On our island there is a kind of cowboy. They ride chariots, one-man flatbed trucks in miniature. The trucks are called VVs – village vehicles that keep the villages running, delivering goods from our modest piers to our mom-and-pop shops. Perpetually tanned, at times muscular, they look tough, these VV drivers. Bright white cigarette stubs peak from their mouths, not in keeping with their appearance, like tampons. I make sure to step out of their way well ahead of time as they careen past. I want to get a good look at them because I want to know what it’s like to be a VV driver. Sometimes they are young and handsome. Mostly they are uncle-ish. Some nod and wave to acknowledge that I have kindly stood out of their way, and stood still, because I want to show that I am not a dog nor a child. The movingest of moving objects. Better they save their mental energy for navigating past those. The ones that nod and wave are usually the uncle-ish ones. Many just pass by as if nothing happened, staring into the middle distance, as if I were one of the trees. These are the young and, inevitably, more handsome ones. Gravely serious. God’s work, you might think. In a way, if you live up my hill, it is. I wonder, though, when they will start to nod and wave. I wonder if they have ever fallen in love. I wonder if they have big appetites or whether they are worried about skin cancer. There is a young driver who has broad shoulders and wears the same gray and white tracksuit every day. He reminds me of a manta ray. This afternoon he drove past the tapas bar on Main Street. He is my favorite, I confessed. The pockmarked one? My friend asked. They were not wrong, but I was more surprised because I couldn’t remember the last time someone had used that word. Pockmarked, I confirmed. Gravely serious.
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