phone rings in Seattle. Mine. On the other end is my alter ego, my nemesis, m yoid lover, Reinhard (not his real name—his ego needs no stroking) from Central American days . . . a rich, German, lunatic coffee dealer. 1Ie represents ‘‘the other side” if the other-side for you is coffee conglomerates basking in the convenience of third world growing climates and labor costs. I le represents our side in his taste for new wave, sushi, old 1leinlein books and Interview magazine. 1le is tormented by the dimensions of his life. From an old, aristocratic European family, his latter-day entrepreneur self a thorn in the side of his youthful dabbling in the local Communist Party (back in the old country). 1lis spending would be as impossible to curb as his fully matured smoking-habit. 1Ie’s a little bit nuts . . .or a lot nuts if you are not accustomed to these sorts of people. “I’m stuck in this fuckingtown for three extra days doing business. (“Fuck” is Reinhard’s favorite word. Speaking four languages fluently he sees it as the most utilitarian word of all.) Please, you must come down here. I know you don’t have any money. I’ll pay for it all.” I, of course, pointed out to him a bit of USA geography and estimated plane costs, but he said I was being small minded and a wussy and should catch a plane at the earliest possible convenience. He sounded relatively sane, easy to get along with and financially flush. I was just back to Seattle after my two years in Central America and a year in California. I had returned to find many of my long-time friends terminally married, depressed, alcoholic or just the same as when I left. I had no jobs, lots of time and was, in a word, bored. Practical sense told me I was a fool to re-open that can of worms. . .especially as Reinhard was already chastising me for not marring him. However, I had never seen Miami and, for me, practical sense is often a very dim voice easy to ignore. I caught the next plane. That part was hectic and perfectly jetsetter like. But once en route I had plenty of time to review memories and prepare for my imminent meeting. Reinhard had been in Central America for six years when I arrived there. As a newcomer to the country, I found him brilliant, unpredictable, worldly, spontaneous, foreign and a madman. I’ve a weakness for each of those characteristics. For him I was sharp, funny, financially independent and liberated from this entrenching country. It took me about two weeks to become aware of his incredible appetite for drugs (varieties I’d never dreamed of), women (very questionable standards) and ‘60s rock (when was the last time you fell to sleep with Jimi Hendrix on full bore?). It took a while longer for me to understand his world. Reinhard was a younger version of a classic type, the European businessman (they come from other parts as well) who comes to Latin America, learns Spanish quickly, and more readily yet, assumes that air of self-importance necessary to maintain control. They ride shotgun over herds of poor workers sorting coffee by hand and fluttering Latina secretaries who quickly ascertain their maritaf status and hope against hope they will be noticed. They deal long and hard with local producers (of coffee or any export crop) and assume it is their astute business wit and negotiating credentials that affords them a luxurious lifestyle. They usually work for a parent company which has warehouses and poor workers in every worthwhile third world country. With that kind of backing, their success is virtually assured over any local competition. They early on acquire an acquaintance with the local country’s military commissary and brag of their “connections.” Many soon find themselves married to local women all to happy to escape the life sentence of living in their particular impoverished, culturally backward city for the hope of moving to Europe someday. There are so many absolutely beautiful women married to the homeliest of European men. These women are from the upper classes and have been taught how to entertain and manage a houseful of servants. Their husbands are gentlemanly and know the social graces. And they all make frequent trips back to the old country to renew connections, stock up on those polyester shirts which make them look so limp in the heat, show off their wife and children and no doubt tell tall tales of big success in barbarian lands. But they have no scruples. All is fair in :jonnj]$u| 'i? ecologic wadows to (epos r^P «!H L •ain^na jeap pue s; Wp sa8en8ue| u8is taipo Mpyj Sajjads jaSuy qjoq sash dfenSuei >3uei uS!S u | | S’ ^Nitical view! ■ ■■■ 18 Clinton St. Quarterly
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