Stirring Point

I waved goodbye, then grabbed the door frame for balance. The hash had mellowed but left a cloud around my vision. I gazed at my desert boots, dusty and worn, feeling a smidge of pity for what I’d put them through. The suede was stained with a dark patina more suited for carbon steel than leather. I was always moving: across Karachi’s oil-slicked shoreline, atop the blistering sands of the Sahara in August, through the mud-caked alleyways of Addis Ababa. I had to move, and those poor-bastard boots were forced to deal with every mile of it. 

The steps creaked underfoot as we descended towards the alley. The air jabbed our noses with every rank molecule it could muster. Raw sewage flowed through open drains. Drums of lidless cooking oil lined the walkway, drowning insects and soot in viscous swirls. Men slept on the sidewalk, indifferent to roaches and the relentless heat. Piles of trash threatened to topple, and the hash promised they’d fall on me. My sober mind had waltzed right past this on the way in, dulled by a thousand walks through a thousand alleys where I didn’t belong. Now, my senses were razor sharp. The darkness swallowed up the last bits of light. Poverty and pollution. Holy hell. 

We hailed a taxi and climbed in half stoned when it arrived. Usama rattled off a few pleasantries in Urdu before the driver stomped on the gas and shot us into traffic. I clutched the handle above the door and braced my other hand against the dashboard. We raced along the shoulder, swerved between lanes, and came within inches of shearing the right leg off an innocent motorcyclist. For a moment, I thought it might be wise to pull over, toss some money into the bastard’s lap, and take our chances with the city’s stickup kids. Instead, I closed my eyes like a frightened child and exhaled. This is where I die, on a street in Karachi, in a tangled ball of steel and fire. It felt fitting for the life I’d chosen. My friends and family? They’d be devastated, of course. But would they be surprised?