A Stranger on Earth
His head had been resting on the window for half of the flight. He was awakened by the jarring
stop made by the plane's wheels on the runway. He rubbed away the red mark made by resting on the
window and waited to get off. This was O'Hare Airport? This was America? It did not seem exciting,
or even interesting. But it was better than the places that preceded it. It had to be. He had nowhere else
to go.
He picked up his luggage- only one piece- and went to Customs as required. He waited in line
patiently, though the craving for a cigarette grew stronger which each passing minute. Crying babies,
hooded women, teenagers on the advent of their backpacking tours, businessmen. His turn was up. He
presented his passport and documents to the agent, a short, round woman with a perfunctory French
roll that was most unbecoming on her. He placed a cigarette in his mouth.
"No smoking here," she ordered curtly.
He took the offending cigarette from his mouth and replaced it in its pack.
"Kovack?" the woman intoned.
"Kova ," he offered.
She did not correct herself but continued to examine his documents.
"It says here you are a doctor. Is that so?"
No, you stupid woman. I made that up.
"Yes," he replied. "I am a physician specializing in trauma."
The woman screwed up her face in confusion. He tried to offer a better explanation.
"Emergency medicine," he fumbled.
She scowled.
"You might want to work on your English."
You might want to work on your manners.
"I certainly hope you practise medicine better than you speak English."
Better than your grammar. What is your excuse, anyway?
"Any alcohol, cigarettes, food items?"
"No."
The woman looked at his baggage.
"Travelling light, I see."
God damn you.
"It's all I own in the world," he said, vexed.
The woman looked chagrined. Perhaps she did watch the news. She returned the documents.
"You'll have to report to Immigration Services within the next seventy-two hours."
He took back his documents.
"Thank you."
He turned to leave.
"Welcome to America, Doctor Kovac."
He said nothing but felt a slight weight lift from him.
**
Luka left the terminal and waited for a taxi. A Pakistani family waited in the drizzle. The mother
looked nervous, clinging onto one child by the hand and holding the smallest one in her arms. Her little
boy looked around him, having a distinct look of being alien. He looked at Luka. His face was blank.
Luka smiled at him. Immediately, the boy hid his face in the folds of his mother's sari. Luka turned
away, smitten by his unwelcome friendliness, feeling even more isolated. He placed a cigarette in his
mouth and proceeded to light it. A porter removed the cigarette from his ribbon lips and threw it away.
"No smoking here."
Luka had enough. It had been twenty-five hours since his last cigarette and he was dying.
When a taxi mercifully arrived, he stepped in.
"Where to?"
Luka searched his brain for the words to say. He rarely had an opportunity to speak English.
Remember the situation phrases, he thought. Asking for a taxi.
"Where to?"
Luka huffed.
"Downtown."
The driver started the taxi and manoeuvred around other shuttles and taxis and families getting
away from the rain. Luka placed a cigarette in his mouth.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
The driver cast a look at him.
"Yeah, I do."
Dammit.
The driver smiled.
"Hey, are you, like, from Italy or somewhere?"
Luka shook his head and actually smiled.
"No, Croatia."
The driver chuckled.
"Like on the news."
Luka nodded and looked out at the rain.
"Like on the news."
The driver was solemn.
"Is it true? All that stuff about people being killed and that?"
Luka paused. God, I need a cigarette right now.
"Yes."
The driver nodded, even if he did not really understand.
"What's your name?"
Luka was jarred from his listlessness.
"Sorry?"
"I said- what's your name?" the driver repeated.
"Luka," he replied.
The driver let out a huff.
"I wouldn't tell nobody that's your name. They might think you're mobbed up or funny."
Luka did not understand.
"What does this mean- "mobbed up"? I don't understand."
"Like Luca Brazzi," the driver explained. " In the Mafia. Don't they have organized crime where
you come from?"
Luka nodded.
"Oh. A criminal. I see. I will simply tell people I am a doctor."
The driver nodded.
