Teddybears STHLM - Fresh

It's Friday, 10:15 pm. We're in the town of Cusco, walking the darkened alleys and streets. We step inside the Cucuy restraunt. We sit at the bar and order a couple of pisco sours. The owner, a middle-aged gentleman, he walks up to us. He leans in -- I mean gets right in our faces -- and he says:

"Hey, you guys are Americans, right? You wanna party? You guys wanna do some coca?"

He's grinning from ear to ear. Stained, gold-capped teeth, breath smelling of pizza.

***

The year is 1981. Jack Slauson is a janitor; he works at the local elementary school. He goes to work at night. His job is to mop up kid vomit, wax the floors, clean the chalkboards, vacuum the carpet. He is single. During the day he watches The People's Court, drinks Bud Light, fixes the Trans-Am, naps.

The school is located in a sunny, suburban district of southern California. Track houses -- identical, orthodox -- line the streets near the school. A chain-link fence separates the playground from the street. During the day, children can be seen running in circles on the blacktop, hitting the tetherball, jumping off the swings near the sandbox.

Now it's 8 pm. Jack drives into the lot, parks his car. He turns off the stereo. He sits for a moment, feels the night air, leans forward, rolls up the window. Forearms bare and tan, plain Hanes short-sleeve tee covering his thin torso.

It's a warm evening; summer is just around the corner.

He walks across the parking lot. He turns down the exterior hallway, arrives at the janitorial closet. He faces the anonymous door. Opens it. Naked lightbulb overhead illuminating grimy cleaning supplies. Cobwebs in the darkened corners. The room has the thick smell of dust and wet rags.

He fills the bucket with soapy water, grabs the mop, and walks back down the hallway. This is his ritual.

He stops at door 102, the cafeteria. He always begins here. He flips through his keys.

This is the best part, the moment he looks forward to every day.

Jack opens his Walkman. He pops in a cassette. It's Michael Jackson's Off the Wall.

***

My name is Jimmy Bass. Every day I wake up at 5 AM, feel the first rays of light on my face, stare from my apartment at the appalling wasteland that is Cite Soleil, Haiti.

The radio buzzes. "U.N. troops are fighting a block-by-block gun battle with Port-Au-Prince gangs today, in the force's largest offensive since being deployed here in 2004."

Cracks of assault rifle fire in the distance. I call the boss, Evens.

"Evens, where you want de ammo?"

"Deliver it to Little Knife. 1800 Du Quai road."

My cousin Ralph straps into the bus. Battered AR-10 on his lap. Lightweight, air-cooled, autoloading. He releases the safety. Terse click of the magazine snapping into place. A pigeon coos from a nearby ledge.

***

It's Sunday. We climb the steep hill with the man, the man from the restaurant, passing cobblestone alleyways and whitewashed homes. We turn left into an unmarked courtyard, and there, sitting in the sun, are a group of men playing a game of sapo. An old lady, dressed in black, head covered by a scarf, sits in the shade near the wall and chews some leaves.

We play the game, trying our best to toss the coins into the metal toad's mouth. We are served cloudy glasses of chicha. It is summer. The day passes.