You know, to be truthful - to whoever's reading this - this is the first multi-chapter story I've written that I actually feel like people will enjoy it. I wrote this chapter- and the first chapter, because I felt that you, as my reader, would enjoy it.
I hope that my story lives up to my own expectations, and satisfies yours.
Rage; I would count your review as 'two' if I didn't get five. *rolls eyes* But since I did get five, your review is now counted as one. *grins*
Chapter Two;
Yes, I know the Melting Man.
The Melting Man;
The Melting Man.
Yes, I know the Melting Man,
who drives in the desert now, they say.
Hamilton could barely breathe as he stepped off the plane. Ninety degree air ripped into his lungs so quickly it was almost painful. This isn't air, he scowled. It's sand: sand masquerading as air. His phone rang then, just as he was stepping onto the tarmac. Apparently Africa hadn't ever heard of airport security or actual airports. Flipping open his phone, Hamilton tried to drown out the continuous rumble of people behind him. "Hello?"
"It's me, you know, Rea. I wanted to know if you'd landed yet."
Hamilton rolled his eyes. Sisters really were such a pain. "Just did. Why do you ask?"
"I wanted you to get a picture of a camel for me."
Hamilton blinked. That was a new one. "A what?"
"A picture of a camel. You know, one hump, looks weird, doesn't drink. Ring a bell?"
"I know what a camel looks like, dummy, but why do you want me to take a picture of one? Go download a picture off the internet it's not that hard. Go to google and type in 'camel'."
"No, I don't want a picture like that," Reagan was exasperated now. "I want a real picture. Like- from you. From someone who's been there."
Hamilton groaned. "Will you leave me alone?"
"Yes."
"Fine. I'll find a camel and take a picture of one for you. See you soon, Rea."
"Bye, and thanks, Ham!"
Hamilton snapped his phone shut and gathered his luggage from the conveyer belt. At least one thing was good in Africa. They were quick about the luggage. Looking around, Hamilton sighed as he saw around him for the first time.
It wasn't because it was dirty or unsatisfactory, in fact it was the opposite - cleaner from the Anchorage airport where he'd left. But there was almost nobody there except the people who worked at the desk, and his fellow co-flyers. What now? Picking up his suitcase in one hand, Hamilton made his way to where all the other people seemed to be gathered. There was a sign above all their heads reading some foreign, Arabic word. It better mean taxi.
Hamilton groaned again.
"...Tripoli to Timbuktu."
"Tripoli to Timbuktu," Crossing his legs, Hamilton wished that his hotel room had bigger chairs. "Tripoli to Timbuktu. You've got to be kidding me! Three times across the Sahara Desert? No way! I want the exempt line. Now, Griper."
"You're already there. What am I going to do, Hammer? Tell them that you broke a leg? They're not going to listen to me. And what would you like more? Carting tomatoes 15 times across Death Valley?"
"Alright, now you look here, Gerald Irimape. You got me into this mess - if I want out, I want out. I don't care what other people have to do. I care about myself!"
"I have bosses, too, Hamilton Holt. And I'm yours. I don't like to push it, but you are doing this."
"And I can quit," Hamilton shot back.
"Do this," Griper pleaded. "Just this once, and I won't force you to do it again."
"Promise?" Hamilton rolled his eyes. Like a promise would ever hold a truck driver.
"Cross my heart and hope to die."
Hamilton hung up. "On your life," he muttered afterward.
The marketplace was frighteningly busy.
Ducking around buckets of honey, Hamilton nearly ran into a pile of guavas. A market-lady shook her fist and cursed at him in Arabic. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, backing away. It was interesting though - the market. Colors were everywhere, flashing in the desert sun and reflecting off all the tall buildings; whitewashed so white it hurt his eyes to look at them. The streets were winding and narrow, dashing up one hill, only to leisurely worm their way down again. It was a wonder the market was even able to function at all.
Hamilton pushed his way towards what looked to be a tourist paraphernalia shop. Maybe they had some sort of clothing that would be less sweltering than the shorts and light teeshirt he was already wearing.
When he walked inside, a blast of cooler - slightly cooler - air hit him, filled with a sickly sweet scent of burning incense. Hamilton made his way to the back of the shop where the other clothes were, ignoring eyes turned on him. This was mainly a store for nick-knacks, obviously. Out of the corner of his eyes, Hamilton could see numerous 'Lybia's Hot!' teeshirts with pictures of super-model tourists posing with sunglasses on them. Little spoons were also there - inscribed with Libyan sayings and Arabic characters.
A wall halfway covered with bundles of incense was on his right. The other half was filled with handmade candles. The candles attracted Hamilton's attention. He turned slightly from the teeshirts and wandered toward the counter where chunks of wax were being melted down. A man in a turban with a long, greying beard - dipping two strings into two pots of wax looked up and grinned a rather black-toothed grin. He let out a string of Arabic words.
Hamilton glanced at the candles, then looked at the man. "Uh... I- I speak... English."
"Ah.- In-glish! Ah- I see!"
"Yes, yes-" Hamilton felt rather stupid. He fidgeted and looked at the candles again. "I- I was... looking at-" He pointed at the candles so the man wouldn't get confused. "-looking at the candles. I was... curious."
