A Cigarette (In your eye)

Kathmandu, Nepal | Violence | 807 words |

Thematically inspired by various works of Haruki Murakami that question real and imagined human capacity for violence, while the location and structure derive from my travels in Nepal with a good friend.

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“You signed the waiver, you didn’t read it, so we are keeping this deposit!”

“You didn’t tell me that you don’t rent to people who are not experienced! I don’t get it – I’ve ridden these things before!”

“Two times. Two times and you think you can ride in Kathmandu? Look outside! Look at the streets! Overcrowded and small! There’s no way, you’ll get hurt or destroy my bike or both!”

“Fine, whatever! I get it! The point is you didn’t say anything about that before, so I want all my money back!”

“You signed the waiver, and if you read it, we keep a deposit, it is not my fault that you signed it.”

Nick clenched his fists. He stared at the owner with malice. It didn’t matter to him that they were keeping only 100 rupees. It was the principle. He couldn’t let it go. He was right, and he was going to make sure the man across from him knew it.

It might have been quite a sight from the street, this pale, bald, lanky, middle aged man’s voice pounding from the back of a garage in the heart of the narrow streets of Kathmandu. He just wanted one ride. One goddamn ride before he had to go back home.

Nick inched closer and locked eyes with the owner, who was tall and pudgy with greased hair and a finely combed moustache. “I would not have signed it if I knew you wouldn’t let me ride it. You are stealing my money, and you’re going to give it back.” He growled, in a low, deep tone. The owner stared back at him for a second. With a short grunt he rebuked Nick as he walked away to the entrance of his garage and lit a cigarette, seemingly done with the matter. Nick was not.

Nick’s previous threats of getting the cops didn’t seem to phase the man, and he also didn’t want to waste his day searching for them. His insides flared, as if his toes were on fire and a steady stream of volatile heat inched up his body. It began searing out of his eyes, locked on that incompetent man. How dare he just walk away, puffing smoke like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t a thief. Nick felt something coming on, something he couldn’t understand or control, but that somehow, felt natural.

He’d like to take that cigarette and sear it in one of the owner’s eyes.

He looked around. A small aquarium on the desk. He could put his fist through it. He imagined the glass shattering, his bloody fist, and tiny fish gasping for air, probably confused at what force decided on a whim to end their lives. He thought of how the owner would react, imagining how he might come charging at him. He thought of how his vision would narrow, and maybe he’d pick up a dying fish and throw it at the owner. No. Better yet, one of those glass shards could rip through his plaid shirt and tear right into his skin. It wouldn’t be like a knife through butter, it wouldn’t be smooth, it would be rough, jagged, broken, satisfying, tangling intestines.

Then, among the heat, a faint “how much for the day?”

Nick looked back at the entrance of the garage. It seemed the man had a new customer. Nick opened his mouth to scream, feeling like he was breathing fire.

“Hey! You’re not done with me yet! Don’t think I’m leaving until I get my goddamn money!”

The customer looked confused, as if he was watching a tennis match, head bobbing between the owner and Nick. The owner darted his eyes at Nick, but tried to pull his new customer back into conversation.

Nick kept bellowing back in the garage “Keep ignoring me, I’ve got all day! All freakin’ day!” The thoughts of immense violence seemed second nature now, despite mere minutes passing. He could take a wrench, he thought, walk over and smash the man’s skull in, and just walk back to the hostel. He fantasized about it as he continued shouting at the man, his skull cracking, brain matter flying, his head a dark oozing glob on the ground. Then he’d see. Nick stopped shouting and turned around momentarily to survey the tools at his disposal, he imagined making use of –

“Ok. Leave.”

Nick turned around to see the owner, hand lazily outstretched with 100 rupees.

Whatever rose up in Nick in those past few minutes was gone in seconds. Without a look or noise he took the money and began walking back to his hostel, his vision feeling narrow and dizzying. He decided not to reflect on the past minutes, nor share it. It’s a pretty boring story anyway, and his wife probably wouldn’t care.