at 3:30 in the morning with no visible means of transporting to the village beyond an overpriced taxi and a front to your sense of frugality, as well as a blow to your self-perceived travel-wise wit. And you’re alright with that. You think, “Use what you got.” [2] You hypothesize that Lefty likes what being seen in public with an attractive foreigner can do for him socially – for his image.
Lefty is in pole position when it comes to picking off tourists new to town. He meets every boat and plane that docks or lands to pick up mail for the post office as well as large parcels you gather is going to some kind of seafood wholesaler or middleman (you learn later that you were correct), evident in the scenario where halfway to the village he realizes he forgot a box of fish on the ferry and you listen to him mutter “Moto Bellini” [3] in increasingly agitated tones as he wheels around recklessly and races back to the port only to see the lights of the ferry pulling away and the escalating “Moto Bellini’s” become sort of aggressive and you will simultaneously feel guilty and amused by his antics and wonder if it wasn’t the possibility of giving your girl a lift into town that distracted him from his responsibilities. You are also relieved that you are not riding in the open-air cab of the pickup like the nameless and mainly faceless dude that is traveling back there ping-ponging between cab window and boxes, probably holding on for dear life but downplaying the severity of the situation as a means of preserving dignity. [4] Your girl translates for you that yes, Lefty will indeed be in some level of trouble with a multitude of taverna owners that will not have fresh fish options until the next boat, though you remember all the wild-haired and crusty fisherman in the village from the last trip, and surely something can be worked out? He responds directly to you: “Is no problem,” giving you most everything of what you need to gauge his rate of English comprehension and speaking ability. [5]
Lefty goes on to outline [6] his pickup schedule (consisting of mainly early mornings) and the reasons behind his decision to give up the portside café he operated (owned?)(because business was too slow in the long and unprofitable winters that see the island mostly devoid of tourists off-season and the café was only open anyway for a brief chunk of time before, during, and after each scheduled ferry drop-off/pick-up).
Only the name “Stefano” is discernible, peppering the otherwise wall
of noise Greek that Lefty spits, as you drop out entirely from the exchange,
instead electing to look inwards, alternating maddeningly between three foggy
and disjointed (due to your inability to get any sleep on the ferry as you
don’t have that particular talent for catching naps while in the process of
being transported) interior monologues [7] as well as working against allowing too
much of your weight to press against the suspect closing/locking abilities of
Lefty’s truck door on careening left turns. [8] It is
explained that Stefano is another “friend” of Lefty’s that is in or coming soon
to the village. It is not made clear whether he was also re-routed into Lefty’s
favor at the port or came into his life another way. But you are forced
to reexamine your snap judgment and rat-tat-tat machine-gun labeling of Lefty
as “the dirty old man,” and consider the possibility that is was a bit
premature to be so dramatically shooting your girl “that look,” a variation on
the eye roll featuring an emotively complex wide-eyed triage of dismay,
disbelief and frustration (then, the roll), intending to drag Lefty’s
motivations through the mud, assuming Stefano is a man’s name.
And sure enough, later that very evening, after checking into “Poppi’s hotel for the night (a long-term rental in the works but not yet finalized) and accomplishing little else beyond a hyper-extended siesta, you find yourself at dinner with all the before-mentioned characters and are served the realization (and your first of many tzatzikis) that Stefano is indeed a man, and you are now charmed by Lefty’s honest and transparent intentions, and realize that social-climbing was just a projection from your own psyche, and you further realize that Lefty simply likes the company of a pretty girl (and who doesn’t?), and probably any other tourist, man or woman, that he finds interesting, though as not to flatter yourself.
