Happy Neues

Suns kept passing over me, pausing in some expectant equilibrium while I ripped through espressos. I asked the dog, What if I go bald? and she nodded and I just kept crying.

We sat under the baobab tree for a few years, willing away worries by not doing anything—I mean, by translating Kafka into Pulaar for the kiddies. When I grow up, said Samba, I want to be a bug, a teeny little thing, maybe small forever and with lots of legs. Or, I said, perhaps a vermin, a cockroach, an enormous bane on your sister and mother and your father will murder you. Then the dog made me leave for being so goddamn depressing. What I mean is, I left the village happily because I am a happy person.

Speaking of espressos, Johann and I decided to rob a bank one morning. He mouthed something to me, but I was groggy from breakfast and lost it in the thick air. Besides, I never knew German. For his part, Johann was arrested and hanged for double parking. Then, last Monday, Samba and I opened a third wave coffee shop. We start early, defying daylight by working from dawn until I shrivel and collapse, at which point Samba will presumably just go home. Anyway, you should come by sometime.