"A doctor, huh?"
Yes."
The driver's brow furrowed a little.
"Is being a doctor in Croatia different from being a doctor in America?"
Luka couldn't help but let out an incredulous laugh.
"How could it be different? People get sick everywhere you go."
The driver shrugged.
"I wouldn't know. I'm just a cabbie."
Luka's brow furrowed. What was a cabbie? He would have to brush up on his English and
soon.
The taxi stopped at the lights. The rhythmic movement of the windshield wipers as they sloshed
rain from side to side, the pattering of rain on the metal roof of the taxi and the slickness of the road
created its own atmosphere. It was almost lulling in a sodden, pedestrian way.
All he wanted was a cigarette.
"Driver, please stop here."
The driver, taken aback, pulled to the curb.
"Are you sure this is where you need to be? I can take you to a hotel."
Luka smiled.
"No. This is good. Thank you."
The driver took his money.
"You're too polite, Doctor Luka. You gotta change that."
Luka smiled once and dashed into a coffee shop away from the pouring rain.
**
Luka burst into the coffee house. It was an exotic looking place with red and orange walls and
Polynesian-looking furniture scattered about the place. It was a trendy sort of place and almost empty.
A lone couple sat quietly in the corner. Luka fixed himself at a table. He brushed away the rain from his
hair and clothes. He breathed at last. The waitress, a young girl looking all tragically hip with funky
blond hair and thickly framed glasses, strode up to him, smiling and threatening to coo at him.
"Can I help you?"
Luka smiled.
"Yes. Coffee, please." His face was pained. "Please, may I have a cigarette?"
The girl was troubled.
"Well, we normally don't allow smoking but there's hardly anyone here so..."
Luka smiled broadly.
"Thank you."
**
The coffee mug was half full and the cigarette half smoked. The rain slid in little rivers down the
pane of glass facing the gray wet streets and bright traffic lights. Luka kept his back to it. He slicked his
wet hair back and puffed once more at his cigarette. He was hardly conscious of the waitress' attentions
of him or the young couple talking quietly in the corner.
It had been such a long journey. He shut his eyes and pressed his fingers against the lids gently.
Now, he wanted only to get dry and never to move again. He would have to eventually, though.
Someone would complain about the cigarette and his coffee would run out. It was always something.
There was always a reason to be on the move. It was best to just savour the moment and ignore its
impermanence. The coffee shop away from the rain seemed to be only the briefest respite from his
journey to find normalcy. Vukovar. Zagreb. Šibenik. St. Petersburg. Toronto. Chicago. All were like
stones in a river- a precarious step over the rushing water to the other side.
Luka lost himself in thought. He let the sound of the rain on the window and pavement seep into
his head. There was that lulling sensation again, and the greater need to wake from it. Not all sleep
brought relief. Only the lull of certain things made him feel at peace. It was usually an angry sky before
the rain or the wind against the rushes. He would have to settle for cars driving through the rain and the
waitress now chattering on the telephone to her friend (how could he not hear her?).
"Oh-my-God! This guy just walked in... Molto fabulouso! He's like- SO sexy. His hair is wet
and he's smoking. He looks...mmmmm...yummy..."
Luka blushed a little. One couldn't feel still while self-conscious.
He shut his eyes again and tried to recapture the pacific moments in the taxi. The rain, the
windshield wipers, even the lights were calming, hypnotic. He wanted to be stuck in a moment and not
come out of it. Permanence. A chance to stay put.
Nothing would let him, though. There was always something to remind him of how quickly and
definitely things can change. His only refuge was moments like these when there was quiet, cigarette
smoke, murmurs, rain.
"Would you like some more coffee?"
Luka puffed away the last of the cigarette and presented his now empty mug.
"Yes, please," he smiled politely.
The waitress returned the smile and went to get Luka's coffee.
Luka took out another cigarette and lit it up. The rain still fell steadily and he had one more
coffee for the road. He let his head fall back as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He would stay here, he
thought.
