I should have folded myself into a tiny package, hid under a rock, and relished the last remaining unfettered breaths before catching the night train that would deposit me at an inhospitable airport en route back to the overcrowded necropolis from which I had escaped. I could have remained firm in the conviction that although each day is indeed riddled with innumerable aggravations, I had now conquered enough distance, squandered enough time, to outrun the demons who are forever forcing the execution of that Herculean battle between control and desire. I could have ambled quietly into the nuclear sunset of a fading Eastern European hamlet and patiently awaited the arrival of the next train out. But I needed to reacclimate back into the real world before boarding my impending nine-hour trans-Atlantic flight stuffed between screaming children, grubby teenagers, talkative grannies, and inebriated single men. Newfound Zen be damned! The potential for strangling a stewardess, rushing the cockpit, screaming “fire in the hole,” grabbing the controls and taking the whole seething mass into a watery grave was a preoccupation I fought every time my brain cells began to tweak on pressurized cabin air. I opted instead to stop in Istanbul.
The dense heat slaps my head like a wet blanket soaked in urine. I disembark just in time to be serenaded by the haunting sickness of the midday call to prayer. My irritation returns twofold as I’m jostled by a gaggle of terminally old women scurrying like lizards, overloaded with wicker baskets full of rotting fruit. I scamper aimlessly ahead of them, no clue where I am, where I’m going, or what the hell I was thinking when I decided to just drop in for a few hours of exploration. In order to truly understand this freakish divide which both straddles and separates the East from the West, Asia from Europe, would take the most astute detective decades of investigation. Ripe with intrigue, filthy with an undercurrent of sexy repression, her sinister underbelly shrouded in aromatic blossoms whose fragrance can never fully disguise its festering malignancy. Istanbul is a beautiful bitch languishing on a hotbed of winding passageways steeped in sleazy mystery where crusty cousins with dirty fingernails wheel and deal anything that yields a price tag. The art of bartering, badgering, and hustling, if not invented in Constantinople, was long ago refined here and is now practiced by nearly all of its estimated fifteen million sweating bodies. If I hadn’t already, I was about to lose my fucking mind.
A petulant gang of six-year-old boys had been following me for blocks, barking with insistence that I purchase a pack of their ratty Kleenex. Their skinny arms and legs encouraged visions of tiny morsels of grilled meat slathered in chili sauce and served on a stainless steel skewer sharp enough to puncture tires. With blood pressure skyrocketing, blood sugar plummeting, I needed to eat before adding cannibalism to my lengthy resume of hate crimes.
I ventured up a dusty side street in search of libations. A scattering of mismatched tables offered miraculous refuge at a deserted café. Empty save for a litter of dirty tiger kittens frolicking after a cloud of iridescent horse flies at the feet of two outstanding specimens of hyper-sexed American stupidity. The twin towheads sporting sun-kissed cheeks, broad shoulders, and aviator shades intensified my hunger. Now it was more than food I craved. I slid into a grimy seat at the next table.
I summoned the waiter, placed my order, and sitting within earshot of their inane conversation felt my blood pressure hike itself up another notch even before the lamb chops arrived. I started getting itchy. My pinkie began to twitch. My eyelids burned. Spoiled shits with Mommy’s money pillaging through Eurasia stoned on hash and horny as hell flipping through incriminating photos on expensive cell phones while relaying a running commentary of their recent female conquests: “Anal in Varna,” “Organ Grinding in Odessa,” “69 Plus One in Sarajevo.” Sounded like a laundry list of bad alt-porno, further evidence of which I was sure could be found on the palm-fitting camcorder coyly snuggled against the blonder of the two’s semi-erection.
“Shit, she’s a gaper,” the bulging one sidelined, inching closer to the phone.
“I’ll give you that one, holmes, but Dirty Sanchez be damned! Two can ride for the price of one!”
“That’s right, cowboy!”
The bosom buddies knocked knuckles.
Although I didn’t feel a moral obligation to avenge my sex-starved sisters in absentia for the randy reminiscing of these gloating globe-trotting Lotharios, I couldn’t resist the festering urge to retaliate like a frontline crusader in the war where the battle of the sexes never ceases to rage. Hell, I didn’t need an excuse, I just wanted to blow off some steam. At their expense. Play them at their own game. And a perfectly executed act of meaningless cruelty does momentarily relieve the predator of built-up aggravation much the same way a good dose of gruesome pornography can temporarily abate the unpleasant urges of a weekend pervert. Fuck being quaint. I wanted to do some damage.
I overheard them discussing the need to go back to their hotel to recharge their camera before that evening’s outing. Mr. Still-Half-Hard was complaining about the slovenly conditions of the dump they were forced to check into until their room at The Bentley was ready the following afternoon. “Yeah, the Palas is crusty, man,” the genius to the left muttered. They had to be referring to the Pera Palas. A faded yet glorious old whore who in her day had housed dignitaries, pop stars, and spies, but was now a dusty relic renowned for her ancient history and tainted splendor. Soon to be condemned to rehabilitation. I wasted no time inserting myself into their salacious conversation. I beamed an undetectably phony smile in their direction, wiped the sarcasm from my palate, and asked with as much sincerity as I could stomach if they were from the West Coast.
“Malibu,” the smart-ass offered.
“Miami,” I lied.
Gratuitous small talk follows. I pile it on. Feign interest in their himbo babble. “Must be great taking a year off before hitting film school at USC.” My stomach churns bile. I continue the charade, insisting they look me up if they ever make it down to South Beach. I scribble a fictitious e-mail address on a napkin. They give me theirs. I close in for the kill. Tell them I overheard their plans to go back to their hotel. Would they mind if I tagged along to charge my cell phone before facing the terminal nightmare of a slow train to the crowded plane back home? I must’ve forgotten to do so last night. Surely they could understand how impotent one feels when their lifeline to civilization short circuits. Naturally, they bought my lie. Exchanging a bemused smirk. I chortled to myself. I didn’t have a cell phone. Or an e-mail account. Or a post office box. Or a permanent address. I hated the thought of being tracked.
I suggested we order a couple of Tuborg tall boys to take back to their room. “Cold brew on a hot day,” Einstein mutters.