Middle East Bound & Down in a Western Town

I rode into the International Terminal of DFW with a dusty canteen and a saddle-itch I couldn’t quite scratch. This here was a familiar crossroads. A confluence of ordinary pilgrims & ornery pioneers. Crossing paths to a soundtrack of roller-wheel pig-squeals & the clickity-clacks of high heels. We all travel with the sins of our echoed footsteps, I s’pose. And I s’pose I ain’t no different. My spurs sang a campfire song as old as Moses. A song about roads untaken, unrequited fondnesses and lower-back pain. Yep, a whiskey-drinking song. 

Reckon there’s time yet for a drink…

Time yet for three drinks, technically. Enough hootch to grease my mind out of nagging reckonings and into the dummied stupor of fucks-to-give-less-ness this fella prefers for transoceanic journeying. Bar after bar, though, failed to inspire, bearing nothing more than constipated desperados in foul moods attempting to swallow anxiety & shame down with their dramamine & vodka highballs. One particular lonesome fella at a wine bar ordered a hot dog with his chardonnay while checking over his shoulder for the Comanche tomahawk some might call karma. I made mental note to stand back from that dude. 

Deeper into Terminal D, I found what I was looking for. An airport saloon where the atmosphere sang with a jovial pitch. Like distant coyotes who don’t rest on the sabbath. These were travelers with eager boot shuffles and lusty nostril flares. This was a formidable crowd. Or if not formidable, at least noteworthy. For example, these local lads known as the Deep Eddy Douchebag Twins…

Why were they called “twins” when there were three of them? Dunno, I just made it up. One look at these dudes and you knew these were the kind of swashbuckling dandies who’d go on a panty-raid of the next door Southern Methodist sorority house and emerge three minutes later having only stole a pack of tampons, giggling triumphantly like the teenage frat boys they were & always would be. Two Kyles and a Shane. One of the Kyles mentioned they were in their early 30s, which surprised me. They looked 19. The Deep Eddy Douchebag Twins represented this century’s new breed of softer Texan. Bubble-wrapped. Californicated Texan. 3 decades of squinting into the Texas sun should’ve leathered these chaps more.

I saddled-up to the bar to bend an elbow next to these broomstick cowboys. They were ticketed for Auckland. New Zealand. Way yonder in “the woop woop”, as they say down there. Also on their flight was Jonjo, a Kiwi who was flying home. Now this scalawag, Jonjo… dude’s quite the character. Aced-sleeved & silver-tongued, if the saloon was a roost, Jonjo was the cocksure bastard who ruled it. New guy!, Jonjo identified me on arrival. He had a weaselly southern-hemispherean lilt to his english, especially when he said “man” at the end of each sentence. Where ya headed, meynne? He’d ask. I’m on the 3:10 to Doha, I told him, Qatar. Qatar?, he asked, why you headed there, man? The Kiwi was as full as a tick, carrying the saloon’s most advanced intoxication, as evidenced in his heavy eye-lids and slurred-speech. Jonjo was forty years old, had a fit rugby build and a thin upper lip curled to reveal his gum line. What interested me most about this shifty character was his claim to have lived in Qatar for 8 years. No shit?, I asked Jonjo. My next layover was to be forty hours in Qatar’s capital city of Doha and the only thing I knew of the place I gleaned through the distorted lens of social media personalities. What dumb luck for me to meet a fella who knew the tides of the Persian Gulf backwater! 

Spill the beans, hombre!, I pressed the New Zealand wanderer. But Jonjo deflected. He slithered away upbar, lower than a snake, leaving me in the dust. Why? Something I said? My chili-peppered breath? Was his Qatari past a painful subject? I hadn’t the foggiest notion what his deal was…

I pondered the peculiarities of the Kiwi and noticed one of the Kyles was constantly disappearing from the saloon for parts unknown. The disappearing Kyle was affectionately called “Not-Fat-Kyle” by his pals. He was formerly known as “Fat-Kyle” before he halved himself on Ozempic. This detail, once learned, went a long way in my understanding why his present appearance was so… uncanny. As if he was a person, just out of focus. A shimmering mirage of a man. Too big for his britches. Or too small as it were. He was just a bit… off. His unfattening left him looking like a shrunken giant. 

