Free Parts Unknown by S.P. Davidson Page A

dish, very tender. And some okra, for the side. And rice.”
    “No snails in that one,” said Dov in a stage whisper.
    “Thank you, it looks delicious,” I said, and asked him, “I was wondering--how’d you end up here?”
    “In my country, my father was a chief—a big man. But we did not have much money. And I had many brothers. I am the youngest. Not much left over for me. So I chose to come here. Maybe make a better life.” He sighed. “It has been a few months. And I like it here, but it is so cold. And job search is hard.”
    “So what do you do,” I asked, “When you aren’t job searching?” I found my voice automatically falling into Trevor’s deliberate, rhythmic cadences.
    “I run,” he said. “I run a lot.”
    I looked around the table. There was Dov, being a typical messy guy, slurping meat  and holding a beer at the same time. And bright-eyed sad Trevor, and me. Were we all here to escape being someplace else?
    After dinner, Dov suggested drinks at the local pub, and I immediately agreed. We treated Trevor to a pint of bitter at the Lamb and Castle, a couple blocks away, and chatted idly. “Trevor sounds so British,” I said. “Are many Nigerian children named Trevor?”
    He laughed, white teeth flashing. “No, actually! My real Nigerian name is AbdulRahman. But it is difficult to spell, and confusing. I would like to be called Trevor while I live here.”
    “And you, Dov?” I asked. “Any secret names you want to fess up to?”
    He opened his arms wide. “Dov Bar-Ilan. That’s me. What you see is what you get.”
    I sipped my cider, letting it flow smoothly down my throat like water. “When I have a child, I’m going to name her something interesting. Alizarin. Or Viridian. A name no one else has.”
    Trevor looked upset. “There is something to be said for fitting in with other people, though. Don’t you think? Will the children not laugh at your daughter, for her name?”
     “You have a point. But I think the names are beautiful. They’re paint colors. Alizarin is this deep, deep crimson color. And viridian is a bright green. You can’t use them alone—they’re too bright. But if you mix each one with any other color, that color takes on an amazing depth. They’re two colors I can’t paint without.”
    “Brilliant that you’re an artist,” said Dov. “That means you can really be one of us. Trevor and I have voted ourselves least likely to be gainfully employed this year.”
    I reached into my purse and pulled out my new pack of cigarettes. Inhaling deeply, I said, “Thanks, glad to be part of the club.”
    “There’ll be hazing later,” Dov warned, and Trevor cuffed his shoulder.
    Eventually Dov extracted a deck of cards from his back jeans pocket. “Anyone up for poker?” he asked.
    I stared blankly, as did Trevor. “Okay, you babies,” he groaned. “How about something simple—Crazy Eights?” I reached back into the recesses of my memory, and remembered childhood games. “Crazy Eights it is!” I enthused.
    And there we stayed, till the pub closed at 11 pm, playing Crazy Eights, and Go Fish, and Gin Rummy, laughing, drinking pints of Guinness and cider. We played table hockey with the Strongbow Cider coasters, and as conversation lulled, I asked Dov curiously, “So, what will you do, really, after Council Travel? What’s next?”
    He shrugged loosely, after several pints his words slurring, the soft consonants rounder and slower. “I dunno, girl. I just take it day by day, you know? Things will figure themselves out.”
    Trevor nodded energetically. “I am always hoping. Hopeful. One tries one’s best.”
    I swirled my cider, avoiding Trevor’s earnest look, his strained British pronunciation. How well would his British act work out for him? I wanted desperately to hope it would, for this kind man.
    And I was convinced that at last, my luck had changed.
     

Part II
     
     
    Los Angeles
    2008
     
     

Chapter 5
     
     
     
     
 
    “I won’t do