Just allow me a life that leaves room for surprises. From when I was twenty years old I could see exactly what course my life was taking.—could have told you where I would be and what I’d be doing when I was fifty, sixty years old. Scared the hell out of me. Bored me. Did not want that element of certainty about my life. Born, bred and schooled to cruise along a particular path. I saw the whole scenario laid out in front of me. No way, buster! I don’t mind a job where I sit at a desk but, I want an open view of the sea and I want to be able to spit without leaving my seat.

          Still, this writing gig can be wearying. Growing bored and irritable in Essaoira. Maybe I will go to Marrakech tomorrow. A change of scenery; a spot of adventure. Bill P., a fellow writer and Bangkok drinking buddy, says my writing needs more action…My life needs more action, for Christ’s sake. Let’s begin there.

          Perhaps, I will just weave a murder into my writing. Murder has action, plot, suspense—plenty of opportunity for colorful details…All the stuff Bill P. says is missing from my work.

          O.K., that settles it. Tomorrow I go to Marrakesh and kill somebody.

          I will keep the room here at the Tafoukt. Leave most of my belongings, including passport. Just take the credit card and a packet of dirhams, a small shopping bag with a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Spend two nights in Marrakesh, commit murder, return by bus in time for Sunday dinner and I wake up Monday morning fresh and revitalized with something interesting to write about.

          Murder is a good subject for a writer. People like to read about it. Plus, it would present an anomalous counterpoint to the usual bias of humor that my writing indulges. A spot of pathos! That’s what we need…action, suspense, human pain and agony, blood and guts soaking through the pages. And, of course, details…lots of details. A la Raymond Chandler. He said, in ‘The Art of Murder’, that it was not so important how the victim died but that he was playing with a paper clip on the corner of his desk at the very moment the bullet pierced his brain. (Ah, you got to love Raymond. He was the best.)

          This is what ‘living on the edge’ is all about. How many people do I know who could just pick up and go to Marrakech tomorrow? None…That’s how many. And, even fewer who would go there to commit murder. Ha! Bill P. is going to be so proud of me.

          Will it be a crime of passion? Well, I am only going to be there over the weekend. Not really enough time to develop a passionate hatred for someone I haven’t met yet. No, that’s not likely. So, I guess it will have to be a murder of the cold-blooded variety.

          Here’s the plan: buy a knife and a pair of gloves, drink a few beers, find a cozy spot to hang out along a dark alleyway in the medina round about midnight and wait for some defenseless, unsuspecting ne’er-do-well to walk by. Then, grab him from behind by his hair and slash his throat. Or, maybe, three, four quick jabs into his solar plexus.

          Yes siree, murder is compelling. I’m excited just thinking about it.

          Now, get a good night sleep (perhaps, the last one I will ever have)…Wake up early tomorrow morning, walk to the edge of the sea and back, have breakfast, exercise, shower, shave, pack and…and move over Raskolnikov, Marrakech here I come!

          The next afternoon a taxi was waiting outside the Tafoukt at 2 o’clock. On the road to Marrakesh we stopped at a local carnival. Merry-go-round, bumper cars, various games of chance. Nothing special, except for a guy throwing knives at a board with balloons pinned to it. He was good. Hit ten balloons in a row from approximately fifty feet. At a stall nearby, they were selling knives. I bought one. It had a black handle and a seven or eight inch blade covered in a thin coat of gold paint. The vendor had it wrapped in newspaper and put into a plastic bag before I could examine it closely but, the price was reasonable and I figured, with all the packaging, I could forego the gloves—save money there. I just left it wrapped up.

          An hour later we arrived in Marrakesh at the Hotel Tafoukt. (Yeah, same name; same owners. Let’s not make a big deal about it.) I booked into a small room one floor below the lobby with a garden view. After a short nap to prime my nerves, I showered, dressed in dark clothes and headed off to the medina.

          The Marrakesh medina is world renown. Or, so it says in the guidebook. It is called, Djemaa el Fna, which means ‘Assembly of the Dead’. Apparently, several hundred years ago, a certain governor of the region would display a collection of severed human heads in the square. He did so on a weekly basis as a means of discouraging dissent among the natives. There were no known reports of rebellion during his reign. Maybe a coincidence, who knows.

