The Fixer

      Three dark flies have gathered on the wounded toe. There is talk about someone they call, “The Fixer,” but I am transfixed on the gore. The flies quiver slowly on the toe; they are fraternal and intoxicated with blood. 


Fergle- the Irish farmer/ internet freelancer gestures. He has smallish hands that are thick and weathered with broad, flat fingernails- his hands have become a little pair of work gloves.

“Being here is like living under a magic spell, and when you wake, you’re fucking pissed.”

Fergle has it right- there is an internal rhythmic shift when crashing waves are always audible.

The apartment is a three-level Swiss Family Robinson affair, with a large grape-like vine, spreading luxuriantly about the wall, a potential harbor for a multitude of African insects. We sit out on the open air deck.

The Brit is the one with the bloody toe. He always seems about to talk, but it is just his goddamned concave mouth. His teeth are so disjointed, his mouth always gasping or grimacing, that in profile, his mouth is a shark’s mouth, with several rows of emerging teeth.

I was a bit derisive last time I wrote about the “cool surfers,” and their attendant old man. I spent the weekend poisoned, in case anyone cares, but on Monday, feeling better, and with a renewed sense of narcissism (retching really tones your abs), I went out hoping to find this old man and befriend him.

I started with Vlad, and at his place, met his roommates: The Brit, and Fergle. From them, I was able to learn that The Fixer, was the old man I had referred to as a sort of ‘living Sword of Damocles.’

“He likes the odd requests,” says Fergle.

“He can get ya anything,” The Brit gushed.

The restaurant/café, Aftas, is the “scene.” It is three close tables with bench seating. This set-up is on one side of the street/walkway. The beach is behind the tables and benches, and the open-window to the cooking is on the side closest to town. 
Lauren is the curly-haired server from Ottawa- she wears uniquely Moroccan footwear, the Babush. Hers are too large and they are purple, and are the offspring of a basketball shoe and a purple slipper. Jeans that fit tight at the calf make her footwear the focal point of her outfit.

Proximity to the beach as well as placement in town thoroughfare, makes Aftas, as I mentioned, a natural tide pool for the surfer crowd. I was at the right place for this type of mission- and since Julie has requested more cetacean language: it was not long before this particular leviathan breached.

Less like a whale and more like a walrus responding to his training, The Fixer approached Aftas, and in a practiced way, converged upon the bench to my right. He began to produce objects: cigarettes, lighter, and walnut-sized hash tin emblazoned with the Union Jack.

For those readers active in the world of Moroccan hashish, please forgive my naïve interest. I am intrigued by unfamiliar rituals, and, in addition, I innately cherish almost any open defiance of draconian laws, monarchic states, or authority in general.

First, the hash- it reminded me of a chunk of tan-colored landscaping bark. With his lighter, he lit a corner of the block, softening it so that he could squeeze off a nugget between his yellowed fingernails. Then, he tucked away the cube and began to work the removed piece into a ball. When the little mass was ready, he rolled it into a rather flat, imperfect worm of muddy-burnt clay. Soon he had ripped the filter off of a cigarette, opened the cigarette, and removed the tobacco.

A surfer in a dark coat and dark glasses was passing through the street behind us with his head down. He suddenly stopped. He intuitively turned, fumbled in his pocket, and handed The Fixer a rolling paper. Unsurprised by the fortuitous timing, The Fixer nodded in acknowledgement and received the gift. The tobacco was emptied into this paper and the withered clay snake was placed on top. He surgically enclosed the contents in the paper, and began to smoke.

A pumpkin-Thai soup was brought out to him in a yellow ceramic bowl. He casually smoked and consumed his soup, he began to talk. This reminded me of, in a diminuitive sense, the way I picture Hunter S. Thompson- the way he was described as holding court in his Owl Creek kitchen or at Woody’s. Hunter was constantly in motion: rolling a joint, cutting a line, pouring a drink, smoking a joint, taking a line, taking a drink, and repeat, all while conversing engagingly.

The Fixer was on my right smoking, eating his soup, and beginning to assemble another joint. Across from us was a deaf and mentally-handicapped Moroccan in classic beige mumu, miming oddly at us with the inward-folded lips of a toothless mouth and sipping a café au lait. Fergle, Vlad and The Brit had joined us, and I sipped on a kiwi-orange-ginger smoothie and listened as The Fixer imparted some local happenings to us.

“New cop in town. Don’t take bribes. Fella tries to give him 3000 Dirhams, he locks him up- sending a message. Another guy, fella selling Spanish wine out of his apartment. Had it stacked so you could only just open the door. “I take out light bulb,” the guy says to me. They’d load up a truck in Spain, bribe the border guy so they didn’t pay duty. New cop got him in for six months. Sending a message.

If I was a dope dealer, I’d introduce myself, tell him I used to deal, and let him know that I was thinking about it again. Tell him, someone’s going to do it. Might as well be someone you know.”

“Weet-Weet! Weet-Weet!”

The roasted nut vendor leaned into our table and began placing samples of glazed and roasted nuts in front of us. We all tried to avoid eye contact. The Fixer said something in harsh Berber and the man left. We sat in silence a moment, the spell broken.