Where’s he off to now?, I asked the remaining Kyle. He’s taking his shots, this Kyle said. He’s taking Ozempic shots right now?, I asked as I imagined the shrunken giant plunging a syringe into his belly from the privacy of an airport outhouse. No, shots of vodka, Kyle said before offering an explanation. This wasn’t your mama’s little helper diet-pills Not-Fat-Kyle was taking. The Ozempic had turbo-charged his metabolism to such an extent he could not reach & maintain an alcohol buzz without excessive drinking. His solution was to carryon as many miniature liquor bottles TSA would allow him and guzzle them secretly in the bathroom to help elevate his drunkenness without paying the airport bar premiums. Liver be damned. 

Beyond Kyle was Shane, the third of the Deep Eddy Douchebag Twins. He had a far-away stare always near tears. Shane was preoccupied with messages received from New Zealand’s Ministry of Fuck-Off. The bureaucrats there were delaying his visitor’s visa due to “random government screening”. But who believes in coincidence these days? Who’d you piss-off, dude?, I asked. He dunno. His buddies Kyle had their visas in-hand. Shane’s delay would take a few days to settle and he trembled with the fear his boys would leave him behind. Oh man, you’re fucked, Jonjo said after reading the email messages from New Zealand. Aren’t you a lawyer?, Kyle asked Jonjo. These are your people. Isn’t there something you could do? Yeah, yeah, man, Jonjo said with feigned enthusiasm. Except, man, I am not really practicing law anymore, am I? I’m in crypto these days, man. Kyle then asked the Kiwi, what do you advise, though? Jonjo said, I advise you don’t shit your pants, man. She’ll be right. 

Crypto?, I laughed at the Kiwi’s vague excuses. I was beginning to suspect Jonjo was full of horseshit. Now, I’ll admit Jonjo knew how to play to the gallery and the saloon loved him for it. The Kyles followed him around like a duckling who’d adopted a drunken Roomba as its mother. But I ain’t so keen. Jonjo had the slippery speak of a frontier preacher who took holy water to the whore house with a roll of quarters on nickel night.

Maybe you could ask for political asylum, Kyle suggested to Shane. 

She’ll be right, man, Jonjo assured Shane with a pat of the shoulder. You’re a good c**t, ehh? Oh, I’m not to say “c**t” in your country, am I?, Jonjo asked. He referenced a pair of old-timers upbar who leered at him every time he used the word. Kyle gave him a pass. Eager to please, but still mindin’ his manners, Kyle told Jonjo, oh you can use the “c-word” all you want! 

Maybe around these parts, I said to counter Kyle’s allowance. Back in the old states, out east, the word is certainly a top offender. 

Shit, man!, Jonjo said, shootable offense, is it? I know Americans carry heaps of guns. Don’t want to get shot, man. Tell me, gents, do American bathroom stalls have countertops to unholster your pistols when you shake out the dags? 

Only in Texas, I said. 

What’s a dag?, Shane asked.

Jonjo went quiet as he struggled to fish a bloody wad from the recesses of his mouth. The wad was a Zyn nicotine pouch the Kyles had introduced him to. Dag is sheep-shit stuck in arsehole wool, Jonjo said before plopping the pouch into his other cheek. He recently had his wisdom teeth extracted, which granted him unhealed abscesses to dunk the pouch into for a quick bloodstream hit. Brain’s fuckin’ buggered, man, Jonjo spoke of the resulting high. But feels brilliant. 

I continued to ask Jonjo of Qatar. Without looking up from his spit-dripped hands, Jonjo said, it’s fuckin’ hot, man. He then spotted newcomers to the brewhouse bar and skedaddled their way. What the sam hell?, I wondered. What was with his lack of feedback? Qatar’s a skin-flap of land on the sweaty back of the Arabian Peninsula. Of course it’s “fuckin’ hot”. Frustrated, I ordered another beer from the barkeep. 

Why does she keep pouring you the large beers and I get the short glasses?, leftover Kyle asked me. How’s that?, I inquired before noticing the size disparity between our cups. Heh, I chuckled. It’s like this, tenderfoot, I said to Kyle. The barkeep measured me up and figured I can handle it. Kyle winced at the implication before saying, fuck you. He picked up his tiny beer and moved downbar to the far side of Shane. Fuck me?, I called after him. Not in them boots! I laughed, pleased with myself. Fuck me? Ha.