          When I arrived late in the afternoon, the place could be described as anything other than an assembly of the dead. It was more on the order of an assembly of whackos. Snake charmers, fire eaters, sword-swallowers, fortune tellers…a guy walking barefoot over broken glass, three guys with beach style flip-flops attached to their ears and padded seat cushions draped on their backs were beating each other with four foot long wooden clubs. That was really amusing.

          All these acts take place on the square and each is surrounded by a group of spectators; mostly Moroccans.

          Do people go to school to learn this nonsense? Are these ancient traditions passed down from one generation to the next? Are there actually young children in the crowd dreaming that someday they will grow up and be able to walk across jagged shards of glass or swallow a sword? Sadly, these opportunities were denied me as a youth. As for the snake charmers…Well, snakes are deaf, for Christ’s sake. They are only responding to the movement of the flute. Fortunately for them, they are the only ones in the area who do not have to hear the god-awful sounds coming out of the flute.

          There are, also, stalls selling countless concoctions of medicinal herbs. Some of these are mixed with pulverized animal…matter. These concoctions purport to cure every known ailment and, no doubt, a few unknown ailments. Where else could you find a cure for a disease that does not even exist yet?

          Then, there are fifty guys at fifty different stalls all selling the same product at the same exact price—a seven-ounce glass of fresh squeezed orange juice for two and a half dirhams. Probably, the only bargain around. Good juice, good price.

          Spiking off the square, like so many tentacles, are the cobblestone alleyways lined with shops. Hundreds of shops, thousands of shops—all fronted by shopkeepers desperate to sell their wares. Leather goods, ceramics, silver jewelry, wood carvings, dyed fabrics, spices, nuts and, of course, carpets and rugs, and rugs and carpets, and more carpets and rugs. A venture into this ‘labyrinth’ is like walking the gauntlet. (Every guidebook uses the word ‘labyrinth’ when describing this area of the Marrakesh medina. I have no idea what it means or how to pronounce it but, I’m tossing it in here anyway, just as an indication of all the background research I’ve done on the subject. This story didn’t just fall out of a tree, you know.) Once in its grip, you are under a relentless barrage of hassling for your money.

          The guidebooks advise that you try to remain calm and behave politely because ‘Moroccans are a proud people’. That would suggest that there are nationalities, which are not proud people. Who might they be? Is there a guide book on Burma, for instance, that says it is alright to lose your temper and be rude when dealing with the shopkeepers in Rangoon because the Burmese have always been ashamed of themselves, anyway?

          The Moroccans do tend to be on the aggressive side when it comes to salesmanship. In America, there are shops that have signs reading, ‘If you break it, you’ve bought it’. In the Marrakesh medina the policy seems to be, ‘If you look at it, it yours. Pay me!’ …

                   “Yes madam, I noticed you looking at this beautiful hand-carved jewelry box…Abdullah, my boy, wrap this up for the nice lady and…What? Oh, very well…Abdullah says he saw your husband looking at that 12 x 20 foot Persian carpet so we’ll just throw that into the bag, as well.”

          My advice is to never walk into a shop until you have in mind, at least, one item that you are certain is not available in that shop. It drives these shopkeepers crazy to confront a customer who clearly wants to buy something only to realize that that something is not in their shop.

          For example, you waltz into a leather shop and start looking around. The shopkeeper is your Siamese twin within seconds and you say,

          “Oh, hello there. Listen, I want to buy twelve…”

          So, now, he is thinking that is twenty-four items you want to buy.

          At this point, pull out a wad of large American bills. They all recognize American money and, as in most countries around the world, they prefer it to their own currency.

          “Yes, I would like to buy twelve pairs of leather…”

          “Oh yes, sir! Leather, best leather in Morocco, right here in my shop. So, twenty-four, er, twelve pairs of leather jackets, shoes, hats, pants, matching luggage…”

          “Yes, I did say socks. That’s correct. I want twelve pairs of leather socks. Any style will do, although, I am partial to argyles. Assorted colors would be nice. Just wrap them up for me and name your price. You’ll get no hassle from me . I trust you…You look like an honest man.”

