Suq Bag Breaks

     The mumbled sound of indistinct voices in a crowded place. People shoulder to shoulder, back to front, front to back.  They slide by, they side step, they push through.  Make way for the vegetable carts, the old women, the families shopping together.  Children scamper through the interstices, knocking into legs and hips.  Indiscriminate.  They look up and hold out a hand full of plastic bags.  Only ten cents.  Venders hawk their wares, giving prices and guaranteeing quality.  The yell to their cohorts asking for change, for weights, for bags.  Buyers prod and poke, smell and taste, check for firmness, freshness.  They argue prices.  They walk away.  They come back.

     The thud-thud sound of vegetables piled on top of one another.  A kilo of this, two of that.  Put the potatoes on bottom.  Dirty and heavy.  Don’t squash the tomatoes.  The peppers.  Carrots slide vertically along the walls. Pile the rest up.  It’s been a month, maybe more.  Kitchen is bare.  The vegetables pile and the weight increases.  Heavy bag.  Shoulder dips.  Pile grows.  Almost done.

     The creaking sound of woven plastic fibers straining.  The result of years of tension, pulling, stretching.  Untold loads of products, hefted about.  Carried here and there.  Each causing a little more strain on the aging plastic fibers.  They’ve held strong thus far, but.  Tearing.  The tension breaks.  The fiber snaps.  An unheard ‘pop’.  Two released ends wave freely in the air.  The pressure released is divided and spread among the others; their workload increases.  For the neighboring fiber, the added strain is too much.  Another ‘pop’.  The weight is divided again.  Now the avalanche.  A cascade of tearing moves through the remaining fibers.  Rip.  Rip.  One more.  One more.  Lasts only a second.  It’s over.

     The snapping sound of a plastic handle breaking in two.  The shoulder rises imperceptibly with the momentary lightness of free falling food before it dips again with the violent jerking of a sudden shift in weight.  The head turns, the free hand swings round.  Reflexes too slow; the eyes can see that which the hands cannot save.  Broken strands of handle hanging limply from the fallen side of a woven plastic polygon.  Greens and oranges and browns levitating.  Inches off of the soggy ground.

     The plop-plopping sound of vegetables landing in new mud.  Peppers, carrots, potatoes.  Sticking out of the ground as though they had never been picked.  The tomatoes land on drier ground and roll into the crowd, under feet, under stands.  A half empty woven plastic bag placed in the dirt.  Kneel down.  People pushing, bumping.  Stepping over hands.  On hands.  The struggle.  Bending, looking, finding.  Reaching, straining, grabbing.  Vegetables wiped and put in their spots.  Some left for the dogs.  And donkeys.  The last vegetable placed.  Stand up.

     The disgusted sigh of annoying.  Muddy.

     That’s the breaks.

The Engagement - Epilogue

     Months later, a friend came by to pay the boy a visit.  They sat on the stoop of his apartment building, bathing in the sunshine and talking about school and work and vacations and people they both knew.  The friend’s sister had grown up with Aicha and he asked if the boy had heard anything about her.  The mere mention of her name caused a knot to grow in his stomach.  He had not heard one word from her since learning of the engagement, despite several attempts at contact.  The friend smiled knowingly and told him that this was to be expected; no self respecting married woman would keep in contact with former male friends.  He went on to retell the story as he had learned it from his sister.
     The marriage was arranged by the girl’s parents over the course of a few weeks.  A French suitor, the friend of some distant relatives, had inquired about the girl after having seen her picture during a short stay at someone’s house.  A dialogue was begun, offers were made, and the girl was informed only after the negotiations had been finalized.  There was a small ceremony in the south for extended family and a larger, more elaborate ceremony in France thereafter.
     And so it was that Aicha, the girl with the acorn eyes and wild hair, now lived in France, a country she had never visited, married to a man she had never known. 

