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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “6 Feet Under” Down in the Dirt (v136) (the May 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

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Morocco

Steve Sibra

    I was seated in a large, sturdy chair. It was bolted to the floor. There were two other men in the room; they were both watching me. I did not know them, but I could tell by the expressions on their faces that they were waiting for me to speak. And so I did.
    “The dusty road that winds its way to the south, on the outskirts of Tangier, is plagued by blind turns, unexpected swoops, and small hills. Ravaged by an overdose of barbiturates, I was careening out of control along this road, driving a 1955 Chevrolet sedan — when much to my dismay, I topped a small knoll and smashed the automobile into a rhinoceros who was standing sideways in the middle of the road. I must have been going nearly fifty miles an hour.
    When I came to I was stretched out in the dust by the side of the road. A pair of homeboys from Tangier had come upon me and retrieved me from the crumpled car. My chest was in so much pain I nearly passed out as soon as I awakened. I could feel the imprint of the steering wheel in my flesh.
    Lying on my back in the dirt I turned my head towards the wreckage. The car – which I had borrowed from a gullible young woman whom I had met only the day before – the car appeared totaled. Beyond it I could see the supine form of the gigantic rhino. He (or she) was completely still. No movement of any kind. So I guessed that the rhinoceros was also totaled.
    I turned my head back towards my two saviors and set about pulling in enough air to speak. My chest was in terrible pain as I took my deep breath.
    “Thank you, kind sirs. You have saved my life,” I rasped. “Can you tell me what time it is?” I was able to get this out without bursting into tears or spitting globs of blood. But it was close.
    The two silent Samaritans, meanwhile, took one frightened look at me lying in the dirt, and then turned tail and ran across an open field, heading back towards the city, which was at least a mile away. They zigged and zagged as they scurried through the short grass, as if they were dodging rifle shots.” I paused to take a deep breath, then let it out bit by bit, through my clenched teeth.
    “Anyway,” I continued, “Somehow I managed to get clear of that mess. I had disappeared into the taller grass before the police arrived.” I was debating whether to continue the story of this particular African misadventure. My audience was two old men in a dilapidated barber shop in Kellogg, Idaho. One of them was the barber but at the moment neither one was trying to cut my hair. I had forgotten which was which.
    “The authorities did finally arrive, and I was flat on my stomach in the grass, about fifty yards away, watching them.” One of the men walked over and picked up a scissors on the counter. He must be the one who runs the place, I decided. He made me a little nervous.
    “They scurried about the scene, a couple had notebooks, at least one of them was brandishing a rifle. I couldn’t imagine what they expected to find. I remember feeling sorry for the girl who owned the car. She would never see me or hear from me again.”
    “Then all of a sudden – I’ll swear to this – the God Damned rhino gave a huge snort and up came his massive head. I about crapped myself, and you should have seen the cops!” I pounded my fist on the armrest of the barber chair. This only served to alarm the man with the scissors, who nearly stabbed me in the ear.
    I wanted badly to continue the story, about how the rhinoceros got to his feet, snorted again, and started chasing after the frantic policemen. But I just didn’t have faith in my audience; so instead at that point I shut up and waited for the man to be finished flipping and spinning the scissors around my head, snipping something off here and there.
    When the snipping tailed off, I paid the eight bucks for the haircut, thanked the morose looking barber-at-large, and left the shop. It was one of those old time Main Street barbershops which were actually in a basement, with stairs that take you right back up to street level and onto the sidewalk — right in the middle of a block. I climbed the steps slowly, running my palm along the smooth, cool surface of the big brass railing.
    I walked down the street half a block to where I had parked. “Hey, Mister.” I heard the voice of someone behind me; I turned around to see the other fellow from the hair cutting establishment – the guy who was not a barber, that is.
    He looked at me with a knowing smile. “Thanks for the goofy African story,” he said, “even though it was obviously a bunch of bullshit, it was good entertainment.”
    I thought for a moment about the rhinos I had seen in Morocco and Uganda; there were two species, the black rhino and the white rhino. All are headed towards extinction, but the whites outnumber the blacks in Africa by a ratio of about 4 to 1. The one on the highway had been black.
    “Bullshit is always good entertainment,” I said, trying to show a genuine looking smile. “And good entertainment is always bullshit. It’s all a matter of how you organize the lessons in your life.”
    He stood and stared as I unlocked my car: a pristine, dark gray 1955 Chevrolet four-door sedan, with original interior in perfect shape and chrome that shined like a sunrise over the streets of Tangier. I climbed inside and the 265 cubic inch V-8 engine came to life as I turned the key in the ignition. Slowly I backed from the space, and placed the car in “Drive”. As I pulled away with the motor purring like a jungle cat, I could see the local boy in my rear-view mirror, still standing and staring.
    I was pretty sure that by then he had noticed the personalized license plate framed on the massive back bumper of this motorized beast.

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