          “You mean leather shoes, of course. How silly of me.”

          “No, I mean socks. As a rule, I wear cotton shoes but, I insist on my socks being leather.”

          “Yes. Leather socks are the latest fashion in New York, London and Paris.”

          “Ah, what a shame…well, never mind. Thanks anyway. See you later.”

          Stuff the money back into your pocket and walk out.

          I spent three hours strolling around the medina and the only thing I ever saw anybody buy was the seven ounces of fresh squeezed orange juice. Got to be a message in there somewhere.    

          By 10 o’clock in the evening I figured it was time for a few beers. Time to fortify those nerves that my afternoon siesta failed to assuage. On the rooftop terrace of a bar overlooking the medina I sat quaffing a cool one and thinking about the upcoming Masters Golf Championship. It took my mind off murder for a while. The Masters starts a week from next Thursday and, having missed it the previous two years, I was keen on finding a place to watch this one.

          Midway through my second beer I found myself in conversation with a young Canadian couple. Derek and Wendy were ten days into a three-month trek around Morocco. Wendy recalled how some old Moroccan guy in Fez had offered Derek one hundred camels for her. She thought this was the most amusing incident that had ever happened in her entire life. (Did I mention that they were from Canada?) It, no doubt, was destined to become a sort of oral lithograph that she figured to be emoting for as long as she lived. I was, probably, listening to print number eight or nine slash ten thousand. She could not stop from laughing as she told me about it. In fact, she continued to laugh until Derek said, “Crazy, uh? I mean, what am I going to do with a hundred camels, ey?”

          Wendy stopped laughing at that point and left rather abruptly for the toilette. The expression on her face suggested that Derek was going to have a better chance getting laid by a camel that night than with her.

          Women can be so sensitive. And, I know it is puerile to mention this but, Wendy is not very pretty. Then again, neither are camels. Although you never know…Out of a hundred camels, there might be one or two lookers.

          By 11:30PM, I found myself deep in the bowels of the Kasbah. Next, I found myself musing upon what the victim’s last words would be. A person’s last words have always intrigued me. My favorite of all time belong to Mr. Oscar Wilde. As he lay on his deathbed in an unseemly hotel room in Paris he is reported to have raised his head, looked around and said, “Either this wallpaper goes, or I do.”

          Tough to beat that one, though I think the Mexican revolutionary, Pancho Villa spoke for Everyman. He had just been shot off his horse. A comrade rushed to his side. Pancho stared at him with desperation in his eyes and said, “Don’t let it end like this…Tell them I said something.”

          The distant echo of footsteps on the damp stone alleyway…Then, round a corner through a pool of amber light from an overhead lamp…My victim—draped in a dark djallaba with pointed hood. He looked like the often-caricatured figure of death—the Grim Reaper, himself. (Minus the scythe, fortunately.) The Grim Reaper was about to get ripped. What a great harvest for a murder story. The murder to end all murders—the murder of Death. Shit! I would be a hero.

          As the figure came nearer, my powers of perception became acute. (Naturally, I was thinking of Bill P’s advice.) The sleeves on his cloak were frayed, there was a tear on the left side just below the waist, more or less where a pocket would be. Hey, wait a minute, I thought. Maybe it was a pocket. Do djellabas have pockets?

          I pulled the plastic bag down away from the blade and wrapped it around the handle—no fingerprints. The blade was still covered in newspaper. All time seemed suspended. The tension in the air was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. But, I figured, no…why dull the blade?

          Sweat was poring down my face, or so I thought at first. Then I realized there was an overhanging drainage pipe directly above me. I stepped aside and, suddenly, the specter of death was right in front of me. My murder story was about to get underway…

          ‘Ouch?’, I thought. Well, that’s not too bad for a last word. Not terribly poignant but, pithy. Yes, definitely, pithy.

