The Cool Operator

Man, when they say that with the corona virus pandemic still raging we should be drinking at home, they are not lying. One will be apt to say that we will miss the fun found in drinking places but it’s exactly this fun that will kill us.

Of all people, I should know better. You know they do not call me the Specialist Doctor or Cool Operator for nothing. It’s because when I am in action, I operate efficiently. I’m the man who does the job right. I go out with other people’s wives but I don’t touch rape. Prostitutes are my bread and butter but I won’t poke at school girls even with a long pole. I can fight in any fight but never touch murder. That’s me, the Specialist.

I’ll be honest with you. This other Saturday afternoon, I’m about to take my wife to see one of our neighbours when I get the call. It’s from my good friend Tchotcho. And when I get a phone call from Tchotcho, I always take it from outside my wife’s earshot. More often than not, when that gentleman calls, the news is not palatable to my other half.

“This is the President calling,” he introduces himself.

I immediately pick the cue. “Hello, Sir,” I return.

“Man, you’ll never believe this,” he goes on. “I’m loaded with more cash than an ATM machine. Meet me at the Beer Man for a night you’ll never forget. Nsikwa will also be there.”

As I have said, they don’t call me the Specialist for nothing. I go near my wife. “You say it can’t wait until Monday, Sir? But I left the documents with your secretary, Sir…I should give you copies?” I say loudly into the phone. “Ok, I’ll be there in the next thirty minutes, Sir.”

That settles it. Do I’ve to explain to my wife that I’ve been called to the office suddenly by my boss? No, she has heard that herself.

“I’ll try to come back quickly so that we can still visit the Bethas,” I tell her as I leave.

“You never know how long you’ll be at the office. We’ll go tomorrow, ” responds the good missis.

I restrain myself from raising my fist victoriously. You know with Covid 19 still on the prowl, a reasonable wife cannot allow the husband to go out drinking. One has to find a way of tricking the wife to give him the visa without her realizing it.

So, now I’ve got mine. I go straight to the Beer Man, a posh drinking joint along Chileka road. Ntchotcho and Nsikwa are already settled in one corner of the bar.

“Didn’t Her Majesty suspect anything?” asks Tchotcho.

“No, she thinks I’m at the office,” I reply lifting a bottle of beer.

And then she enters. My hand freezes in mid air. She stops in the door way of the bar and takes off her coat. Out of the coat appears a figure more curvaceous than a winding river. A small hat is perched on her head out of which flows a beautiful mass of black hair that falls to her shoulders. She’s wearing a mask that she has deliberately pulled to her chin to expose her moon shaped face. She waltzes in on pointed high heels.

I recover quickly than my two buddies. I’m the cool operator after all. Nothing is supposed to amaze me. But my friends are still staring at the vision of beauty in the glittering shiny silver satin dress that fits her like a condom as if this is the first woman they have ever seen.

“Hey, guys. This is not Eve and you’re not Adam; you’ve seen lots of women before,” I mock them.

“Lot’s, yes,” they cry in unison, their faces looking no different from those of drooling idiots. “But compared to her, it makes us think they should’ve been confined to the museum at Chichiri long ago.”

I shake my head. “Guys, she’s nothing compared to girls I’ve caught before.”

They look at me as if I’m talking arrant nonsense. “We simply do not believe you, Doctor.”

These doubting Thomases. “Man, if I’d some cash to buy her drinks, I’d bet you a crate of beer I can have her in bed before this night is over.”

My friends duly pick up the challenge. Tchotcho discreetly passes on a thick ward of cash to me. “That’s thirty pin, Doctor. If you win, that’s for free. You loose it’s a loan payable tomorrow.”

I pocket the thirty thousand Kwacha. I think of it as thirty pieces of silver, the price for which Judas Iscariot sold betrayed Jesus Christ. It’s the price for which I am about to betray my wife. I throw out the thought. I must concentrate on the business at hand.

I laugh. These amateurs! Don’t they know the moll will smell the moolah on me even before I reach her? And why else is she in the bar if not to hook a customer and make some money?

But I don’t tell them that. “Well, gentlemen,” I say getting to my feet. “Sit tight and watch the Doctor operate.”

I walk to where the angel is perched on a stool at the counter. She pulls up her mask to her nose as I approach. I know this is just a ploy to fool me into thinking that she’s protecting herself against the deadly Corona virus. Has she forgotten that she came into the bar wearing the mask around her chin?

Mine is already in my pocket. I am a man. A real man does not fear anything. After all, how can one drink beer with a mask on? “Why are you hiding your beautiful face behind a mask?” I ask, grinning.

“You know there’s this corona pandemic,” she replies. Surprisingly, she slips the mask back around her chin.

“Yeah, we need your face to brighten this bleak place,” I say, flashing my best smile. “Now, what is my darling drinking? Anything, the Doctor will oblige.”

She looks me up and down. I know she is sizing me up, seeing whether I fit her bill. I don’t fret. I’ve a cool twenty thousand stashed away in my pocket. And I know this surgeon of the pocket will smell it.

A satisfied look spreads on her angelic face. I know I’ve won. She chooses this very expensive canned beer. But I’m the cool guy; I would never stint any woman on anything she wants. That wouldn’t be right.

So as we continue drinking, my cash dwindles with the fastness of grass being eaten by guinea pigs. But I don’t show that she is driving me bankrupt. I make believe as if dosh is nothing to me. And the trick works. I can see satisfaction in her large money hungry eyes.

But I’m not worried. With the Corona virus curfew, you cannot stay in bars after eight o’clock at night. In normal times, the deed is usually done very late in the night. No wonder the queens of the night are demanding that they be allowed to continue plying their business after eight o’clock. There isn’t enough time to hook up customers by eight. For the beautiful ones, it’s possible. But for the ugly ones who wait until the sozzled brains of customers make them look beautiful, the time is not enough.

Come seven o’clock we’re reasonably drunk. I know she’s itching to get me into her room so that she can get her fingers at my cash. I’m also itching for the same so that I can get access into her garden of Eden. Happily, we venture outside to her room which is not very far away from the bar.

In a jiffy, we are both naked, kissing passionately while our hands are playing erotic tunes on each other’s body. The deed is done. Brothers, the woman is fire. I return to join my friends sweating as if I was in a steaming session.

That was two days ago. I hear that the prostitute has been diagnosed with corona virus and she has to mention her contacts so that they can be traced. My wife is wondering why I’m looking so stressed! How can I tell her that I suspect that my name will come on at the top of a hooker’s recent list of contacts?

End