The Engagement - The Message

     Summer arrived and he became busy with work.  Gone for weeks and months at a time, he seldom saw the girl of whom he had grown so fond.  As each project finished, he would return to the city with a light heart, exhilarated by the thought of being with her again, only to find that she had just left on vacation with her family.  They seemed always to miss each other by just a day.  They still kept in contact, sending the occasional phone or internet message, but the ‘hello’s and ‘I miss you’s couldn’t fill the growing holes they felt inside their hearts.
     As summer wound down, so too did his work.  He found himself more and more in the city until his days away numbered no more than two or three per month.  He sent message after message to the girl he so desperately missed, asking to see her, inviting her on walks, but he received no response.  Time moved forward.  Weeks went by.  A holiday came and went.  But the holiday was not a cheerful one, for he had still heard no word from the girl with acorn eyes and wild hair.
     Then one day he found a message in his inbox.  It was from her.  Immediately, everything was righted and all doubt floated away.  He realized then that she must have been traveling somewhere without quality phone coverage, or had no money on her phone, or had lost his number, or had lost her phone, or had even just been too busy.  Whatever the problem had been, it didn’t matter now, for she had responded and soon enough they would be together, strolling through the crowded streets, side by side, smiling and laughing once again.  Elated, he opened the message and read it eagerly.  There was only one line of writing; four short sentences.  “Hi Tariq.  How are you?  I am engaged.  Take care.”
     The message made sense only once.  He read through it quickly and understood completely.  But when his brain compared this new information with what it already knew to be true, the two were so violently opposed that he immediately doubted that he had read or interpreted the message correctly.  So he went back and tried to read it again, but this time he could find no meaning in the words.  He recognized the letters.  He saw how they combined to create the words and how the words, individually, were all perfectly clear.  These were, in fact, words with significance, words that expressed some thought or idea.  The problem lay in the way in which the words were combined.  Arranged as they were, the words lost all meaning.  He stared at the four sentences, trying to pinpoint the idea they had been intended to convey.  But the longer he stared, the less sense it all made.  The words became hazy; the letters, scrambled and foreign.  The whole line of text morphed and melted together, swirling and dancing on the page until his head hurt.
     Somewhere at the other end of time, he blinked.  Immediately, the screen raced back towards him, bringing with it an idea that nearly knocked him from his seat.  Engaged.  The bottom of his stomach gave way and fell into a murky hole of infinity.  He felt sick.  His head swam.  Questions circled around his brain like out of control satellites, orbiting wildly, spinning faster and faster until finally losing balance, falling of their axes, and crashing into one another in tiny explosions.  How could she be engaged?  It had been barely two months since they had last seen each other.  And only a couple weeks since they last spoke; she had mentioned nothing.  He read the words over and over, convinced he had missed something, convinced he had misread something.  But the words did not change when he read the message again.  The meaning was still the same.  The girl with acorn eyes and wild hair was engaged.

