ODDS ‘N’ SODS — A guilty conscience

.BBOB SINKSON

Working as an expatriate mine manager in South America, I learned that the margin between waking and dreaming can be very thin.

One Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in my undershorts, dripping with sweat, when the phone rang. It was Shaenz Mardikian, one of my co-workers at the mine project. In his broken English, he told me George Maclean, another of my co-workers, had landed himself in jail.

“He was swerving to avoid the car and police stop him,” explained Mardikian in broken English. “He admit he drink one beer so they say he was drunk. Now he is in the slammer. I give them money for cell by himself. They say is no problem. Maybe small fine. I think this is no problem.” Mardikian seemed to know what he was doing. I had a nap.

Upon waking, I was assailed with guilt. As under-manager, I ought to be doing something, I thought. I phoned the police and asked to speak to Maclean. I wasn’t allowed to, and the man on the other end said something I didn’t understand. I trusted Mardikian when he said all would be fine.

The next morning at the office, I remarked to my boss that Maclean was in a spot of trouble. I was about to explain the story when the secretary handed me a fax.

It read, in fractured English: “Your functionary George Maclean was shot at 0800 this morning for inasmuch as he frighten a citizen with unsaneful drinked conduction of a vehicle and operating same in grossly unlawful conditions.” It was signed by the local police chief.

“They’ve shot him!” I shrieked.

“Who?” asked my boss. “When?”

“Maclean. This morning.”

“When did they run him in?”

“Saturday night. Shaenz said . . .” I realized then that I had not a single piece of solid information as to what had happened.

My boss had a fit. “You mean to say you let one of our people get shot because Shaenz told you everything was OK? Why didn’t you get a hold of the consulate?”

“What good would that do on a Sunday?” I asked.

“Because the janitor answers the phone and his sister sleeps with the chief of police. You’ve got to know these things. All you had to do was give him about fifty bucks and George would be with us now.”

“I thought everything was OK,” I said, and repeated what the man at the police station said when I called.

“He was telling you that George was going to be shot!” my boss shrieked.

I woke up screaming, tangled like a mummy in my bedsheet. The phone was ringing.

“I say, old boy,” said the voice on the other end. It was Maclean and he was wondering about some machine parts we ordered.

“You’re alive!” was all I could say. Then I promised to check on those parts.

— The author is a mine manager in South America.