Free Waiting for the Electricity by Christina Nichol

meter and pay as a group, no one would ever betray their own neighbor, and we would always have reliable electricity. As it was, people would always steal from the government, but never from each other.
    Fax looked dubious. “Why don’t you work on that while I go to lunch? Make sure you keep an eye on the fax machine.”
    I always kept an eye on the fax machine. And I wasn’t the only one. Whenever Fax was at lunch, Fax’s acquaintances usually came to visit. Today, as usual, they drove up in a black Volga, Radio Fortuna blaring. The driver stayed in the car while Zaliko, our town’s chief archaeologist, got out, strode over to the door, pulled his mountain hat down over his eyes, and asked if Fax was here.
    “Don’t worry. He’s out,” I said.
    Zaliko leaned close. “Have I received any faxes?” he whispered.
    I told him that he hadn’t.
    “Foo! I’m expecting a packet from the U. about government aid programs in Armenia. Our land is filled with one-point-seven-million-year-old giraffe skulls, but does our government care about funding this? They already have enough Mercedes for everyone in their family.” He pronounced Mercedes the French way, with the accent on the last syllable. “What else do they need to spend their money on?”
    “You think I know this?” I asked him. “Batumi doesn’t even have a bowling club.”
    The archaeologists usually frequented the local Center for Democracy so they could use the long distance telephone there. But there were too many competing archaeologists at the Center for Democracy. Tempers would soar like the missiles Yeltsin used to launch into the air to blow away all the clouds for a sporting event. The archaeologist had to choose his friends wisely or he would be stepped on. Inevitably he got stepped on anyway, and then he had to pick himself up and learn to run with the others.
    When Zaliko left, I typed in “Black Sea Fish” into Google. I only found another recipe for salted jellyfish.
     
    That afternoon, after lunch, Fax called me to his office. On his desk lay the stack of Zaliko’s faxes. “Look at this,” he said. “It’s so interesting. Last year the Americans gave a lot of foreign aid to Armenia! There is an NGO starting a company for, read here,” he said and pointed, “‘Sustainable Uses of the Armenian Boulder.’”
    Fax turned to another sheet of paper, his finger stabbing the page like a blunt sword. “Here is a joint American marketing venture trying to popularize the use of ketchup in Armenia.”
    I leaned closer, disbelieving. “And here,” he added. “A nongovernmental tourist organization in Armenia that is promoting the religious significance of Mount Ararat. And look at their family farmer loan program. Look at their budget. They’ve included a salary for a secretary for each cow.”
    “Ah,” he continued, shuffling further through the pages, “here’s one called ‘Global Marketing of Traditional Armenian Bread.’ Slims!” he said. “You’ve been studying English. Why don’t you put it to some use for once. You need to write about how Georgian bread is better suited for export than Armenian bread.”
    “But what’s the difference between Georgian and Armenian bread?” I asked.
    “The difference is that Americans really like Armenians,” said his secretary, as if she knew.
    “It’s not the bread that matters,” Fax scowled, as if we were both some brand of donkey. “It’s what you smuggle in the bread. How can we get ahead if we don’t tap into this resource?”
    “You’re a bigger dreamer than me,” I told him, “and you’re not even my relative.”
    “Slims, you need to learn to wield your power, like those journalists in Moscow always threatening a political celebrity with a satire.”
    “That was more effective in the nineteenth century,” I pointed out.
    “The Americans only give foreign aid to the Abkhazians. I’ve heard they only like to help refugees,” said his secretary.
    “I’m not