Sam liked to talk. He liked to talk in his southern drawl, a constant reminder of his birth place. He had lived in eight countries around the world, but stubbornly he remained ‘Merican, without the “A.” I slept in an air conditioned bedroom attached to his warehouse, in reality, the company’s warehouse. I spent the day cleaning the living space of the dirt and ants only to be interrupted by an occasional 20 minute, non-interrupted, explanation of the latest news from the company. I was waiting to hear if I would be on a boat to Trinidad the next day. The company held the answer, but as I waited the rambling didn’t bother me. In some ways I welcomed it in charity. One couldn’t blame a man who had now been living in nowhere, otherwise known as Guiria, Venezuela, for 15 years. His ten dogs kept him company, but they also left their filth on the warehouse floor. He didn’t breath to allow response, but he knew I could hear him. I think he was taking advantage of, what was in his eyes, a rare opportunity. We sat outside feeling the evening breeze, a relieve from the smell of cleaning solution. Despite the never-ending nature of his story most of it was interesting. The beer helped.
Sam (Day 110: 24/02/13)
24 Feb This entry was published on 24/02/2013 at 13:03 and is filed under Uncategorized.