The White Flamingo by James A. Newman

happened?”
    “Next thing I know she’s dead.”
    “Happens,” Hale said.
    “But if I could only have helped out, helped out a little, then she would still be here. Don’t you see this?”
    “Did you use protection?” Joe asked Bryan.
    “We were in love.”
    “That’s not the question, did you use protection?”
    “At first, yes,” Bryan said.
    “Between me and you, get yourself checked out,” Joe said. Bryan said nothing. Joe figured he wouldn’t get himself checked, but chose it best not to push the issue. 
    “It would have happened anyway, mate,” Hale said.
    “How long have you been here, mate?” Bryan said to Hale.
    “Too long to count the years. Fun City is a dangerous town.” Hale took a long drink from his beer and continued his rant. “The guys who send out the lettuce on a month-by-month basis to the hookers who do the long distance Facebook gig. The long game, they call it. A version of your laundry scam, with feathers and whistles. That auntie was an older hooker showing her the ropes. The laundry was a daytime cover before she hit the bars. The brother was either the husband or the boyfriend, and most certainly the father of the child of whom she was certainly the mother.”
    “You’re too paranoid you are,” Bryan said.
    “They will bleed you until you die. I remember once, some insane German tart took a jump from the apartment building. She splattered out there on the floor. The foreign residents spoke about what a shame it was that a woman had died so young. The locals talked about the figures. Their little faces lit up with excitement and greed. They wanted to know how old she was, what floor she was on, her birth date. Her room number. Why? They wanted to use the numbers for the national lottery. Death is lucky here, bro. I don’t know much about this culture. What I do know is that death doesn’t bother them and they are more than happy to profit from death. Death is an opportunity for them. A shame what happened to Tammy on the table. You wouldn’t know her date of birth would you, Joe?”
    “ No.”
    “You see it’s hopeless.  Most of the locals in this town are from up country. Up until about thirty years ago, these people had been sitting in the jungle with no electricity, no fan, no lights, no nothing. If they wanted to eat, they went out into the jungle, either shot something with a bow and arrow, picked something from a tree, or dug a hole and pulled the bastard out. Grubs, they liked especially. Any kind of insect will do. I once took my girlfriend to the zoo. She walked around saying delicious and cannot eat, pointing her fucking finger at the animals.”
    Hale could feel the beer moving him. Loosening the gears. Oiling the wheels. He held court in The Corridor beer bar. The heart-broken foreigner was all ears. Strangers walked in from the streets to listen. A man with a rat’s tail wearing a Metallica T-shirt propped up the bar. Hale continued. “Let me tell you a story. All of you. Lend me your ears and your beers. Once upon a time, there was a small village in the northeast. Life was very simple back then. It was a simple and primitive existence. Everybody was happy. They had no idea that across the jungle and the rice fields, folks were sitting in high-rise blocks watching a box that had sound and pictures inside it. Cracking open cans of liquid that made you happy. Now upcountry, they had the jungle. They’d all sit in the trees eating fruit and spitting out betel nut all day long. For entertainment, they would tell old stories and procreate within their close-knit family groups. They’d spit and piss through the holes in their tree houses and forage for grubs in the forest. All very comfortable .
    “ One day, The road came. The road brought with it beer and cigarettes. The road brought Coca-Cola and disposable razors. The road brought all the wonderful things that we westerners know and hold close. But where did the road go? A few of the younger men