This is my first encounter with a daunting supernatural opponent, and I’m a little nervous. Fortunately, my freezer has sufficient vodka for such emergencies. And after a cold double shot, I consider my options.
Option One: Run. The problem with running is that I can’t find my keys. Doors are complicated in Argentina. Not only are keys needed to lock doors, but they’re also necessary to unlock them, even from the inside. And people like me tend to lose their keys. Therefore, moving on Option One would require finding my keys first. The ants no doubt would strike a fatal blow in the interim. Running is too dangerous obviously, but no worries. Living in Buenos Aires has taught me the art of contingency planning.
Option Two: Call the police. The problem here is that I only know how to begin and end conversations with “todo bien”. And considering that everything is NOT okay, I might get arrested for misleading authorities. I’m also unsure if “flying ant insurrections” qualify for police protection in Buenos Aires.
Option Three: Fight. I’m terribly nervous about this option. For starters, I’ve never been in a fight before. Also, if ants have the ability to assemble into large hovering shapes, there’s no telling what else they can do. Perhaps they can breathe fire and move objects with their minds. And considering that my best weapon is an umbrella – which probably won’t stack up against ancient ant defense techniques – I’m not sure I can advance a successful attack. Still, when I unsheathe the umbrella and hold it like a lunatic, I feel strangely powerful, like a man reconnecting with his tribe. A duel to the death seems momentarily honorable, and with two hands on the handle of my umbrella, I strike with relentless fury.
The secret magic of the beasts is their ability to change shape. At first, they transform into a striking implement – something of primordial barbarians – and duel me with careless indifference. I’m like blind a man trying to hit a baseball. Manic, I swing haphazardly, but the flying ants brush me aside changing into the shape of a matador with perfect cape control. After a long minute, I’m on the floor trying to regain my breathing. They reconfigure into the shape of a boot and press into my throat with surprising force. It occurs to me that not only am I an unworthy opponent, but I can’t win. These flying ants are a beautiful part of a dangerous world, and the best thing I can do is accept them. Getting up, I prepare another vodka shot. What else can I do?
“Drink?”
The flying ants assemble themselves into a shot glass. I pour. They are surprisingly good company and fine drinkers. Lacking vocal chords, they speak by reorganizing themselves into images. They are very knowledgeable in the area of Renaissance Men.
“Do you know Michelangelo?”
The ants, not lacking in modesty, make a winking gesture. Then before I can pour another shot, I’m looking at the Pieta. I never actually saw the real thing and I’m astounded by the details.
“Not bad,” I say. And I remember that I never waited in line to see the David, which is a minor regret of mine. Almost instantly they reassemble themselves into a perfect miniature of the masterpiece. They’ve obviously studied Michelangelo, and I begin to wonder what other things they know. They reassemble into the shot glass once more and I pour them a double.
“Let me ask,” and as I say this I realize that I’m conversing with a hovering shot glass, “can you animate like human forms?” And just like that they reassemble into the likeness of Dudley Moore, unquestionably the greatest actor of his generation. “I would have preferred Bo Derek,” I say. The flying-ant-likeness of Dudley Moore laughs.
We discuss all manners of the world: politics, sports, physics, and music. This flying-ant-likeness drinks considerably and in a short time, we finish the vodka and a couple bottles of wine. Not too often does a man have the opportunity to uncover the secrets of the universe. Drunk, staring at this flying-ant-likeness, I ask him the most ridiculous question I can muster.
“I was wondering about the meaning of life?” It’s funny, but when you ask a question like that – laughing uproariously – it’s because you realize the answer to it is so obvious. The flying-ant-version of Dudley Moore knows this, I think. He moves over to the kitchen area, and picks up the bottle of instant coffee.
“Nescafé?” I scratch my head. “So the meaning of life is Nescafé?”
He nods and laughs like a perfect fool.
It all makes perfect sense. “Well, what the Hell about it? Does this me that I should make for the Nestle Corporation? Should I wander the earth spreading the joys of instant coffee?”
The flying-ant-likeness of Dudley Moore moves to the sofa area. He extends his empty wine glass and I fill it. For the first time in our conversation he’s thinking about inexplicable things. I wonder. Like the Grand Canyon or women’s dress sizes, can what he knows be understood by men, by me? He drinks his wine and stares into the noise on Humboldt Street. The decrescendo of the foot traffic bounces off the broken sidewalks like falling rubber. Buenos Aires is filled with noise all day and all night. A third of the country lives here. A third of the country works here. A third of the country wakes up every morning and wonders, exactly, what it needs to survive.
The flying-ant likeness of Dudley Moore gulps the last drop of wine and moves to the balcony outside. Before he dissipates into the dawn, he shrugs his shoulders and laughs outrageously. He gives me a look that says: “Knowing what the world is and doing something about it are two very different things.”
“Who knows,” I say. And shortly afterwards I fall asleep and enjoy something of a dream.
**********
RETURN to Title Page
CONTINUE READING: IX. Departure
Tags: ants, Argentina, BUNK, Dudley Moore
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