"Yes- yes- you see how we make them? See- the wax we buy. It comes from wax shrub far- far... down South. Then- then the incense, we... See? We boil- boil incense sticks with wax- it- it that smell. It strong?"
That was a question, and Hamilton guessed that was the smell he was smelling. "Yeah, I can smell it."
"Now- now I dip- dip the string into wax and incense. You dip many times, see?" The man dipped the strings again to prove his point.
"I see," Hamilton nodded. "Yeah. So how many times do you do that? I mean, how many times does it take to form- a real candle- I guess."
"Ah..." The man nodded wisely was if he could truly understand every word Hamilton was saying. "Ah, the candles? Many times. See? You dip and let dry in- in air. Air hardens wax. Once wax is slightly hard, you dip again. You dip until thick- thickness you want."
"So what do you do when you're done?" Hamilton glanced behind the man at a rack of candles. They looked like multiple strings, hanging over a stick with green or reddish buildup on the ends.
"Ah- you cut!" The man made snipping motions with his index and middle finger as if imitating scissors. He turned around and hung up the strings he had been dipping along the rack with the other many drying candles. "Here. Dry candles- look." Hamilton twisted his head to get a better view, and not scorch his head over the wax in the boiling kettle. The man lifted the first string on the rack. The wax looked dry, not the drippy-wet-dry the others still held. "You take nearly-dry candles. Lay them out."
The man laid the two candles out on the counter. "Then rall them."
"Roll them?"
"Yes- yes that it. Roll- roll them." The man gently began to roll the candles gently along the hard counter. Hamilton could see any lumps that were on the wax, beginning to fade away, molding into one single candle stick. "Now- back," Hamilton looked up and blinked. The man was shooing him away. He took a step back. The man nodded happily. "Watch."
Carefully lining the candles up, the man took a knife from below the counter, ran it over the candles once, to confirm where he was going to cut them, then ran the knife over the candles and cut through the wax and string with one slice. The man frowned and slid his finger carefully over the blade of the knife. "It is dull," he nodded, and then put it back under the counter.
Hamilton blinked. The candles no longer looked like random stubs on strings. They were long thin, candle-like rolls of wax, connected at the top with a common string. "Now, you keep string," The man's voice jerked Hamilton out of his thoughts. "You do two like this- hang their strings both to- to... sell. You see?"
"I see, thanks."
"Ah, you like try?"
It was an opportunity Hamilton couldn't resist. Walking around the counter, he took the top of the string the man was holding and dipped it cautiously into the slowly simmering red wax. Pulling it up, Hamilton could make out a thick red covering of wax on the strings. The man grinned his blackish grin. "Good- good! Very good! Now... dip- dip again."
Out of the corner of his eye, Hamilton could make out the man reaching for something behind the simmering kettle. He dipped the strings again. The something was hard to get obviously, since the man was leaning perilously over the counter, and dangerously close to the flames that were keeping the kettle hot. Hamilton dipped the strings a third time. And then with one, desperate stretch, Hamilton could see the man reach for whatever he was grabbing for, and come too close to the simmering pot.
Hamilton lunged backward, but not fast enough. The kettle tipped forward, spilling wax all down his shorts and the leg below.
For a fraction of an instant, Hamilton could feel the searing pain as wax leaked, dried, and hardened. And the pain was gone, and so was the wax on his legs.
"This!" The man gasped, jerking Hamilton back into reality. "That this should happen in my shop!" Dropping the candles-in-the-making, Hamilton focused on trying to keep his balance as the man literally pushed him from behind the counter and into the clothing section of the small, marketplace shop. "In Abu-Havaum's shop! My tourist shop!"
"No, no," Hamilton struggled for words. "I... I- you see, wait, you don't understand! I'm fine, really- really Abu- I'm fine. Trust me."
Abu-Havaum was far too engrossed to notice his pleas.
Hamilton left the shop an hour later, confused, but half-laughing at his own confusion. He had four strings of honey-flower scented candles to send home to Mary-Todd - whether she'd like them or not, and was also wearing a new pair of shorts and shirt. The shorts and shirt had come at no cost - courtesy of Abu - in apology for all inconvenience. His old clothes were wound up in a bundle, and lodged tightly in the crook of his arm.
Smiling, Hamilton wound through the still-busy streets. Veiled, and un-veiled women glided by beside him. They knew how to get around in this place - go with the crowd. Relaxing, Hamilton let the crowd sweep him along till the market streets ended, and he was able to make his way back to his hotel.
The doorman greeted him courteously. Perhaps it was because of his height. Hamilton nodded curtly as he passed. He was use to it. Height was an instant intimidation factor, and looking like you could knock two heads together and spit on the remains didn't help either. Getting onto the elevator, Hamilton pressed the 4 button, and then paused. He was no great estimator, but his head was about six inches from the top of the elevator door. It hadn't been right there when he'd left, had it?
Hamilton raised an eyebrow curiously at the door as it shut. This heat was a brain-addler.
Storyline picking up?
Good. *rubs hands together with eager anticipation* I wanted to mention as well though, that this story has not been beta-ed. All mistakes have been done by me, and obviously have not been caught by me.
I want another five reviews before I update!
Question; Do you like how I'm doing the story so far? A dumb question, since we're only like- two chapters into it, but I want to know. Are you enjoying it so far?