The Engagement - Aicha

     She would walk with him every few nights.  Often accompanied by her younger sister, they would stroll through the town, talking and laughing and translating and smiling.  More often than not they had no specific place to go; just walking together was enough.
     They met when the sun was low in the sky at an old, green and white mosque near her house.  He always arrived first.  Standing under a beaten light pole they shared, he would search for her among the passersby.  Time dragged on during those few minutes of waiting.  He was constantly coming up with reasons why she would not come: her parents objected, she had work, she was ill, she was with another.  The longer he stood alone under the light pole, the more preposterous his reasons became until finally, after forever, he would see her.  Heartbeats were skipped and smiles were spread when their eyes locked.  Once united, they would head off towards the north, walking along the main roads, waving hellos to friends and acquaintances.  These first minutes were devoted to recounting recent events, catching up on the other’s news, and asking about upcoming plans.  They walked slowly, dodging potholes and piles of trash, nodding and laughing and throwing sly smiles at each other.  Occasionally their hands would brush past each other, each begging to be held by the other, but neither could make the first move.
     They would carry on farther and find themselves in the crowded part of town.  Sellers stood behind blankets covered with various trinkets, yelling at the throng of people as it flooded by.  Men with carts of fruit snaked through the crowd, rolling slowly and asking for space to be made.  The pair made their way through the maze as though strolling through a wax museum, noticing occasionally a particularly interesting individual, but concerning themselves, for the most part, only with each other.  At every narrow passage he would hold back, allowing her to move through first, gently guiding her along with his hand on the small of her back.
     Coming out of the seller’s street they would arrive upon a large, open square where the town collected after the sun had set.  Here they would sit together and watch the crowd; little boys playing soccer in the open spaces, little girls chasing each other, old women catching up with one another.  The men sat at the cafés in the peripheries.  They smoked their cigarettes and drank their espresso, eyes fixed on the giant, flat TVs hung in the corners.  Their wild cheers rolled through the square in waves, momentarily displacing the calm.  The couple didn’t notice.
     She sat with him and she laughed at his jokes and her dark, acorn eyes sparkled in the moon light when she threw her head back.  Her hair was long and wild and always put up with bangs swept right to left over the eyebrows.  She was just as comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt as in jalaba and scarf, and was just as stunning in either.  A thin layer of pink lip gloss covered her full lips but no other paint touched her face: she didn’t need makeup and therefore didn’t wear it and was all the more beautiful for it. 
     They would sit like this for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes not, simply enjoying each other’s company.  They liked each other.  But they could only show it in the most subtle of ways, for nothing could come of it.

Things You May Not Know

Donkeys have feelings too.
The desert sun races to its zenith.  Then it just stays there.
I am the Forest Gump of Moroccan souk busses.
Riding a camel uphill is far more comfortable than riding a camel downhill.
Camel sweat reeks and is difficult to get off your hand.
Tourists screw pricing for the rest of us.
Roosters are not as clever as they appear: they crow all day. Only occasionally does their crowing coincide with dawn.
Going there is much better than coming back.
I bring rain to the desert.
I can go many, many days thinking I smell just fine when, in fact, I do not.
People are nice.
Doorbells are useless.  Shouting names is the way to go.
The brain of a sheep tastes about how you think it will taste.

An Excerpt

...
     Once, after some lively repartee with a rather astute jackrabbit whom the river had known for some time, it came to a small, flat clearing and flowed out, away from the woods, towards the edge of a rocky cliff.  Upon arriving in the open, it was stunned by the majestic view: like an ant looking out from the center of a crumpled and ripped piece of verdigris construction paper, the river was surrounded by a jagged, cuneiform earth.  Vast expanses of lush valleys dotted with enormous, gray boulders and bushy treetops, and soaring, snowcapped crests stretched forth before it in every direction.  The land rose and fell sharply, folding over itself in blooming corrugation, juxtaposing deep caverns against tall, vertical ridges.  Distant, looming peaks shrouded in delicate, egg-white mist appeared unnaturally tall, seeming to rise to the farthest reaches of empyrean, stabbing at heaven with their incredible height, unafraid at the prospect of poking holes in God.  A half circle of glowing orange peeked out from behind the western mountains, miniscule compared with the colossal mounds of earth surrounding; a mere pixel of light among oversized pyramids.  Soft rays of amber shone out from it, bouncing off the bottom of the clouds and casting long shadows in the world below.  The river stopped and stared.  It unfocused its vision and still couldn’t take everything in; the brilliance of the forest canopies, shining like jade in the light of the slowly setting sun, stretched way out into the peripheries of space, wrapping around the mountain like a living, green model of the universe.  A solitary white bird, wingspan like a private jet, glided gracefully through the breeze, turning summersaults over the pointed, rocky islands rising out of the bowels of the earth.  Gusts of wind stroked the leaves in the trees and a thousand animals crawled over the mountains’ surfaces; to the river’s unfocused vision, it looked like the land was breathing. 
     The river crept out farther still, enamored with the beautiful landscape.  Across the valley to the right, a sprawling tree shook with thunderous force and a shapeless cloud of black arose.  Like a giant swarm of gnats, the cloud flew away from the tree, shifting and rearranging but maintaining its structure with the fluidity of a floating, amorphous blob.  The hushed echo of distant, beating feathers pulsed through the mountains in waves like sonar.  The black mass climbed higher, expanding and elongating, recentering and condensing; each individual pulled in his own direction, eager to lead, yet the whole remained intact.  Then, with impressive groupthink, the cluster of birds descended onto a new tree, disappearing into its depths with the quiet rustling of leaves. 
     The fertile milieu swelled uncontrollably, engulfing the river as it flowed farther into the open, pulled forward as though hypnotized.  A gentile shushing filled the air and grew louder as the world became larger.  The river stopped staring.  It lay back, floating along in comfortable absentmindedness, relaxed by the verdant serenity, resting happily in its bed and looking up into the fading gold of early evening.  Then, suddenly, it wasn’t.  The sky fell down and the world spun around in a tumbling orgy of rock and tree, animal and cloud.  The shushing increased and the water smashed into the mountain’s side, tore off chunks of dirt and rock, and threw them down into the chaos below.   Valley green and blazing orange and dirty brown and foamy white images slid over one another in rapid succession, melting together and replacing each other like a psychedelic kaleidoscope on fast forward.  The shushing became crashing and the river was stretched to its limits; it broke apart into sections, each falling on its accord, and raced itself to the bottom with violent celerity.  These oversized, speeding teardrops were swallowed up by a mist so dense the river could no longer tell if it was falling, floating, or flying.  Inside the viscous opaque of wet, gray molasses, directions were alien and meaningless; up and down, forwards and backwards, left and right, these were words without context.  The river hovered in uneasy paresis, unable to flow, going nowhere, discerning nothing in the foggy purgatory. Then: a brutal collision and spreading darkness, and the world turned black.
...