Jonjo eventually cycled back around my way and I offered to buy him a big boy beer if he mapped out the desert lands of Qatar for me. What do you seek?, Vic? Women? Most beautiful women in the world go to Doha, man. Tax credits for models, ehh? Kinkier the better. What’s your fetish, Vic? You can’t lose, man. Skux life, brother. Elite women, man. Mistresses of sheiks. Harem fodder, yeah? You must dress immaculate. Fit in with them sharks. And don’t be polite, Vic. Which won’t trouble you, you fuckin’ c**t. Rent a yacht if you want to make a splash. 

I had my journal open to a page with nothing useful written down. I am only looking for a decent watering-hole, I told him. Jonjo burp-hiccuped and suggested the Four Seasons. 

What the hell, Jonjo?, I said. You could be describing Miami. Houston. Any large waterfront city in the world. Four Seasons?, really? Give me something unique to Doha, I said. As he fidgeted with his Zyn pouch, he said, nah, yeah, man, try the Kaminsky Tower. There isn’t a 62nd floor, unless you know about the 62nd floor. You got to tell them “jingo”, that’s the word, man. Then they’ll take you to the 62nd floor. 

What are you talking about?, I laughed at the Kiwi. “Kaminsky tower”? Are there a lot of Polish architects in Qatar? And… what’s it, “jingo”? Are you just making shit up?, I asked. Have you ever even been to Doha?

Vic!, Jonjo got up off his bar stool, chest-out, hissing through clenched teeth. You fuckin’ munted, man? 

Jonjo looked snakebit. Perhaps he felt betrayed. As if I had stolen his dog, laid with his horse and shot his woman. 

Watch it!, Jonjo threatened me. I will fucking knock your head off, Vic!

I know you can knock my head off, Jonjo, I said while remaining in my seat. But that doesn’t mean you’re not full of shit, I said. 

Fuck you, Jonjo said and left to join the Deep Eddy Douchebag Twins downbar. 

Fuck me? Not in this economy! 

…Hmm. I s’posed I should pull my horns in. Quit rousing trouble. I ain’t afraid of a little Texas dust-up, but let’s be honest: I ain’t exactly quick-on-the-draw. A pint glass or a knuckle across my noggin is all it would take to concuss me out of being able to fly. Yep, I reckoned it was time to get out of Dodge. 

Adios pendejos, I said to those Auckland-bound, leaving the bar for my gate.

13 hours later, I woke in the middle seat on a plane. Rode hard & put away wet. Flight attendants were serving another meal service. Was this a midnight brunch or a second lunch? Who could tell? Should I have another glass of red wine or another cup of coffee? I looked out the window and saw a dark landscape sparsely lit by the dancing flames of oil rig gas-flares. Iraq. Howdy g’damn. I asked for coffee and leaned-in for landing as we crossed the Persian Gulf to Qatar. 

Two hours later, I was out of the airport and in the streets of Old Doha. Souq Wafiq. It was midnight wherever the hell timezone this was; the streets bustled with people taking advantage of the cooler hours of night to socialize. I feasted on Yemeni goat stew. Jet-lagged, but wired. I needed proper sleep, but my body had no intention of relaxing. A nightcap would be fantastic, but nowhere in the Arabian bazaars sold alcohol. Hookah tobacco & coffee were the drugs of choice. 

Well, what the shit… I accepted the international charges and used my phone to search the web for “kaminsky tower doha”. And I’ll be damned. There was a Kempinski Tower. In the new city. Downtown. Across the harbor from me. I opened my Uber app. $3. Too easy. 

Twenty minutes later, I was in the elevator of the Kempinksi Tower. There was no 62nd floor, but neither was there a gatekeeper for me to whisper the speakeasy code “jingo”. There was a 61st floor. I hit the button and we climbed. And climbed. The doors to the 61st floor opened before me. To the left was a sports bar, La Liga Twenty-Nine, full of ex-pats & cold imported beer. To the right was a sushi bar named Zengo. 

Bingo. 

Zengo was dead. A Nepalese sushi chef was asleep against the wall. No fetish models. But my dress was hardly immaculate, anyway. I turned around and went to La Liga for a Stella Artois. Something to wash down the goat.

I guess Jonjo wasn’t entirely full of shit. Maybe I was the asshole. Either way, my canteen ain’t so dusty any more.