King of Togo (Formerly French Togoland)

The other day we all gathered in a drab office in the government building, the room serving as a kind of conference and multi-purpose space. Accustomed to the layered opulence of the private law firms, this place presented as especially dingy. No artwork adorned the walls, chairs were huddled around a conference table that looked to have been plucked from a garbage scow, or possibly purchased on the cheap at a distress sale. One sad-looking plaque resided in an obscure corner, where no one would ever look at it, even if they wanted to—which no one did.

Our party included legal counsel from overseas—The UK, France, Italy and the Netherlands. Also present were expensive lawyers from the United States and one man in brightly-colored traditional dress who identified himself as the King of Togo. His was a much welcome and colorful contrast to the steely-blue and grey and pinstriped suits that brushed a uniform coat across the men in the room. The King laughed often, showing brilliant teeth in uniform and perfectly-white rows. When he said something, he laughed, and he never hesitated to say something, whether it was relevant or not. To emphasize his mirth, in case we missed the point, he would bring a huge fist crashing down on the old conference table, making the bottles of water shiver and tremble with the great impact. Everyone loved the King of Togo.

These different nations were represented in the drab government office in the middle of the nation’s capital because they had an interest in a company called Beefstick Global International, PLC, a diverse company that made—among other things—sticks of dried beef that could be found just about anywhere: In gas stations, convenience stores, and were often supplied to small or medium mercenary armies. A recent advertising slogan regarding these dried snacks went like this: “Our Sticks Are Hard To Beat!”
“I thought of that one!” The king laughed; “That was me!” He thumped the table with his fist, nearly toppling a bottle of Evian.
The American attorneys snickered, kicked each other under the table, made fake punches and shuffled some papers. The French counselor looked sour, not understanding the reference, and asked for explanation from the representative who’d journeyed from Italy. He was no better for understanding, and the three of them—the Italian, the man from the Netherlands, and the Frenchman exchanged words in broken bits of English, finally settling into the cheap chairs and waiting for the day’s events to unfold.

Before starting the camera, I’d quaffed a bottle of vegetable juice earlier in the morning. It seemed to be the only thing that appealed to me in the deli’s cooler at the nearby breakfast stop. A woman from Albuquerque had been there as well, ordering her breakfast to take back to the fancy hotel nearby. She didn’t have enough money, and the deli people only accepted cash. She was short a dollar or two, and I offered to make up the difference, this being a situation I’ve found myself in before. She was grateful, ready to accept my offer, but the counter people—having recognized her from previous vacation breakfasts—decided to let her slide, allowed her to pay later. We talked of New Mexico and dryness and the desert before I took my sandwich and vegetable juice and left for work.

Back in the conference room the silence was complete. Only the softly spoken words of the government attorney and the eloquent testimony of the man seated before the camera interrupted the quietude. Then there was my stomach. The vegetable juice had caused a rebellion down there in the tubes and passageways and air canals that make up a good deal of a person’s innards. Long, gurgling and whining sounds emanated from deep within me, making for an interesting counterpoint to the men’s words. A freight train could have passed through the room and made less noise than my stomach.
“Hah Hah Hah!” Laughed the King of Togo. “Listen to the little man—he make big noise like jungle rain!” His fist crashed down on the old table. The king spoke perfect English, but sometimes played up his tribal connections with a bit of affected speech. Besides, it just sounded funnier. He was also fluent in French, his country being a former colony of France, but he never let on to the sour-faced French counselor that he could understand every word he said. I could feel my ears turning red, then the rest of my face. I stared down, looked at the empty bottle of juice on the floor. I dared not look up, but imagined the tight expression of the French counselor and the feigned punches of the Americans as they shoved each other in their seats.