Stefano is a baby-faced 27-year-old Nordic cargo pilot from Holland, and was intercepted at the airport by Lefty on one of his “runs” a couple years back. Using his obvious airline perks and generous schedule of intensive long hour workweek chunks followed by weeks off at a time, Stefano spends time on the island a few times a year. An early observation of yours: Lefty’s guileless thirst for visitor/tourist company plus Stefano’s youth, immediately apparent agreeable nature and good humor make them a well-suited pair. Your perceptiveness is rewarded when you learn that not only does Stefano fully immerse in the Lefty lifestyle when here, a sort of “Lefty Fantasy Camp” comprised of a full buffet of activities from the sedentary cafe/taverna crawling (up to five different ones in a day!) to the foraging for culinary delights in the hills - snail/mushroom/saffron, but he also now stays with Lefty in his traditional home, escalating their relationship, in your mind, and with all things considered, to more of a kidnapping.
Like any animal, you accurately and efficiently size up Stefano’s threat to your mate in the first three seconds he was clear in your line of vision. [9] He’s a kid. An innocent. He's wearing pink. He's pudgy. You wonder how he could possibly have the training/education and flight hours to be a working pilot, but you don’t ponder on this thought for too long for fear of thinking like the old person that you have become. You delight in indulging the old man’s role and status as the “connector,” bringing the exotic together for a meal on this far-flung island. Lefty is visibly excited about this pairing of guests and the dizzying array of possible conversation topics, sometimes sitting back in his chair, detached from the conversation, and wallowing in what he has assembled. And like Lefty says, the kid does have an easy and broad smile – “He always happy,” to which the kid can’t help demonstrating. Over a burnt platter of grilled fish, he even shares some pilot humor, and you laugh over-enthusiastically, recognizing the sound as an audible stamp on the warm sweet spot of your early buzz.
“How do you know when there is a pilot in the room?”
“He’ll tell you.” [10]
Stefano [11] does up the ante a bit however, when you get comfortable enough to rib him a little about his incessant tap tap tapping on his technological device only half hidden below the table line. He informs you that he is arranging a reunion/rendezvous with a stewardess from Olympic Airlines, thereby fulfilling not exactly a fantasy, but a queasy hunch about pilot/stewardess relations. In addition, he will proudly share a picture he snapped on said device, presumably from his seat in the cockpit, of an attractive air hostess scandalously hiking her skirt up to reveal a sexy garter belt, exploding your imagination as to what else goes on behind those curtains.
Up to that point, you had considered Stefano an almost asexual being, owing to previously described attitude, style of dress, and that fact that you hadn’t caught him even once eyeing your girl, even while she was scantily clad in short-shorts and thin, cleaving-baring linen top. But now you are forced to consider the possibility that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, if he is indeed pulling a racy chick like the pixelated beauty he shared. But your jealousy bone is massaged again by the gelled hair, trendy Euro sneakers and soft physique of your limp rival, and you happily stuff another sardine into your mouth. And with Lefty [12] now radiating grandfatherly vibes, you scold yourself for suspecting sexually devious motives from the old man. The whole plate of fish was grilled too long and burnt and at one point in the evening the proprietor of the joint, without being spoken to or prompted, yells “Speak Greek!” at you from across the room, but you are happy to be there.
And sure enough, later that very evening, after checking into “Poppi’s hotel for the night (a long-term rental in the works but not yet finalized) and accomplishing little else beyond a hyper-extended siesta, you find yourself at dinner with all the before-mentioned characters and are served the realization (and your first of many tzatzikis) that Stefano is indeed a man, and you are now charmed by Lefty’s honest and transparent intentions, and realize that social-climbing was just a projection from your own psyche, and you further realize that Lefty simply likes the company of a pretty girl (and who doesn’t?), and probably any other tourist, man or woman, that he finds interesting, though as not to flatter yourself.