          I struck again. The coup de grace, as it were. Oh, and wait a minute again. I forgot to mention that there was a fly buzzing around the v-neck opening of the black djellaba. The man swatted it with his right hand just as I plunged the knife into his midsection the first time. A waft of stale orange juice and grilled camel meat filled my nostrils…Mostly the left one. Why?, I don’t know.

          “Hey! What’s your fucking prob-problem, man?”

          Uh?…No, that wouldn’t do. Figured I’d have one more thrust at him and hope he’ says ‘ouch’ again.

          “Why are you sta-stabbing me with that stu-stupid rubber knife? Are you mad!”

          He spoke with a slight though irritating stutter. And, he had a harelip, which, despite the red tinged mustache, was still an unpleasant sight. Perhaps, I have lived too long in Thailand. Buddhism tends to presume that a person’s deformities are a consequence of bad deeds from a prior incarnation and, thus, not deserving of sympathy. Then again, murder certainly falls within the ranks of bad deeds. What deformities had I in store for me next time around the block? A stutter? A harelip? God forbid, a Gorby splotch on my forehead—the mark of a dead man’s blood. Oh dear!

          I examined the knife. The newspaper had torn away and the gold paint had cracked in places revealing a navy blue surface. (So, so many details to contend with. I hope Bill P. will be satisfied.) There was no blood. That was a bad sign. I felt the blade..

          “Well, how about that,” I said. “It is a rubber knife.”

          “Well, if it wa-wa-wasn’t rub-rubber, I’d be dead, you idiot! You must be drunk. Go ho-ho-home and sleep. This is a dangerous pl-place at night. Go ho-home before you get in tr-trouble.”

          “Uh, sorry,” I said. “Where you from? I thought you were Moroccan, dressed as you are.”

          “I’m from Wis-con-con-sin…I live here, now. I’m a wri-writer.”

          Tough to stutter over one-syllable words.

          “Well, wh-what are you doing here?,” he ass-ass-asked. (Oops, sorry.)

          “A friend of mine says there isn’t any action or adventure in my writing…Too much dialogue.”

          “He says straight dialogue is deadly. So, I was looking for some action.”

          “Jabbing a per-perfect stranger with a rub-rubber knife…?”

          “No, I’m a humorist. Humorists don’t joke. Comedians make jokes.”

          “Will Rogers was a damn good hu-humorist and he was a jo-jokester.”

          “He was a theatrical performer. I’m talking about authors, writers. You know, like Mark Twain, Ring Lardner, Robert Benchley, S.J. Perelman…”

          I noticed the newspaper. It was in English. As I scrutinized it further, I realized it was part of a page from an old International Herald Tribune. There was a box score of a football game…Yes! It was the sports page.

          Notre Dame 24-USC 20. Great! I love Notre Dame football…

                   ‘The fighting Irish fought back from a 17-0 halftime deficit (torn away)…with ten seconds remaining in the game’ (torn away)

          “Hey, look!,” I said. “Notre Dame beat USC.”

          “So wh-what? I’m a ba-bad-bad-ger fan.”

          “Wis-con-con-sin, you nut. Let me see that.”   

          He snatched the bit of newspaper out of my grasp with both hands—namely, his left and his right.

          “O-Ohio State beat us.”

          “Wow, a real nail biter. What a shame.”

          “Well shit, if this hadn’t been a rubber knife, it would have ruined your life. Look on the bright side, pal.”

          “Uh, just barely. But then, as a writer, I should notice the little nuances of a character’s speech pattern. However subtle they may be. After all, you’re a writer. Surely, you are aware of your most annoy…your aff…afflic…your…”

          “Yes. Not to mention the…Oh, forget it.”

          “So, you no-noticed the hare-lip, as well?”

          “No,no…Is that what it is? I thought it was…”

          “Oh, shut up. Let’s drink. I don’t stutter when I drink.”

          “Good idea. Say, do you write with a stutter?”

          “They used to call me ‘Black Jack’ back home in Milwaukee ‘cause I always wore black.”

          Underneath the black djellaba, he had on black corduroy pants and a black wool crew neck sweater. We were drinking Black Label neat.

