Tim’s Heavy Hand
It’s 1AM in the morning. We’ve just finished a 5000 calorie dinner in a fancy restaurant in Buenos Aires and are standing outside waiting for our extra large cabs and patting our bellies, which are now all around us. The cab Oli called arrives first, so we wave sayonara to the rest of the gang and shoo Tim into the front seat. Tim gets carsick easily and prefers to throw up in the front.
Next thing I know, Tim’s getting in the back and pushing me into the middle seat. But before I can squeal in protest, he’s getting back out. What? I’m so confused. I look at the cab driver, who’s shaking his head with an angry expression and muttering to himself in Spanish. It’s not “donde esta la biblioteca,” not even close. I don’t catch a word, but I read the room, scramble out and hide behind Oli’s belly.
Oli gamely dives back into the cab to suss out the situation. “¿Qué pasó?” he pleads with the driver. It’s the only words I understand, so he says them over and over in my memory to make me look good. Finally he gets out, defeated, and the driver takes off.
What the hell? Tim and I are baffled. Oli explains that the driver said Tim slammed the door when told he couldn’t sit up front. We all shake our heads. That’s impossible. Tim is gentle as a lamb. A wife and five kids worth of constant accusations of misconduct have worn him down to an agreeable and inoffensive Hufflepuff. Tim takes the slander in stride, years of practice paying off, but Oli and I are wiping tears off each other’s faces, so sure are we of Tim’s innocence. Oh, the accusations we hurl into the night at that cabbie’s character. And the ones we think but don’t say.
Two days later, Tim convinces me to accompany him to Sunday Mass. I’m not religious but I am a fan of experiences, so I agree. The Mass itself is incredibly long and boring. Two hours of worship in Spanish and Latin. One and a half hours in, I think to myself: what if this is a test? What if it keeps going until I leave? How long will social pressure keep me here?
Well-worn narcissist fantasies.
I’m so exhausted by the end that I almost miss it. A young boy, one of the church staff, is walking around with a cloth bag, soliciting donations. Poor honest Argentinians throw in fat stacks of paper pesos, making the bag bulge obscenely, like it’s headed to an epic drug deal after the last Amen. If you didn’t already know Argentina’s currency is in trouble, now you do. Sprained wrists galore.
The boy comes to our aisle and holds the bag out to Tim. Tim takes out some American twenties (!) and throws them in.
No, he slam dunks them into the bag like he’s Shaq. The flames over the votive candles waver. The stained glass in the windows rattles. I find myself rising to my feet and shouting “Yes, Lord!”
Hm, I think to myself as my momentary fervor abates. Does that remind me of something? I can’t remember.
Later that day we’re in the Airbnb, preparing to head out to lunch. I think we did something on this trip other than eat, but I can’t be sure. My phone is full of pictures of items crossed out on menus. Did I eat something called Exodus Desktop? No, no, that must have been work. Anyway, I’ve already closed my laptop and I’m waiting for Tim to finish whatever he’s doing on his. Finally, he gets up and closes it.
No, he doesn’t close it.
He slams it shut like he’s playing Pogs and needs to flip the table to win. Like there’s a mosquito on the Enter key and Argentinian law forbids him from using aught but the mosquito to send messages on Slack. Like he just farted and needs an inconspicuous method of clearing the air in a three mile radius. Like he’s just called Oli a wanker and needs to blow out all our eardrums rapido before the sound wave reaches him and he loses his job.
That poor maligned cabbie. Tim, you Slytherin, you take this one straight to confession.
