eat.”
“Yeah, and enjoy the view,” Johnny joked back.
Gary smiled and said, “Exactly.”
As soon as they hung up, his server from the Ukraine brought back his drink and set it on the table in front of him. She smiled and said, “Enjoy,” while lingering there for an extra second, as if waiting for him to say something else.
“Thank you,” he said. He promptly took a sip of the dark Merlot to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to say anything else.
I guess I’II find out how ready I am to settle down with my girlfriend.
Chapter 11
Back in the Hardened working-class district of Palm Deira, pacifist Indian laborer Rasik sat at the bar in a local pub, drinking away his recent pains. He had not been right since the death of his co-worker at the construction site more than a week ago. He continued to have his doubts about how to respond to it. Should he quit, revolt or continue working there without anger or any suspicions?
Recently, Rasik had gained some inside information on what may have happened that day. After being asked a few questions about his work and what seemed to be troubling him, he began to blab away to a man who offered to pay for his drinks at the bar. And Rasik began to tell him all that he thought he knew about the tragic accident.
“I keep asking myself, how did everyone know so soon what had happened? The police, the ambulance, the news cameras—they were all there in a matter of
minutes
when sometimes it takes hours and
days
for anything to happen at our site,” he explained to the stranger. “All of it was very unusual.”
“So you believe that someone informed them all in advance?” the man asked. “But this accident happened in broad daylight in the afternoon. Of course they would all arrive there quickly.”
The light-brown man showed an extreme level of calmness and understanding. He had noticed Rasik wearing his light-blue construction uniform from work, and he decided to befriend him by asking about his day on the job. He too had worked as a laborer. And as one question led to another, Rasik began to tell him everything. He nodded with his right hand around his fourth small glass and said, “I’ve heard a few things about a vendetta.”
The stranger frowned. “A vendetta?”
“Yes. A few older workers who have been here for a number of years …” Rasik stopped momentarily to gather himself as the strong drink began to throw him off balance at his barstool. Even the bartender gave him a knowing look from behind the tall counter.
On cue, the stranger told him, “I believe you’ve had enough drinks, my friend. Will you be able to make it back home?”
Rasik nodded profusely. “Yes, I can make it home.” But he was on a roll with his story and wanted to finish it. He felt compelled to complete his statement of what he knew, and the drinks had blocked his better judgment to remain silent.
“What I was saying was that I was told by some older workers that—”
“Excuse me, are you certain that you’ve not had too much to drink?” the man interrupted him.
As Rasik became frustrated, his imbalance was more noticeable. He nearly fell off of his stool as the man moved to catch him. That heightened the bartender’s attention.
“Are you all right?” the rugged man behind the counter asked him.
“No more drinks for you, my friend,” the stranger concluded.
“I’m fine,” Rasik protested to both of them.
“You are not fine,” the bartender argued. “And you have had enough drinks for one night.” The rugged man was over six feet tall, with a knife scar across his left cheek. If Rasik objected again or became unruly, he was prepared to alert his staff to show the man out, or he would do it himself. He even took the intoxicated man’s drink away.
“That is enough.”
Rasik was in no position to argue, and he was not unruly. So he nodded and accepted his fate without telling the rest of his pressing story. He then stood from the barstool and
“Yeah, and enjoy the view,” Johnny joked back.
Gary smiled and said, “Exactly.”
As soon as they hung up, his server from the Ukraine brought back his drink and set it on the table in front of him. She smiled and said, “Enjoy,” while lingering there for an extra second, as if waiting for him to say something else.
“Thank you,” he said. He promptly took a sip of the dark Merlot to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to say anything else.
I guess I’II find out how ready I am to settle down with my girlfriend.
Chapter 11
Back in the Hardened working-class district of Palm Deira, pacifist Indian laborer Rasik sat at the bar in a local pub, drinking away his recent pains. He had not been right since the death of his co-worker at the construction site more than a week ago. He continued to have his doubts about how to respond to it. Should he quit, revolt or continue working there without anger or any suspicions?
Recently, Rasik had gained some inside information on what may have happened that day. After being asked a few questions about his work and what seemed to be troubling him, he began to blab away to a man who offered to pay for his drinks at the bar. And Rasik began to tell him all that he thought he knew about the tragic accident.
“I keep asking myself, how did everyone know so soon what had happened? The police, the ambulance, the news cameras—they were all there in a matter of
minutes
when sometimes it takes hours and
days
for anything to happen at our site,” he explained to the stranger. “All of it was very unusual.”
“So you believe that someone informed them all in advance?” the man asked. “But this accident happened in broad daylight in the afternoon. Of course they would all arrive there quickly.”
The light-brown man showed an extreme level of calmness and understanding. He had noticed Rasik wearing his light-blue construction uniform from work, and he decided to befriend him by asking about his day on the job. He too had worked as a laborer. And as one question led to another, Rasik began to tell him everything. He nodded with his right hand around his fourth small glass and said, “I’ve heard a few things about a vendetta.”
The stranger frowned. “A vendetta?”
“Yes. A few older workers who have been here for a number of years …” Rasik stopped momentarily to gather himself as the strong drink began to throw him off balance at his barstool. Even the bartender gave him a knowing look from behind the tall counter.
On cue, the stranger told him, “I believe you’ve had enough drinks, my friend. Will you be able to make it back home?”
Rasik nodded profusely. “Yes, I can make it home.” But he was on a roll with his story and wanted to finish it. He felt compelled to complete his statement of what he knew, and the drinks had blocked his better judgment to remain silent.
“What I was saying was that I was told by some older workers that—”
“Excuse me, are you certain that you’ve not had too much to drink?” the man interrupted him.
As Rasik became frustrated, his imbalance was more noticeable. He nearly fell off of his stool as the man moved to catch him. That heightened the bartender’s attention.
“Are you all right?” the rugged man behind the counter asked him.
“No more drinks for you, my friend,” the stranger concluded.
“I’m fine,” Rasik protested to both of them.
“You are not fine,” the bartender argued. “And you have had enough drinks for one night.” The rugged man was over six feet tall, with a knife scar across his left cheek. If Rasik objected again or became unruly, he was prepared to alert his staff to show the man out, or he would do it himself. He even took the intoxicated man’s drink away.
“That is enough.”
Rasik was in no position to argue, and he was not unruly. So he nodded and accepted his fate without telling the rest of his pressing story. He then stood from the barstool and
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