Stefano is a baby-faced 27-year-old Nordic cargo pilot from Holland, and was intercepted at the airport by Lefty on one of his “runs” a couple years back. Using his obvious airline perks and generous schedule of intensive long hour workweek chunks followed by weeks off at a time, Stefano spends time on the island a few times a year. An early observation of yours: Lefty’s guileless thirst for visitor/tourist company plus Stefano’s youth, immediately apparent agreeable nature and good humor make them a well-suited pair. Your perceptiveness is rewarded when you learn that not only does Stefano fully immerse in the Lefty lifestyle when here, a sort of “Lefty Fantasy Camp” comprised of a full buffet of activities from the sedentary cafe/taverna crawling (up to five different ones in a day!) to the foraging for culinary delights in the hills - snail/mushroom/saffron, but he also now stays with Lefty in his traditional home, escalating their relationship, in your mind, and with all things considered, to more of a kidnapping.
Like any animal, you accurately and efficiently size up Stefano’s threat to your mate in the first three seconds he was clear in your line of vision. [9] He’s a kid. An innocent. He's wearing pink. He's pudgy. You wonder how he could possibly have the training/education and flight hours to be a working pilot, but you don’t ponder on this thought for too long for fear of thinking like the old person that you have become. You delight in indulging the old man’s role and status as the “connector,” bringing the exotic together for a meal on this far-flung island. Lefty is visibly excited about this pairing of guests and the dizzying array of possible conversation topics, sometimes sitting back in his chair, detached from the conversation, and wallowing in what he has assembled. And like Lefty says, the kid does have an easy and broad smile – “He always happy,” to which the kid can’t help demonstrating. Over a burnt platter of grilled fish, he even shares some pilot humor, and you laugh over-enthusiastically, recognizing the sound as an audible stamp on the warm sweet spot of your early buzz.
“How do you know when there is a pilot in the room?”
“He’ll tell you.” [10]
Stefano [11] does up the ante a bit however, when you get comfortable enough to rib him a little about his incessant tap tap tapping on his technological device only half hidden below the table line. He informs you that he is arranging a reunion/rendezvous with a stewardess from Olympic Airlines, thereby fulfilling not exactly a fantasy, but a queasy hunch about pilot/stewardess relations. In addition, he will proudly share a picture he snapped on said device, presumably from his seat in the cockpit, of an attractive air hostess scandalously hiking her skirt up to reveal a sexy garter belt, exploding your imagination as to what else goes on behind those curtains.
Up to that point, you had considered Stefano an almost asexual being, owing to previously described attitude, style of dress, and that fact that you hadn’t caught him even once eyeing your girl, even while she was scantily clad in short-shorts and thin, cleaving-baring linen top. But now you are forced to consider the possibility that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, if he is indeed pulling a racy chick like the pixelated beauty he shared. But your jealousy bone is massaged again by the gelled hair, trendy Euro sneakers and soft physique of your limp rival, and you happily stuff another sardine into your mouth. And with Lefty [12] now radiating grandfatherly vibes, you scold yourself for suspecting sexually devious motives from the old man. The whole plate of fish was grilled too long and burnt and at one point in the evening the proprietor of the joint, without being spoken to or prompted, yells “Speak Greek!” at you from across the room, but you are happy to be there.
[1] Ferry language.
[2] Technically, what she’s got, but as you two are together, a team of sorts…
[3] Certainly a curse word (phrase), which gets put on your agonizingly slow-growing short list of work-in-progress Greek vocabulary. It is clear that this is one which will stick, owing to the vividness and weirdness of the situation.
[4] Unless that is just your way, and he could give a damn about being seen to struggle, or more probable, he has traveled in the back of so many pick-ups that he has pared the art down to its most efficient and effortless core.
[5] This, in no way, is a shot at Lefty’s language capabilities, as you are the worst offender you know when it comes to living/visiting in/a foreign country and never achieving beyond basic survival _________ (insert language here), going as far as living in Guatemala for three years and not becoming fluent in what most consider a fairly simple language to pick up (I refer to Spanish here of course). Furthermore, you were so bad that you were unwillingly entered into a “Worst Spanish Speaker” contest within your local expat community and placed third (meaning third worst), and you felt you were actually second (meaning second worst) or maybe had even been the victor, but instead two other guys scored higher (or lower), probably being given the honor only because they were even better established goofballs than you, and would take the honor less personally and with a better sense of humor – better party fodder in other words.
