kind of refuge it might be, Joe decided to flee to the police station.
Maybe his pursuers would shy away from bringing the police into the
recipe, thought Joe, as most legal systems usually side with the
mobbed rather than the mob. Bringing the smoking three-wheeler to
a halt in front of the station, he bounded up the front stairs and burst
into a small room where four men in khaki outfits and red hats were
playing backgammon and drinking cheap rum. As he was asking for
help and trying to make himself understood, the sound of people
running up the steps outside forced him to wheel around. Joe had to
act fast, and after quickly scanning the room, devised a strategy.
Snatching two bottles of rum from the officers’ desk, he waited
until the first men arrived in the room. The officers merely wobbled
their heads in unison like an array of jacks-in-the-boxes. As soon as
the angry Indians barreled through the door, Joe allowed them to
chase him into an open prison cell and once approximately ten were
inside, he locked the gate and cried, “Come on boys, lets dance!” and
proceeded to slap them around before finally sitting on the whole lot
of them and force-feeding them rum while singing jailhouse laments
and negro spirituals. The rest of the group who were locked out
finally became bored and went home while the drunken, slightly
squashed ones sang along with Joe and generally had a pretty good
time. Even the officers joined in, ultimately bringing them more rum
and quizzing Joe on the pros and cons of his enormity.
According to protocol, Joe was not allowed out of jail until he
sufficiently bribed the officers (and paid for the rum), and as he had
given his last few bills to the rickshaw driver, he had to wait until
someone could bail him out. Luckily, the police called our hotel and
left a message for us. Now everything made sense, particularly why
we were driven by Joe to the burger shop in a new, albeit somewhat
dented, three-wheel rickshaw taxi. I was satisfied with the story and
the food, but rather tired from the day.
“You want to go home?” Joe said incredulously, “It’s not
everyday you get your hands on a party machine like this!” Reluctant
at first, he finally deigned to drop us off at the hotel and despite his
ravaged condition continued on to try to pick up Indian women with
his ridiculous rickshaw. As it turned out, even the extraordinarily
Fortunate Joe could not pull off such an insurmountable stunt. We
were relieved when he woke us up with his heavy footsteps in the hall
an hour later, and happy that for one night at least, he had decided to
be content with being merely content.
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
172
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