Government Run

A line of folded papers winds around the counter corner
Like a snake painted by Picasso that was hurriedly made to order.
The line grows longer every time a new victim appears,
Drops his papers, finds a seat, and waits to pay arrears.
The new ones can tell from disgruntled faces The Man hasn’t yet arrived.
They hope it won’t be long now, but aren’t prepared to be surprised.
Eventually there are no more seats and the new arrivals stand
And crowd around in corners, speaking softly, and discreetly
Looking over their shoulders every so often just to see the
Papers they brought have not been moved by other’s impatient hands.
Time drags on as though it were burdened by heavy weight.
The payers sit and stand and walk and talk and think and wait.

At the other end of the office, a large mass of people cluster
Around a service window at the counter in the corner. 
The Other Man behind the glass tries occasionally to muster
Up the strength to yell for them to keep themselves in order.
But his pleas only fall upon deaf ears; these people are accustomed
To situations where strong survive and weak given no quarter.
Aggressive newcomers come in and slide along the western wall,
Or else they circle round outside to get ahead of all;
They take advantage of interstices left by those departing.
The timid are stranded in the middle, surrounded by obnoxious
Folk who won’t push to close the gaps the sly ones fill so smartly. 
The elbows, glares, and arguments are inherent to the process.

Beside the throng is another window, the front of which is empty
Save two men in leather shoes with white papers aplenty.
The Woman behind the glass is busy typing on her screen.
She sometimes looks at papers and asks the men to sign here please.
When the last contract is printed, and all the signatures are written,
She alights from her chair and heads to the back of the office for a rest,
To have a snack from the private kitchen, or call the man with whom she’s smitten,
And generally not work or worry about the office guests.

Meanwhile, the owners of folded white papers are sitting, getting restless.
“Don’t they want our money?”  “They really must detest us!”
“The Other Man told me nine o’clock, its fifteen to ten right now!”
“I have to deal with this every time I step foot in this place.”
Facial sweat is sponged away as a shirt sleeve wipes a brow.
The women wave their hands to cool the air around their face.
They talk amongst themselves, but to whom could they complain?
This is no private business, no, the government runs this game.
The only game in town, in fact, this electric monopoly.
I’d switch providers but lack of choice is what is stopping me.
So I sit and wait, like all the rest, to pay my portion due.
Hoping that The Man will come and I’ll quickly be through.
So listen with care and heed my words, for I’ve been there and done it:
If you want it to work as it properly should, don’t let the government run it.

