Something is obviously amiss in your life if the prospect of a trip to Cairo to photograph a stranger taking a shit sounds like a great opportunity. But if you happen to find yourself in the international terminal at LAX with a boarding pass, are dating a 19-year-old KFC fry cook who just had your baby, and have dropped out of your fine arts program, I say go for it. You fly to Egypt and point that lens barrel up some ass like your life depends on it – because perhaps it does.
I meet with Stanley Seymour, a slimy walrus of a man, one numbing afternoon at his Beverly Park compound out of desperation. Among other countless exotic interests my new employer harbors, he is especially into voyeuristic photographs of people shitting in exclusive worldly areas. His photo albums document hundreds of epic dumps: the edge of the Eiffel Tower’s highest observation deck, the center of Stonehenge, on a busser’s cart in the CN Tower’s 360 Restaurant. My stomach turns sour as the montage of bowel movements continues for pages. He simply stares at me, wide-eyed, patiently petting his left hand like a baby rabbit moments away from intense anal violation. The left hand twitches, aware.
The next four days are spent staring at the flight confirmation Stanley gave me, pondering life while my unhealthy baby’s wails fill my empty shed of an apartment. Inez tries soothing the child in Spanish to no avail before switching to bits of Original Recipe, mashed up like regurgitated nourishment from a mother bird.
Inez says she loves me. I tell her she’s full of shit and then we fuck like lions. Later that evening I meet my assigned accomplice on our flight to Egypt.
Landon is a large, loud, drunk man with straight jet-black hair. I instantly recognize him from the photo albums. He aggressively urges the flight attendants into the bathroom with him until they stop serving our row. He then attempts having an aggressive conversation with me about trucks until he realizes I have no automotive knowledge. Sighing, he takes a swig from his flask, fishes a SkyMall magazine from the seat pocket in front of him, and incessantly discusses every product aloud, paying particular interest to the Portable Mood Light.
“If I brought one of these fuckers on the plane, my dick would be wet by now,” he says and gives me a nudge. I feign sleep, counting down the hours until touchdown, wondering if I can pretend to snooze the entire time. Meanwhile, the scent of rum and sweat wafts from the seat next to me like bog gas.
I land at CAI a little past noon. Landon crashes, silent since vomiting in a drinking fountain at our Roman connection. He heads straight for our room at the Mayfair Hotel while I, somewhat coherent, take an opportunity to wander around the unknown city solo. The relentless heat and smog reminds me of a hot summer day in the San Fernando Valley, but considerably less pretentious. My walk proves unnerving as I haphazardly stroll into the sluggish chaos of Cairo traffic, dozens of horns blaring as each vehicle attempts forging it’s own path. I creep along the street’s edge, constantly wiping sweat from my brow and onto my damp jeans. Then, I spot an oasis at the end of the block: KFC. I speed my pace towards the safe haven, duck inside, and promptly order a 2-piece Original Recipe meal. I wonder if Inez has enough bus fare for the week.
At twilight, Landon groggily leads us to a less reputable part of town to conduct business. In exchange for most of the allowance Stanley Seymour gave us, and seizing our passports as deposits, an abusive handler eagerly provides two camels and a pencil-drawn map depicting a supposed secret burial chamber deep within Khafre’s Pyramid. Of course the deal is ridiculous, but my outcries are swiftly extinguished.
“Listen, you fuck,” Landon growls at me while the handler smiles. “I’ve been doing this a helluva lot longer than you, and there’s a lot of cash at stake if you’re willing to take risks. So back the fuck off and let me do our job.” Whether it was his intensity or the truth in his logic, Landon is very persuasive that moment. After all, he has photographs to prove his experience. I back away, bite my lip, and grin while imagining my bleached bones scattered across the desert.
Respond?