[6] The reader can assume in situations like this, that you are receiving all this information second-hand, through your girl’s translation abilities. The author apologizes for the assumption that “Is no problem,” would be enough to establish the fact that Lefty’s English capabilities equip him with the ability to recognize key vocabulary aiding in general comprehension and simple responses, but in no way give him (and therefore the two of you) the ability to discuss higher order concepts or specifics of any kind.
[7]
B) “You will never learn this way. Why don’t you have a textbook or some other kind of aid? Why are you so unprepared?”
C) “Have you really put yourself in this position again? Imagine all the time you are going to spend outside of any given conversation trying to force a look on your face that expresses interest and contentment and not the reality of soul-crushing tedium.”
[8] The three characters here are all riding in the front seat of Lefty’s truck. The small rear backseat area, the kind where seats can be folded down, is full of things you would imagine in a truck of this type, in a place like this, and being driven by a man like this: buckets, rope, fishing gear, old boxes, empty cigarette packs, liquids (?), hoses/tubing, tools, and so on. The main protagonist’s girl is sitting in the middle, somewhat uncomfortably, as she has to contort, or at least raise left buttock, every time Lefty shifts gears. The protagonist only slightly wonders if a feel is being copped each time this happens, and figures the least he can do is to get over far right on projected gear changes so that the girl can avoid probing hands if she should so desire, though this does put the protagonist smashed up against previously mentioned suspect door, illuminating a bit of a Catch-22, or at least a no-win situation.
[9] Should be noted that this was not only from behind (not even a full facial profile), but with the majority of his body obscured by high taverna wall (you could tell from just the visible sliver of left, puffy, cherub cheek that he sported a paunch that was even then butting up against the cheap, plastic Greek table). Further bolstering your confidence was the beaming, innocent (bordering on naïve) and obviously non-threatening smile that lit your path to the table like a lighthouse tractor beam. The effeminate fringe of his pink shirt collar poking out from Abercrombie-type sweatshirt (of which you knew your girl would not be impressed with, style-wise) was almost overkill, draping you with so much comfort and ease that you started to feel a bit soft, to the point that you almost started to crave a challenge, but stopped short of letting that idea fully blossom, and instead were thinking something like, “Okay, let’s eat some squid and drink some fucking ouzo!” by the time introductions were officially made.
[10] Not to belabor a point, but this self-effacing humor even further relaxes you.
[11] Not his real name. Upon introductions, “Stefano,” corrects you (and Lefty) with his actual name, of which I cannot honestly recall at the time of writing, but by then, it was of course too late. Stefano.
[12] Also not his real name. When first re-introduced by your girl at the port, you tried to employ a memory device to avoid just this type of confusion. The memory device was this: his first name sounded like two first names put together: Left(y) + ________. But it didn’t take. You struggle all night (and earlier during the ride), pausing, stuck before each address: Leftarnold? Leftandrew? Leftalan? Eventually you give up, and go with Lefty, gauging his reaction for perceived signs of insult or disrespect, but find none. You feel somewhat silly, like maybe you are at too mature of an age to use such a “cutesy” nickname, or that maybe you’re level-stepping this relationship to already have gone to a term of endearment, and that maybe there is some cultural line you are overstepping, but “Lefty” seems to be responding without being charmed or visibly disgusted, so you go with it. You also realize you have become your mother, and have now fully surrendered to her habit of mangling names of people and places to something more memorable to her (most famously attaching the typically Jewish suffix, berg, for whatever reason, to the surname “Green” of a couple that your parents were trying to buy a house from in the original move from Ohio to Florida. The sale was a lengthy procedure, giving her many opportunities to marinate her creation in the nucleus of the immediate family unit, rewarding her with the sought after groan/laughter combination and becoming the stuff of lore) – a habit you were secretly amused and touched by, but feigned disgust in the typical complexities of parent/child dynamics.
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