Extraordinarily Average

      He was extraordinarily average and had decided long ago to be so.  It wasn’t one, life-altering, conscious decision that had been made, but the cumulative effect of a collection of smaller, less imposing decisions that had turned him into what he had become.  He was average in a way that few are; good at everything, great at nothing.  He was the jack of all trades that would never become king.  He had no aces up his sleeve and no queen on his arm.  Surrounded by jokers in a world unfit for his acquiescence, he lived a life too short for his ambitions.  Too lacking in attention to ever focus on one thing long enough to master it, he preferred instead to move on to the next once the average had been achieved; the modern day Renaissance man.
      Most things came to him effortlessly and he paid no attention to the rest.  He remembered with ease the names of people he deemed important enough to remember and quickly forgot without second thought the names and information of those he did not.  He spoke multiple languages to varying degrees under the pretence that he wanted to be able to talk to everyone, but in fact, he preferred the silence and would raise a solitary eyebrow when he heard people describe it as awkward.  His modesty was a byproduct of trained politeness and, when outshined by his natural confidence, appeared forced to those who lacked their own and were threatened by anyone who walked with their back straight and chin up, though his gait was different.  He was fit but not muscular; body of a runner.  Light tan in the winter that he’d kept from the summer.  A writer and a reader.  More a giver than a needer.  A low-income housing builder and a soup kitchen feeder.  Raised as a Christian, he lived like a Buddhist.  Tried to be Muslim but kept following the Tao.  He was two continents short of seeing the world and he knew that once that goal was accomplished it would mean nothing in the scheme of things and he would therefore have to design a new goal which, once completed, would be replaced by yet another.  There would always be more so he would never be done.
      His lack of passion often led to ennui, which, in turn, would have led to depression if he hadn’t been too proud for that sort of thing.  He kept his sanity be challenging himself to accomplish certain tasks, large and small, and each item crossed off of his checklist was added to the collection without ceremony or enthusiasm; just another thing done. 
      Eventually he would find what he was looking for, but first, he would have to start searching.

To Marrakech

      Wind blasted through the open doorway and made the hair of all parties involved dance like deep-rooted wheat caught in a hurricane.  The grassy plains of Morocco swept past with a flourish; the foreground flashed by in milliseconds while the northern slopes of the Lower Atlas Mountains, rising just an inch or so above the horizon, slowly crawled along in the distance.  The air was heavy and clear, and redolent of rain, but no clouds were visible through the three-by-eight metal frame. 
      Inside, two men were handling with much asperity a third who, for his part, was working to free himself of their grip and trying his best to calm the pair with mellifluous speech; actions which did not serve to decrease the roughness with which they laid hands on him.  The shorter of the aggressors was dressed sharply in a conductor’s uniform and hat; buttons done all the way up, shirt tucked, shoes shined, and metal-framed glasses sitting way up on his nose.  His drooping jowls were flushed from prolonged physical exertion and his thick, graying mustache had tiny drops of perspiration collecting at the corners.  His partner was dressed in similar colors and fashion, though without the jacket, hat, or attention to detail.  He was taller and younger than the other, and displayed the diffident obsequiousness of a new employee.  Though his grip was tight and his feet were firmly planted, his wide eyes and dilated pupils betrayed his surprise and fear at the redoubtable situation.  The third man was facing the other two, back to the doorway, arms out to either side intensely grabbing at the various extraneous metal protrusions inherent in large, 20th century mechanical apparatuses.  His sallow face was lean and tan.  His dark, narrow eyes darted back and forth between the two on-comers and the sides of the car where his hands were fighting furiously for new grips to grab.  Never once did he look back over his shoulder.  A river of unctuous declarations poured forth from his mouth without stop; though he was constantly shifting and fighting and ducking and grabbing, adroitly maneuvering so as to stay erect and inside, his words never once halted; he spoke like a garrulous charlatan at a Gullible Peoples Anonymous meeting.  A tightly packed throng of bystanders stood staring over the shoulders of the two ticket collectors with rapt attention, eyes wide and mouths agape.  As the noise grew louder, more riders left their seats and joined the crowd, pushing and straining to get closer until all interstices had been eliminated.  And so they all stood, bunched together like cattle, calves burning from standing on tiptoe, watching the melee unfold.
      Next stop: Mechra-Benabbou, seven kilometers.

