They were all packed and waiting for the limo to take them to the airport. The equipment had been checked and was all there so the Tornadoes were happy. Two months ago five of them had arrived in this mysterious country and five would return to the states, alive and healthy so Danny was happy. The only one who wasn’t happy was Max-Max. These last two months had been the high point of his life and the thought of it ending was almost too much for him. What would he do after the group left? He had a wife and four children, and there wasn’t a big demand for interpreters or guides. The country wasn’t stable yet and tourism might take years to develop. As they said their good-byes and thanked him for all his help, Danny pressed an envelope filled with dollars into his hand. The reaction was not what he expected. Instead of smiling and thanking him, Max-Max fell to his knees and began to cry. It wasn’t the crying of a man unable to show his appreciation for a gift; they were the tears of a frightened man, who with his head bowed, begged them to take him to America. “I’ll work for you. I will be your servant. Take me to the states,” he pleaded between sobs. “That’s impossible”, Danny said as he reached down and helped Max-Max back to his feet. “Even if we could it would take months, maybe even years to arrange. What about your family, who would care for them?” Max-Max just stood there, his eyes moving back and forth between Danny and the Tornadoes and repeated, “Please, please.” “We have to go,” Danny said as the limo pulled up. The bags and equipment were loaded into a follow van and as he was getting into the car he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Sherman, don’t forget me. Don’t forget Max-Max.” Danny didn’t look back. There wasn’t much conversation as they rode to the airport. He couldn’t gauge how the Tornadoes felt about the tour. Things had gone reasonably well, but he knew they had not easily taken to their hosts, and were not always comfortable with the formal edge to Asian hospitality. The cultural differences were vast and even Danny had not always been able to get past them and truly relax. They were finally on their way home and if they were going to be uncomfortable with cultural differences, they needn’t worry; America could supply a lifetime’s worth.
●●●●●●●●●●●
He couldn’t sleep. The flight over the Pacific was smooth and long, and the drone of the jet engines normally would have lulled him into a groggy stupor, but not this time. He was wide awake and thinking. For a short time his mind went back over the concerts; the screaming crowds, the tanks, the machine guns, soldiers guarding them and the running to catch planes that would carry them to more screaming crowds, and more tanks, and more machine guns. Then his thoughts shifted to the people at the canal and to all the servants with bowed heads who waited on them, and to Max-Max. There had been a few occasions when he had the opportunity to spend some time with ordinary people on the streets of Jakarta and other cities they had played. He had been impressed with their friendliness and when lucky enough to run into someone who spoke a little English, was always surprised to find similarities between them and himself. Up until a few months ago they were just faces from the pages of a National Geographic magazine. Now he started to see them as he did the people of his youth on Division Street; People who worked their asses off just to get by. Similar, yet so different. Not for a single day in his life did Danny Sherman ever worry about having enough to eat, or clothes to wear, or a place to sleep. Could the people at the canal say the same? Similar, yet so different. He turned and looked out at the blue sky and closed his eyes. Maybe he would sleep now. Instead of drifting off he saw a beach. Although they had been in a nation of islands with thousands of miles of coastline, the group had never been to a beach. When they had time off it was always spent partying, sleeping or lounging at a pool somewhere. Danny wasn’t interested much in the natural world so he didn’t understand why such a vivid picture came to him. The beach stretched farther than the eye could see. It wasn’t especially picturesque or spectacular in any sense; just sand, a few palm trees and a line of scrub about twenty five yards from the water. The predominant feature was the uniform color of the sand. Beige. Not white or brown, just beige. A strip of beige that seemed to go on forever. The water lapped gently at the shore, each tiny wave making a light swooshing sound. The breeze was mild. The palm trees and scrub moved with the wind, but only slightly. The sun was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Nothing unusual happened. There was just the sun, the trees, the water and the sand, stretching farther than the eye could see. He slept.
|