Off the boat. Can’t go back. In the car with an immigration officer. Is he my immigration officer ? Yes, that’s exactly what he is. But he’s driving us around the city to meet our friend. I’m in High school. We’re listening to Bush. No actually. I wasn’t having a flashback.
Arther got in the car with us. He smiled the whole car ride.
I noticed.
We got out of the car for the first time and someone had to hold me up. From falling.
But, like, straight up because I was walking sideways.

They led me through the double-paned, bullet proof doors where we had to wait to then be let in another set of doors. Like those slots where they pass your gas receipt on the South side of Chicago.
Police with Machine Guns. I’m in Brazil and I can’t run.

They did give me a receipt. Codes and Porteguese. I took out a large number of bills and Arthur counted them (while smiling) and gave them what they ‘needed.’
There it is. My fine. I paid the country of Brazil at a bank. I fucking feel like I just bought an accident.


Accounts settled, he led us to a buffet restarant.
I was following. It was all we could do. But, it wasn’t following. It was like being pushed through a small space. Or, like holding onto a rope. Or, suddenly realizing just how far away you can be.
It was just scary.
He told us we needed to eat something. It was important. In the buffet you pay by the pound. That . That. Uh. That. Sure. I WANNA GO HOME.


"So, what are you working on? What are your projects? Tienes los proyectos? Tu as des projets? "
"NO project. Just art. "
"Ok."
" In brazil, eating is sexual. So, my art is to eat the world. Comer el mundo."
He took a bite out of his manioc and artichoke heart salad.

As we left I realized that he must go there almost everyday. He bought an ice cream and ate it on the way out the door.