At least for a little while.
His head had been resting on the window for half of the flight. He was awakened by the jarring
stop made by the plane's wheels on the runway. He rubbed away the red mark made by resting on the
window and waited to get off. This was O'Hare Airport? This was America? It did not seem exciting,
or even interesting. But it was better than the places that preceded it. It had to be. He had nowhere else
to go.
He picked up his luggage- only one piece- and went to Customs as required. He waited in line
patiently, though the craving for a cigarette grew stronger which each passing minute. Crying babies,
hooded women, teenagers on the advent of their backpacking tours, businessmen. His turn was up. He
presented his passport and documents to the agent, a short, round woman with a perfunctory French
roll that was most unbecoming on her. He placed a cigarette in his mouth.
"No smoking here," she ordered curtly.
He took the offending cigarette from his mouth and replaced it in its pack.
"Kovack?" the woman intoned.
"Kova ," he offered.
She did not correct herself but continued to examine his documents.
"It says here you are a doctor. Is that so?"
No, you stupid woman. I made that up.
"Yes," he replied. "I am a physician specializing in trauma."
The woman screwed up her face in confusion. He tried to offer a better explanation.
"Emergency medicine," he fumbled.
She scowled.
"You might want to work on your English."
You might want to work on your manners.
"I certainly hope you practise medicine better than you speak English."
Better than your grammar. What is your excuse, anyway?
"Any alcohol, cigarettes, food items?"
"No."
The woman looked at his baggage.
"Travelling light, I see."
God damn you.
"It's all I own in the world," he said, vexed.
The woman looked chagrined. Perhaps she did watch the news. She returned the documents.
"You'll have to report to Immigration Services within the next seventy-two hours."
He took back his documents.
"Thank you."
He turned to leave.
"Welcome to America, Doctor Kovac."
He said nothing but felt a slight weight lift from him.
**
Luka left the terminal and waited for a taxi. A Pakistani family waited in the drizzle. The mother
looked nervous, clinging onto one child by the hand and holding the smallest one in her arms. Her little
boy looked around him, having a distinct look of being alien. He looked at Luka. His face was blank.
Luka smiled at him. Immediately, the boy hid his face in the folds of his mother's sari. Luka turned
away, smitten by his unwelcome friendliness, feeling even more isolated. He placed a cigarette in his
mouth and proceeded to light it. A porter removed the cigarette from his ribbon lips and threw it away.
"No smoking here."
Luka had enough. It had been twenty-five hours since his last cigarette and he was dying.
When a taxi mercifully arrived, he stepped in.
"Where to?"
Luka searched his brain for the words to say. He rarely had an opportunity to speak English.
Remember the situation phrases, he thought. Asking for a taxi.
"Where to?"
Luka huffed.
"Downtown."
The driver started the taxi and manoeuvred around other shuttles and taxis and families getting
away from the rain. Luka placed a cigarette in his mouth.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
The driver cast a look at him.
"Yeah, I do."
Dammit.
The driver smiled.
"Hey, are you, like, from Italy or somewhere?"
Luka shook his head and actually smiled.
"No, Croatia."
The driver chuckled.
"Like on the news."
Luka nodded and looked out at the rain.
"Like on the news."
The driver was solemn.
"Is it true? All that stuff about people being killed and that?"
Luka paused. God, I need a cigarette right now.
"Yes."
The driver nodded, even if he did not really understand.
"What's your name?"
Luka was jarred from his listlessness.
"Sorry?"
"I said- what's your name?" the driver repeated.
"Luka," he replied.
The driver let out a huff.
"I wouldn't tell nobody that's your name. They might think you're mobbed up or funny."
Luka did not understand.
"What does this mean- "mobbed up"? I don't understand."
"Like Luca Brazzi," the driver explained. " In the Mafia. Don't they have organized crime where
you come from?"
Luka nodded.
"Oh. A criminal. I see. I will simply tell people I am a doctor."
The driver nodded.
"A doctor, huh?"