          “I had a place like this in Essaoira for awhile,” I told him. “Just couldn’t abide the chimney shaft through the apartment.”

          As if I should give a shit. Frankly, I did not care what style it was…It was a nuisance.

          “Takes awhile,” he said, “but you get used to it. How long you live in your place?”

          “Well Audie Murphy, Lord have mercy!…It takes a bit longer getting’ used to than seven hours, man.”

          “When did you get used to the hole in the floor?”

          “Is that your laugh or are you trying to say something?”

          “That’s my laugh, damn it. Told you I don’t stutter when I’m drinkin’.”

          “Hey Jack,” I said, “a thought has occurred to me. Maybe you can help me out with something else.”

          “Something else aside from being a murder victim for a story?”

          “What a relief. Have some more scotch.”

          “Hell, no! Golf’s a boring game for elitist white folks.”

          “Oh, bullshit, Jack. The top player in the world is a black dude.”

          “Black, Thai, Lao, American Indian…probably got some white in him. That guy’s a racial smorgasbord.”

          “Well, I wish he had some Moroccan couscous in him. Then, maybe, there’d be a place around here to watch The Masters.”

          “That’s the other reason I came over to Marrakech…To see if some hotel has a T.V. hook-up to show The Masters.”

          “Well, better you should be killin’ time watching a golf tournament than killing me but, sorry, I can’t help you out.”

          I asked Jack what kind of stuff he wrote.

          “Romance,” he said. “Love stories set in exotic places.”

          “More exotic then, say, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for instance?”

          “Oh, for sure. Want to read a bit of one? I like dialogue, too.”

          I cringe when people ask me to read their writing. It’s embarrassing. Especially, when they are right there watching. But, I figured since I tried to kill the guy and now he was being so hospitable with the scotch and all…Well...     

          “Sure,” I said. “I’ll read a bit of it. Sort of tired, you know. The eyes are a little weak, not much light in here…”

          “Oh, come on…Just read this passage. Man and woman meet in Marrakech, fall in love and, now, she’s leaving to go back home to her boring, routine, though secure, life…”

          He handed me a few pages of manuscript…Typed, thank god.

          “OK,” he said. “Now, they’re at the train station here in Marrakech. She’s leaving, so…let’s see…Well, OK, just start reading here.”

                   “Darling, you must, you must,” Alan begged.

                   “But, you simply must, darling.”

                   “But, I simply can’t, dearest. How could I live with myself?”

                   “Live with me,” Alan offered, his heart on his sleeve.

                   “But, I must live with myself first. Don’t you see that, dearest?,” Doris pleaded, her voice cracking.

                   “See what, darling?”, Alan stammered, his heart now in his throat.

                   “See what I’m saying,” she explained.

                   “No, I don’t,” said Alan, with a glint in his eyes. “I hear what you’re saying, darling, but how can I see what you’re saying?”

                   “Oh dearest, how you make me laugh…Oh, how!” Doris swooned.

          I paused at this point and drained what was left of the scotch in my glass.

          Of course, I was referring to the scotch.

          “Just finish this part here…” He pointed to a passage on another page.

                   The whistle blew. Steam, dust, grime, beggars all transfixed in the glow of a harvest moon. Doris was on the train, in her seat by the window. 

           Alan—outside on the platform. The train started to pull out of the station.

                   Alan was crushed. His insides were crumbling…His love, his life, the biggest set of tits he’d ever laid his hands on were on that train. Ah, Alan…poor, poor Alan.

                   “Good-bye, my love,” she cried.

                   “Good-bye, my sweet cherub,” Alan crooned.

                   “Good-bye, my eternal flame of passion.”

          “Great stuff, Jack. Really hits the spot.”

          “Oh, right. You know, I mean, touching. Very touching.”

          “I sometimes cry when I read that part.”

          “I don’t blame you, Jack. It’s pretty sad stuff.”

          “Poignant…I really think ‘poignant’ is the word for it.”

     Excerpt from: All Over the Map

               e-book via Amazon