At lunch I ran across to the CVS on New York Avenue, asked a person who was restocking shelves for a product that might help with gas, quiet my stomach perhaps.
She led me to bottles of tablets that instructed the afflicted person to swallow them BEFORE eating the problem food. “Too late for that,” I thought, but decided to take them to the counter anyway. As I waited in the line of DC workers and businesspeople, I read carefully the label attached to this product. Among the ingredients, which were remarkably few, was just about every kind of fish known to mankind. Cod, haddock, shad, lake trout, ocean trout, regular trout and so on were all represented. This would have made for an interesting—if not lethal—intervention, being horribly allergic to fish. In an effort to silence my rambunctious innards, I would have instead gone into convulsions, then extreme itchiness, then would suffer from not being able to breathe so well. I’m not sure even the King of Togo could put a positive spin on this, although I’m sure he’d try.
“I’ll just let the veggie juice wear off,” I said to myself.

Back at the conference room—after lunch--the King was becoming restless, finally announcing that he’d like to make a speech.
“This is not accepted protocol,” said the man from the Department of Justice. “There is no provision for that, I’m afraid.”
The French counselor, discerning that the man from Togo wanted to speak, was inclined to let him have his say.
“That man want to have something to talk, let him say that,” said the Frenchman.
Then there was some consultation and much excited talking between the different parties, with the final decision being that the King would be allowed to make a brief speech.

The leader of Togo arose, gathered his bright and ceremonial wraps about him, and began to talk, first adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses and laughing, but not punching the table.
“This is ME!” He thundered. Then he punched the table. We all waited quietly, wanted to hear what he had to say.
“For long we have made the Beef-Stick. First it was my family with our beloved and dear animals, those noble beasts that you other Americans call “critters.” They were not just critters to us, they were loved and will be loved for as long as Togo is sovereign and her beaches are white.” We all nodded, waiting to hear where the King was headed with this.
“Our children loved the Beef-Stick, and treasured are the memories of them with these snacks. Children can be talkative, and soon others knew of this thing that we enjoyed with our children and our critters. The people from the other world, beyond our white beaches, received news from sailing ships that carried things to them and back to us. But not Beef-Sticks, this we would not put on the sailing ships. This was ours.”
“I thought this was going to be brief,” one of the American attorneys said to his colleague, hoping not to be heard.
“Silence!” boomed the man from Togo. “My story just begins.”

“These sticks,” he continued, “were sold first in my land, its voyages taking it never beyond the sunny and white beaches, but finding always a home with the simple people and their critters. And then a messenger came, a man with a request: He had with me an audience, told of the affection those other-worlders had for the beef-stick; for the children had talked to visitors, had given also gifts including these sticks and—in some cases—soap. Those travelers from afar spoke all aglow of the beef snacks, spoke not so much of the soap, though it was good soap and cleansed as a good soap should. This man, who spoke before me the King, said that my nation and its people could enjoy riches and comfort if only we would allow this our treasured snack to be put on ships and sent to those other-world lands which some of our elders have read of in the old books.”

Now it was the representative from Italy who asked, wonderingly: “The old books?”
Sour still was the expression from the French counselor. The man from the Netherlands, who understood English perfectly and also wrote it quite well, took it all in.
“Soap,” he explained to the others; “You make like this,” and he mimicked washing his hands. This did not help matters much.

The Togonese drew a breath, continued:
“It has long been now that success was visited upon us, and our peoples have prospered. And we have entered that world called business, and now are considered citizens of that place. With the passing of time we have learned that others have made beef-sticks; maybe those other sticks happening before ours, or maybe afterwards, but basically the same kind of thing,” he paused, yawned, took a sip of Evian. No one dared speak, fearing his crashing fist on the table. We’d all had enough of that.

“Those peoples from the other-worlds, some of them here with us today, would make a new request from the king, much like that man who spoke before his throne in a time that seems like another life, when our people were simpler and not encumbered by business and thoughts that extended beyond the white beaches. This request is simple, and already those who have interest in the tiny nation of Togo and its most excellent snack feel that much benefit can be derived from the acquiescing of this request. Mostly, it has to do with joining forces with the other-worlders, using their resources and surely greater powers to further the journeys of the Beef-Stick, something that we long ago would never have entertained.” He paused, slid his gold-rimmed glasses off his nose, and wiped at his eyes in a tired way.
“Things have changed,” said the King. “We are taxed most definitely beyond our energies, our resources, to make enough of these to keep up with demand, to put them on the sailing ships and make sure they get to where they’re going. It all seems too much, too much.” He put down his glasses on the worn and marred table, seemed as if to rest.

