On the Run with Robocop
I'm at the wheel of a large truck, speeding through a main road on the outskirts of Hanoi. The traffic is seething with the manic buzz of motorcycles. I have a vague slightly unsettling notion I can't drive, but it seems immaterial as long as long as I look ahead, grip the wheel and keep my foot on the accelerator.
The bikes glide crazily negotiating around the truck like a throng of angry metallic wasps. I catch snapshot glimpses of the chaos: a girl in smart office dress with long flowing hair interweaves between a fat labourer with a mattress on his back and just ahead of him, a man and his wife, the latter clutching her husband's waist in one arm, her child in another.
As far as the eye can see, a mad architecture of crude half built concrete apartment blocks rise above the choking red dust and exhaust fumes. Hordes of workers cluster and toil in this metropolis of dust and confusion, unafflicted by the simmering heat.
Beside me is Robocop. His plastic face is pallid and expressionless. His frame is thinner than he appears in the Hollywood film and he is dressed in loose white chinos and a sweat stained linen shirt. Next to him is seated Alan Sugar, UK entrepeneur and TV celebrity. He seems irritable and restless, writhing in his seat. His stubbled face is bristling with barely suppressed anger yet I'm oblivious to what is afflicting him, focused on my task. It seems imperative that we escape Hanoi. After that, I'm not so sure. Do we go our separate ways, losing ourselves in the anonymous craze of suburbs?
Suddenly Sugar turns to Robocop and yells: "You're fired!" Robocop's spittle flecked face remains ominously blank. He is momentarily still. Then he turns to face the raging Sugar with ferocious mechanical speed, clutching him on the shoulder in a steely grip that rips the entrepeneur's shirt and causes him to yell in pain. Robocop pushes him with such force the door hurls open. His body spins behind the truck into the throng of traffic like a broken doll. The rush of air suddenly ceases as Robocop slams the door shut with blind automatic efficiency and resumes his blank composure. I drive on.
On the outskirts of the city, I steer the truck down a maze of narrow streets. The crowds have thinned, the district is quiet save for a few traders and locals eating noodles seated along the pavement. We stop the truck in a square outside a rectangular concrete building. "I have to find my suit," says Robocop.
"I'm going for a pee," I reply, nervously. "I'll be back shortly."
"OK. Meet you back at the truck."
The bikes glide crazily negotiating around the truck like a throng of angry metallic wasps. I catch snapshot glimpses of the chaos: a girl in smart office dress with long flowing hair interweaves between a fat labourer with a mattress on his back and just ahead of him, a man and his wife, the latter clutching her husband's waist in one arm, her child in another.
As far as the eye can see, a mad architecture of crude half built concrete apartment blocks rise above the choking red dust and exhaust fumes. Hordes of workers cluster and toil in this metropolis of dust and confusion, unafflicted by the simmering heat.
Beside me is Robocop. His plastic face is pallid and expressionless. His frame is thinner than he appears in the Hollywood film and he is dressed in loose white chinos and a sweat stained linen shirt. Next to him is seated Alan Sugar, UK entrepeneur and TV celebrity. He seems irritable and restless, writhing in his seat. His stubbled face is bristling with barely suppressed anger yet I'm oblivious to what is afflicting him, focused on my task. It seems imperative that we escape Hanoi. After that, I'm not so sure. Do we go our separate ways, losing ourselves in the anonymous craze of suburbs?
Suddenly Sugar turns to Robocop and yells: "You're fired!" Robocop's spittle flecked face remains ominously blank. He is momentarily still. Then he turns to face the raging Sugar with ferocious mechanical speed, clutching him on the shoulder in a steely grip that rips the entrepeneur's shirt and causes him to yell in pain. Robocop pushes him with such force the door hurls open. His body spins behind the truck into the throng of traffic like a broken doll. The rush of air suddenly ceases as Robocop slams the door shut with blind automatic efficiency and resumes his blank composure. I drive on.
On the outskirts of the city, I steer the truck down a maze of narrow streets. The crowds have thinned, the district is quiet save for a few traders and locals eating noodles seated along the pavement. We stop the truck in a square outside a rectangular concrete building. "I have to find my suit," says Robocop.
"I'm going for a pee," I reply, nervously. "I'll be back shortly."
"OK. Meet you back at the truck."
posted by Johnny Rem at 3/05/2006 05:51:00 PM
1 Comments:
Good, good, good! Try to avoid English teacher's use of commas. Having said that I anticipate vitriolic concemnation of spelling and apotstrapheeeees.
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