Yes."
The driver's brow furrowed a little.
"Is being a doctor in Croatia different from being a doctor in America?"
Luka couldn't help but let out an incredulous laugh.
"How could it be different? People get sick everywhere you go."
The driver shrugged.
"I wouldn't know. I'm just a cabbie."
Luka's brow furrowed. What was a cabbie? He would have to brush up on his English and
soon.
The taxi stopped at the lights. The rhythmic movement of the windshield wipers as they sloshed
rain from side to side, the pattering of rain on the metal roof of the taxi and the slickness of the road
created its own atmosphere. It was almost lulling in a sodden, pedestrian way.
All he wanted was a cigarette.
"Driver, please stop here."
The driver, taken aback, pulled to the curb.
"Are you sure this is where you need to be? I can take you to a hotel."
Luka smiled.
"No. This is good. Thank you."
The driver took his money.
"You're too polite, Doctor Luka. You gotta change that."
Luka smiled once and dashed into a coffee shop away from the pouring rain.
**
Luka burst into the coffee house. It was an exotic looking place with red and orange walls and
Polynesian-looking furniture scattered about the place. It was a trendy sort of place and almost empty.
A lone couple sat quietly in the corner. Luka fixed himself at a table. He brushed away the rain from his
hair and clothes. He breathed at last. The waitress, a young girl looking all tragically hip with funky
blond hair and thickly framed glasses, strode up to him, smiling and threatening to coo at him.
"Can I help you?"
Luka smiled.
"Yes. Coffee, please." His face was pained. "Please, may I have a cigarette?"
The girl was troubled.
"Well, we normally don't allow smoking but there's hardly anyone here so..."
Luka smiled broadly.
"Thank you."
**
The coffee mug was half full and the cigarette half smoked. The rain slid in little rivers down the
pane of glass facing the gray wet streets and bright traffic lights. Luka kept his back to it. He slicked his
wet hair back and puffed once more at his cigarette. He was hardly conscious of the waitress' attentions
of him or the young couple talking quietly in the corner.
It had been such a long journey. He shut his eyes and pressed his fingers against the lids gently.
Now, he wanted only to get dry and never to move again. He would have to eventually, though.
Someone would complain about the cigarette and his coffee would run out. It was always something.
There was always a reason to be on the move. It was best to just savour the moment and ignore its
impermanence. The coffee shop away from the rain seemed to be only the briefest respite from his
journey to find normalcy. Vukovar. Zagreb. Šibenik. St. Petersburg. Toronto. Chicago. All were like
stones in a river- a precarious step over the rushing water to the other side.
Luka lost himself in thought. He let the sound of the rain on the window and pavement seep into
his head. There was that lulling sensation again, and the greater need to wake from it. Not all sleep
brought relief. Only the lull of certain things made him feel at peace. It was usually an angry sky before
the rain or the wind against the rushes. He would have to settle for cars driving through the rain and the
waitress now chattering on the telephone to her friend (how could he not hear her?).
"Oh-my-God! This guy just walked in... Molto fabulouso! He's like- SO sexy. His hair is wet
and he's smoking. He looks...mmmmm...yummy..."
Luka blushed a little. One couldn't feel still while self-conscious.
He shut his eyes again and tried to recapture the pacific moments in the taxi. The rain, the
windshield wipers, even the lights were calming, hypnotic. He wanted to be stuck in a moment and not
come out of it. Permanence. A chance to stay put.
Nothing would let him, though. There was always something to remind him of how quickly and
definitely things can change. His only refuge was moments like these when there was quiet, cigarette
smoke, murmurs, rain.
"Would you like some more coffee?"
Luka puffed away the last of the cigarette and presented his now empty mug.
"Yes, please," he smiled politely.
The waitress returned the smile and went to get Luka's coffee.
Luka took out another cigarette and lit it up. The rain still fell steadily and he had one more
coffee for the road. He let his head fall back as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He would stay here, he
thought.
At least for a little while.