Chapter 58 - Western Man


A man, let’s call him an Englishman, descends into troubled parts of the Middle East in a helicopter; throwing up a swirling sandstorm, as it lands in some town ruined by a senseless war. He struggles out of the helicopter; his weight and sluggishness, although emblematic of the success of the West, hinders him a little. He enters a Middle Eastern aftermath, with a hand-towel to mop the waterfall of sweat running down his face. Despite suffering under the heat, he is dressed in a suit and tie, because he believes a suit is equated with professionalism. Accompanied by a translator, and another man; he stands over what seems to be a pile of rubble but is in fact, a demolished museum. He munches on a Middle Eastern culinary delight that he has managed to acquire. From where? Well, that will remain a mystery. But this man will always try and make sure he is able to eat.

“Yep, I’m sure you know this will cost a lot of money. Nice food. I wonder if I can find this in England.” He takes another bite, then notices a solitary piece of a broken Mesopotamian vase in the rubble. He picks it up and puts it in his pocket. 


Dad did not make a profit from devastation in the Middle East. He says he chose not to. Or maybe the offer was withdrawn. Anyway, life has not wrought this path for my father, but I am sure someone out there must be reaping a profit from war. 

The world of commercialism can be a cruel one, and the salesman himself can often be the victim. Some might say that Dad has passed his shelf-life. No longer needed in a job that I think he quite enjoys. No longer able to afford foods that may be considered unusual to his Scepter’d Isle.

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