Without Emotion

       The beach is empty in a way that makes me feel like just another piece of sand lying among a billion others, carelessly blown by an easterly trade wind up and down the beachfront in a halting and tentative way; moving, stopping, and starting again, changing locations and meditating briefly in every new place, leaving behind a trail of footprint shaped miniature craters in the malleable piles of dry sand that are soon blown over and made flat again by more bits of sand; sand that is ever ready to be, at a moment’s notice, taken up by the breeze and dropped in some new spot like an eminent domain-backed mandatory government relocation program without all the picketing and letter writing and litigation and ‘you can’t do this’s and tears and long goodbyes.  The cratered crescent of a five day old moon hangs roughly thirty degrees above the horizon, motionless and smiling down upon me like a not quite fully invisible Cheshire cat with its head cocked, its reflected radiance veiled by a slow-moving and taciturn cumulonimbus who’s thoughts are centered not on the giant, pock-marked satellite of ancient awe or the mirrored brightness thereof, but rather on its own weight and density, calculating sans émotion the various factors at play which will, later that evening, all coalesce into a single outcome; namely, the collapse of the towering, rain-heavy giant and the following downpour that will ensue over a small section of the Moroccan north-Atlantic coast, the effects of which will be felt only locally as the Sebou and Bou Regreg rivers swell past customary early-Springtime levels, flooding the drying hectares of the surrounding farmland and stoking the long untended fire of optimism in the remaining farmers; farmers who are cautious but will allow themselves a secret smile and the expectation of possible reversed fortunes but who will ultimately be disappointed when the rains stop again before morning and the water recedes and floods back out into the Atlantic, finding itself once again trapped in the cycle of oceanic convection, dragged thousands of leagues under the sea where the darkness is as suffocating as the pressure until finally breaking free and escaping up to the surface, hoisted up out of the vast blue by the Sun in little pockets of warm air, rising steadily until the cozy, thermal pouches lose their initial warmth and the water vapor dilutes and mixes with the surrounding air, condensing and immediately freezing in the midst of an icy cirrostratus floating lazily above the breeze, alone and aloof but secretly glad for the new company; a cloud that at this very moment is just beginning to take shape six kilometers above and one kilometer off the coast of Mauritania but will cause little in the way of rainfall upon which the aforementioned farmers desperately depend.  The greenish gray underbelly of the growing giant is centered almost directly above me and extends out hundreds of meters in every direction on the x-axis, its overcast hue gradually transforming from the wrenching black-green of an eye which had been caught the day before by an impressive right hook to a weak graphite to a sea-sick yellow to a sort of muted golden-pink brought on by the various reflections and refractions of imperceptibly-tiny rays of light extending from a sinking March sun off of a well balanced mixture of decades-old pollution from a coal powered and industry heavy phosphorous mining town twenty kilometers upwind and the densely clustered water-vapor-just-recently-turned-precipitation of a thunderstorm waiting to break.  The semi-bright, quickly-fading-into-deep-purple-and-blue-but-as-of-yet-still-pale-orange-and-pink layers of sky hovering just over the freshly set sun make the contrasting murky green core all the more ominous looking.  Gazing down at the swelling cloud with the semi-interested attention of a gallery of would-be cultural aficionados at a tolerably well done rendition of some mildly popular, seven month old off-Broadway musical, pixel-like pricks of light from the brightest stars of faraway galaxies, the transmissions of which had been interrupted on numerous occasions by giant clouds of interstellar dust and gas during the multi-light-year travel that had had to ensue before arriving at Earth, Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy, such that the tiny, shiny dots in the sky had an on-again, off-again flicker to them - the effects of which had played a prominent role in the whilom tradition of amateur, terran, stereographic projection folksong - had just recently become visible against the backdrop of multicolored strata of sky - the section not covered by the pregnant cumulonimbus – a section of sky that one very experienced but tragically mono-syllabic sunset connoisseur would describe later to her friends as, “like, so, so great!”, and gave the whole scene a sort of sports stadium feel during an especially impressive performance when the audience is compelled to retrieve from their purses and fanny-packs which have been strewn unceremoniously along the cement ground under their spring-loaded, plastic seats among the peanut shells and plastic cups containing a last few warm ounces of lite beer their overpriced cameras and click away with thousands of tiny flashes at a distance too great to achieve satisfactory results.  The majority of these stars, like the orbiting moon, are hidden, partially or completely, by the far reaching cloud but are there none-the-less and would appreciate mention of their presence considering the facts that they were there long before and would remain long after the brief and violent life of this particular collection of floating water droplets thank-you-very-much.  Spread out below the reticent thinking of the cumulous giant and the thousand year-old flashing of the faraway, globular nuclear reactors, the Atlantic Ocean, its boundless expanse restricted only by limited eyesight and imagination, tumbles placidly over itself, gently rising and falling and crashing and shushing, its distant horizon a mere black line separating the pale pink-turning-purple-not-sure-exactly-what-that-color-is-called of an evening sky still alive with the light of an already set sun and the deep blue of an ocean ready for the coming nightfall.  A crew of twenty some-odd men, most of whom are migrant workers from the nation’s south and have come north in search of work, who haven’t seen their families in years but remit more than three-quarters of their paychecks every month without fail in hopes of eventually returning home to the places of their families, friends, and birth to start life anew, pass the evening curled up in their bunks staring at old pictures of faraway people, remembering how life was outside of the metallic underbelly of a hulking 20th century fishing ship; a ship currently sitting idle under the moon and clouds and stars, as lonesome as the workers, imperceptibly bobbing, rising and falling with the rolling waves like a black shadow silhouetted against the tired backdrop of an increasingly darkening evening sky.  The light whistle of soft wind steadily blown through empty seashells and the just-poured-soda fizzle of gently crashing foamy, white waters still high from the gravitationally powerful coincidental occurrence of a week-old perigean spring tide and the culmination of a moon just beginning the principal lunar semidiurnal do not go unnoticed.  I am alone with the sand and the moon and the cloud and the stars and the boat and the noise.

