desert, quasi-desperation

Karakum desert, Turkmenistan, circa when the Soviet had no great hold.  A Lada Zhiguli rests with some contempt along what anyone could pass as the shoulder of the road. The hood is up, the driver and two passengers are pittering around in various degrees of nonbelief.

DRIVER: As God is my witness, I had this engine checked just weeks ago—I swear!

VIP: You swear too much to meaningfully swear to God. I don’t care what ‘weeks ago’ might do for you, but weeks from now, your driving days are done.

DRIVER: Please, Madame, just give this a bit of patience, as I know you’re on that side of progress here.

VIP: What is that supposed to mean? There are no ‘sides’ in our Watan—the Turkmen stand as one!

DRIVER: Of course, no doubt. And we will get to Ashgabat in time for—

VIP (leaning into him): —Do you really know for what? Do you know what you are driving for, and I don’t just mean ‘for whom’?

DRIVER (lifting greasy hands):  I do, I… really don’t know why you’d…

DOCTOR: I don’t know the ins and outs of automobiles, but I do know a thing or two about how valved and value systems work. I think your efforts are unwieldy, on first look.

DRIVER: Unwieldy? Have you ever driven one of these?

DOCTOR: It’s not for me to drive. I’ve always trusted those who have to turn their trust on me someday.

VIP: Cut the crap—the day is going to fade and you two won’t be paid unless this mess is fixed, one way or—

DRIVER: I’ve got it! Doctor, please undo your belt.

DOCTOR: Excuse me? I don’t—

DRIVER: —Mine is just too thick, and Madame’s, well, is not an option here—

VIP (akimbo): You’re calling me unfit?

DRIVER: I’m simply saying: I need the doctor’s belt.

DOCTOR: Well, I’ve… never—

VIP: Give him what he needs. That’s in your Hippocratic Oath, let alone what had been Soviet…

DOCTOR: Um, I gather that you might mean—

DRIVER: The alternator’s out. Been slipping since we left  and now needs something imaginative to deal with it.

VIP: To deal with it?

DRIVER: To keep the engine charged.

DOCTOR: You mean the battery? We can flag down any truck to jumper-cable us…

DRIVER: I mean the engine. The distributor cap. The way the pistons get their spark—you said, dear doctor, you understood the way that valve and value systems work, so—

DOCTOR: I am s’posed to give my trousers belt to you?

VIP: To us, it seems—we’re all dependent on your belt.

DRIVER (looking in, then shrugging out): I could give you the replacement belt, as it might befit your waist—

DOCTOR (aggressively unloosening): This will be enough! I don’t need another belt.

DRIVER (accepting, as it comes): Thanks, good doctor. I may have to monkey with the buckle, if you don’t mind.

VIP: Of course, he doesn’t mind. I’m feeling rather flushed in this heat, by the way.

DOCTOR: Then get inside, Madame—we have a jug of water, and—

VIP: I won’t be interred inside a Zhiguli.

DOCTOR (guiding her into the back seat, and closing the door): Of course you won’t—we wouldn’t…

DRIVER: Let’s not get our hopes too worked up—

DOCTOR: What is that supposed to mean?

DRIVER (grunting with the ad hoc fit): I… mean… we are all… supposed to… deal with what our circumstances dealt us.

DOCTOR: Meaning? That sounds like Orwell’s doublespeak.

DRIVER: Orwell? You assume I’d know that—

DOCTOR: More than I’d assume. You are here to make a moment happen; I am here to stave off fear. The belt you’ve put into the engine—

DRIVER (pointing): —just the alternator, sir—

DOCTOR (nodding, with irritation): —onto the alternator, then, only one piece to a million jigsaws not yet cut, if you fathom that analogy…

DRIVER: I happen to have graduated, MGU, in systems management—

VIP (from the unrolled window): Hey, I get that you men have it all in hand, but in the name of all things Turkmen, get the damn thing going!

DRIVER (popping out from beneath the hood): Of course, Madame, of course—

DOCTOR (foreheading into the smoking engine): Do you know, really what you’re doing here?

DRIVER: Are you asking me in earnest? Have I not been driving the likes-of-you for decades now on end?

DOCTOR: I’m not looking for historical purview. I question only what is here and now. The engine’s dead. The madame waits. My belt is in your hands. You said you’d deal with it, and now you’ve got to deal…

VIP (from within): I think you’re talking more than making work! Stop the claptrap and make this bucket o’ bolts drive!

DRIVER (softly): I think she’s not inaccurate, Doctor.

DOCTOR: You think! You’re the driver—

DRIVER (softly, still): Physician, heal thyself.

The DOCTOR steps away, seething and beside himself. He hesitates once and twice before slamming the Lada’s hood upon the DRIVER, within the alligator’s jaws. The VIP jumps out from the back seat and clutches her ears before charging to the DOCTOR and clutching his.

VIP: Do you realize what you’ve just done? You knucklehead! Now we’re stranded here for—

DOCTOR (grabbing at his trousers, falling down): —Your Honor, I only meant to spur him on—knock some sense into him! He’s using my belt, for goodness’ sake! I mean, for Turkmens’ sake…

VIP (viewing him head to toe): You don’t know apples from Adam, do you, Doctor?

DOCTOR: I beg your pardon?

VIP: Get into the back seat, will you?

DOCTOR: Um, you mean… to…

VIP (lighting a cigarette, flicking fingers for DOCTOR to comply): I don’t mean to, I just have to.

DOCTOR (from within): Have to? Have to… what?

The VIP gently raises the hood of the Zhiguli and pulls the dipstick. She inhales to glow her cigarette and adroitly places it into DRIVER’s mouth. Explosion as she walks away.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2020)