Static

One night in July, I found myself sitting at a long, wood-topped table with two solemn-faced, chain smoking Serbian men. Smoke curled from the Serbians' noses and mouths and filled the space between us as the two men said nothing and stared at dainty white cups of thick, Turkish coffee. I slowly sipped my weak "English" brew and tried to wade into the blue haze that seemed to leave no room for conversation. "So... you guys are pretty busy these days, huh?" I was suddenly very self-conscious of my goofy Midwestern accent.
"Ah... verk... you know."
I had been sent by my neighbor to ask if there were any jobs available in Belga, the Belgian road construction company with a camp near my village. The company is Belgian, the management is Serbian, most of the labor is Zambian and I'm a pudgy twenty-something music teacher from Minnesota. God only knows why I was sent to ask for work. I guess because I'm white. In my neighbor's eyes, that gives me some sort of "in" or "pull." I couldn't argue with the "in" part. I was, after all having coffee with the management. But I have absolutely no "pull." I don't mind my visits to the camp- they give me coffee and beer- but I don't exactly enjoy them either. They don't speak much English, and all of my knowledge of Eastern-European tongues comes from watching The Hunt for Red October (with length and content edited for television). Needless to say, the conversation is slow and painfully extracted.
So we stared at each other for quite some time and I finally said, "I, uh, hear that you guys might be hiring?"
"Ah... no." A look was thrown across the table where the other fellow shook his head in agreement. No jobs here. I swallowed and launched into a bumbling ramble meant to assure these men that I was merely trying to do a favor for my neighbor and that I try by all means to avoid confrontation where ever I find it. If I had my way I would just hide under my bed and play Sudoku by headlamp light for two years. When finished, I lowered my eyes apologetically and tucked back into my coffee.
"You vant beer?"
"Absolutely." I drank one beer and then I drank another and just when I was entering the perfect frame of mind to enquire about job opportunities, I politely shook hands and walked into the moonlit Zambian night.

Out on the tarmac I rode my bike very quickly and perhaps a bit recklessly. The wind felt good on my face. There weren't any jobs at this time and that is what I would tell my neighbor in the morning. I had done what I was asked to do. I could always feel guilty about it later. That night I felt good. I sang loudly and threw greetings at the human shapes I flew past in the dark.

I've got a feeling...
Hello, how are you? Fine and how are you?
...a feeling deep inside, oh yeah...
Muji byepi? Bulongotu... sankyo, mwane, sankyo.
OH YEAH!

I found my hut, entered in the dark and knocked a stack of magazines on the floor looking for a box of matches. After finding the matches, I struck one and tried to light four candles before the match burned down to my fingers. I made it to three and had to strike another match. With light slowly filling the room, I sat down at my drawing table. I picked up my small shortwave radio and started to crank to charge the batteries. I always count to 120 while doing this and I stared at the open journal on the table while counting. One... two... three... the cat jumped in through the window, knocked my alarm clock off the night stand and meowed at me... one eleven, one twelve, one thirteen... close enough. I switched the power on and swiveled the dial looking desperately for something in English.
Dutch, fizzzzz, German, crackle, whistle,Arabic....
Finally I found a station broadcasting cricket scores using the voice of a man with a light Australian accent. I learned which bowler had the most wickets in the last world cup and then immediately forgot that information. I looked again at the journal on the desk. The last entry was in March and it was only one line. Before that there were two entries in February and nothing in January. I dated the blank page and began to write. I finished one sentence and got halfway through a second. I set the pen down and, sitting back in the chair, scolded myself. This is probably the most exciting time of my life. Two lines- that's all I can muster.
The Australian man was gone. There was only a man speaking in French and a woman singing in what I supposed was Cantonese and the both of them were under a thick layer of static. I stared at the candle in front of me for five more minutes before blowing it out and crawled under my mosquito net.