Things We Miss

Lawn mowers growling on Saturday mornings

Freshly cut grass and mid morning sweat

Mixing sweetly in the air

Too early

Sitting in traffic

Back and forth between gas and brake

Gas and brake

Staring off into the clouds

Looks like rain

Waiting for a pizza

Ordered forty five minutes ago

I couldn’t find your house

AC is broke

Turn on all the fans

Heat is broke

Light the fireplace

Ran out of cheese

Run to the store

Out of Nesquick

Run to the store

Soy sauce, filets, microwave dinners

Run to the store

There was a line at Starbucks

They messed up my order

Caramel instead of mocha

Guy cut me off

Guy took my spot

Missed the light

Missed the exit

Late for work

The intense heat of summer trapped inside a car for five hours

Skin sticks to the leather

Hard to breathe

Beads of sweat

Hands burn on the wheel

Muddy paws of a playful dog

Traipsing through the living room

I just vacuumed

Send him outside

Everything and nothing

Things we think of

Things we don’t.

Journey to the Great Unknown

“Alright baby, I’m heading out.”

She looked up and sighed.  “Do you really have to go?  You know what happened to Linda’s husband; it’s just so dangerous.”  Her eyes pleaded with him.  They had gone over this a hundred times before and each time the thought of it brought her to the point of tears.

