Now, I know better than to accept rides from strangers — my mom taught me well. I honestly didn’t think the rule applied to thirteen year old boys on Vespa’s, though. Sounds harmless, right? Think again.
I was walking around town, minding my own business, when I met a seemingly nice young boy on a bright yellow Vespa. At the time of our meeting, I was considering making a trip Ayazma, a little beach just a few miles north. After a brief chat about his scooter and the likes of Kobe Bryant and Shaq, he offered me a lift. A little jaunt on a scooter sounded fun and it would save me a buck to boot (I’m far from cheap, but a dollar still counts for something in these parts, so I was happy to save one). It seemed like a win-win situation – emphasis on seemed.
Now, I’ve spent plenty of time around teenage boys due to having younger brothers. In my opinion, most are completely harmless — mildly annoying, but harmless. This kid was just plain crazy. And no, not in a good way.
As we made our way out of town, my new friend thought it would be amusing to push the pedal to the metal and watch me squeal. I clung to my seat as we weaved at top speed across gravel roads and around sharp corners. After a few minutes, I could tell we were headed in the wrong direction. Awesome. I made an attempt to explain this without avail. I’m not sure if he couldn’t hear me or if he just didn’t care — I’m guessing the latter.
He eventually pulled off on a dirt road leading up to a small stone cottage: his home. As we headed up the road, my little friend lost control of his scooter and I went flying off the back. Luckily, we were going relatively slow at this point, and I landed in dirt instead of on gravel or asphalt. I am also thankful that my camera wasn’t on me at the time, for it would surely be broken. I managed to collect a few scrapes and bruises, but nothing major – Phew! It wasn’t the crash that upset me, but what transpired next, that really pushed me over the edge.
We got up, shook off, and walked the rest of the way. When we arrived at this house, he lifted up the seat to reveal a rather impressive collection of miniature liquor bottles: whiskey, vodka, raki – he had it all. My guess is he barrowed the scooter from a family member, most likely his father — that’s beside the point, though. The point is Yuleg had been drinking prior to offering me a ride. Sneaky little bastard.
He offered me a drink to which I replied, “no thank you.” I’m all for a good time, but my moral compass is duly intact, and it pointed south. Drinking with a thirteen year old just doesn’t seem appropriate on any continent, no matter how you look at it. That didn’t stop him from quenching his thirst, though. Oh no, it did not.
I stood there in disbelief as I witnessed this pint-sized boy down whiskey like it was Kool-Aid. I tried to explain that he was too young, and drinking and driving shouldn’t mix, but it was no use —in one ear and out the other.
I decided that walking was the only option, but I wasn’t about to leave without hiding his keys. When he went inside to use the restroom, I grabbed the keys out of the ignition, along with the bag of bottles and tossed them in a barrel on the side of his house. I then proceeded to run as fast as possible.
Now, don’t worry. I’m sure the little tyke found the bag within a few hours. Think of it as an involuntary scavenger hunt; in all reality, it probably helped sober him up. I think a thank you is in order, but that’s just me.
I was lucky enough to be picked up after 2-3 miles by a nice German couple. Because of their kindness, I was able to salvage the last few hours of daylight. After tending to my wounds and changing clothes, I visited a vineyard on the edge of town. After several samples, I finally found a Turkish wine I’m rather fond of. I bought a bottle, curled up in a blanket at the end of a dock, and watched the sun go down.
I can’t say it was the best day, but definitely an entertaining one. Eleven down, who knows how many more to go…
On a positive note, I finally finished my book, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. Don’t pass judgment due to the title, it really is fantastic. Nick Flynn (best known for his poetry) tells the story of how he met his homeless father while working at a shelter in Boston. It’s a very real memoir, and a very sad one, actually. I’ve always had a special place in my heart for the homeless — those who don’t choose it, that is. I believe the present is made entirely of the past, so they are more than just a face, they have a story, too. And if you take the time to listen, you might be surprised by what you find.
One of my favorite quotes from the book:
“There are many ways to drown, only the most obvious wave their arms as they’re going under. The man who imagined Pine Street didn’t see it as a life raft, more like a rock you could rest upon briefly, to catch your breath, get your bearings. A man named Paul Sullivan founded Pine Street, and he knew that his guys, many of them, were never going to find their way back to shore. The shelter was meant to be a waystation, a halfway house, but halfway to where wasn’t specified. The cot, the roof, and the plate of food were only made to tide one over. It was never meant to be a life raft. Even a life raft is only supposed to get you from the sinking ship back to land. You were never intended to live in the life raft, to drift years on end, in sight of land, but never close enough.”