Hoping that maybe the speech was finished, the lead attorney from the Department of Justice ventured: “Yes, I think we understand the issues at hand, sir—uh, I mean, umm, Your Highness.” Things had strayed a good bit from the normal routine there in the government’s drab conference room. I was mostly thankful that my stomach rumblings were now relegated to a more secondary issue, and didn’t seem to be occupying anyone’s thoughts at the moment.

The brightly-colored King of Togo smiled beamingly at the representative of the United States, put his glasses back on and patted the grey-suited man on the back.
“Good, good,” he said. “Our people are simple still, but now must contend with matters that hurt to think about. So it is with these thoughts that we enter into agreements with the other-worlders, although their dress and customs may be strange. But we speak the same language, the language of the Beef-Stick.” And with that, he withdrew a long thin beef snack from the folds of his gaily-colored robes, tore off the hard plastic wrap and bit off a chunk with his dazzling white teeth.”

“Bravo!” Yelled the Italian, recognizing the product they’d gathered to discuss. The Frenchman, seeing that maybe this was the end of the speech, offered polite applause, his hands making a solitary clapping there in the shabby room offered by the government of the United States. The Americans slapped each other and the man from the Netherlands offered to make a speech himself.

The United States’ representative spoke up quickly: “Yes, yes—this is fine, these speeches,” he paused, hoping to stop another one from being made. “But it’s my job, as representative of the American people, to make sure that your product, these Beef-Sticks, will not become too expensive for the average American to enjoy, or otherwise suffer undue price increases. Surely you understand our position,” he looked around at the gathered representatives of the different nations. Yes, they nodded, they all knew why they were there, knew the strange laws governing trade within the borders of the huge country they knew as America. They had gotten on planes and boats to come here, had been advised by their own counselors as to what they could expect.

“Bravo! Bravo! Long live the Beef-Stick!” shouted the Italian. The Frenchman again offered polite applause, and the man from the Netherlands made some notes on his legal pad. The Americans were silent for the moment, one of them having found that he could play Donkey Kong on his wireless device that now engrossed him. His colleague was staring vacantly at the sad plaque on the wall that commemorated some dreadful achievement. It was so small and impossible to read, that there remained only to look stupidly at its dull glow and tiny inscription.

It was time to disband for the day, and all agreed that their time in the government’s conference room had been productive. The King made no further reference to my stomach or jungle rains, but slapped me on the back, offered me a Beef-Stick.
“Hah hah hah! You take this, little man! And when it is time you come to Togo we make a feast to put some meat on your bones!” Then he described the feast that would await me:
“Coconuts with wild boar! Fresh mango and rice! New-killed chicken with pomegranate a la provencale, figs and dates like you wouldn’t believe!” And, he added, “Beef-Sticks!” He gathered his colorful garb around him, led the members of this diverse party out of the room. They’d all agreed to meet later at TGI Friday’s and the King wanted to visit also some evening entertainment of a decidedly adult nature.

Interruption

This narrative is analogous to things that are actually happening, although—due to confidentiality--I’ve had to change the facts considerably and mask the parties involved. The embellishments further confuse and obscure the issues. Since I’ve been thus engaged, I’m sure you’ll understand that little progress has been made on the house. The steps look nice, however.

I took the new Dodge truck over to Oort’s shop, puttered about, fooled with the dashboard, and put things to right again. The windshield washer, which was full of fluid, was not spraying. We discovered a bad connection at the washer bottle, and now it works as it should. For whatever reason, this was a high priority for me: I like a clean windshield.