“Baby.”  He looked into her eyes, touching her face gently.  He didn’t have to say more.  They both knew he would go.  He had to.  He turned to exit and began his slow departure.  Just inside the doorway he looked back over his shoulder.  “I love you and I’ll be back.”

He stepped out into the darkness.  The air was humid but the ground was cool.  He shifted uneasily in place, taking in one last view of the only home he had known, just in case.  The moment passed and he moved on: down the alleys he knew by heart; across the cold, steel bridge; out into the open space where he had played as a youngster, beyond which lay the great unknown. It was to this place he was heading now.

It was well known among the community that this place held an abundance of food; enough to feed the entire community even.  In addition to the food, though, there were tales of a hideous monster that delighted in killing and torturing all those who would dare trespass into his land.  In the old days, it was assumed to be just a story; a fairy tale told by parents to keep their children from wandering too far from the village.  But as time moved on and food became more and more scarce, an adventurous few, those with nothing to lose, began to seek out the treasure that was hidden beyond the open space.  The few that returned told tales of a land teeming with food, more than one could eat in a lifetime.  They brought back evidence of their findings, enough to feed their families and friends.  The great majority, however, never returned.  Tales of the monster were proven true.  It was a giant, towering hundreds of stories above the treasure seekers.  It wore rudimentary cloth coverings around its midsection and was otherwise naked and hairy.  It roared loudly in some barbarian tongue and stomped around awkwardly, shaking the whole earth.  Those who were caught by it were killed immediately.  Those lucky enough to escape never went back.

So it was with a heavy heart that he silently entered the dark hallway, the beginning of the path to the great unknown.  It was drab and damp.  He crept along slowly, dodging the cobwebs and low hanging bits of ceiling.  As he continued along he began to think of his wife and children.  He wished he could have stayed with them, wished he didn’t have to make this journey.  But times were hard.  There simply was not enough food at home.  The children were starving.  Some had died already.  He had to do something.

As he continued on, the air changed.  It was cooler now, and there was a slight wind.  Immediately he began to shake, but he knew it wasn’t the wind that was giving him chills; he was getting close.  But with the wind came another sensation.  One that was as welcome to him as the tender touch of his wife: the aroma of food.  This aroma rejuvenated his spirit and he took each step with more and more confidence.  He had come here to save his family.  He would not let them down.

Suddenly the hallway opened up into a vast nothingness; he had arrived.  The smell of food was all around him.  The air was cool.  The rocky, jagged floor he had been walking along transformed into a smooth, cool, flat surface.  He tried peering through the darkness but could distinguish nothing. 

Slowly he crept forward, constantly on the lookout for any sign of the monster.  He found shortly that the open space was not infinite, that it was bounded on all sides by huge walls, one of which had a large crack in its side.  As he moved slowly towards the crack the aroma grew stronger.  This was it.  He arrived at the crack and carefully poked his head through.  What he saw was amazing: beyond the crack lay the largest cavern he had ever seen or heard about, hundreds of times larger than the one he was in currently and extending off in every direction.  Strange, colorful towers stood erect in the distance, looming overhead like gigantic, mutant trees.  The ground seemed multicolored and smooth, with strange patterns repeating off into the distance.  Giant, odd shaped mountains rose up from the ground, casting weird shadows on the land below.  Most importantly though, there was food.  Everywhere he looked he saw strange bits of food: on the floor, on the mountains, in the towers, everywhere.  The stories were absolutely true; this really was a land of infinite abundance.

He began to pick at the food he found, eating and collecting at the same time.  There was enough here to feed his family for many months.  He became excited, dashing about, tasting a bit of this, then a bit of this, always grabbing more for the return trip home.  As he moved about, he stole a look up into the mountains and stopped immediately.  There, sitting up on one of the cliffs, a huge collection of food of every color, flavor, and variety imaginable was waiting to be collected and taken home.  He thought of the smile his wife would have when he presented all these delicious things to her and the children.  What an amazing feast they would have when he returned.

The trek up the mountain was an easy one, for he was a skilled climber.  In just a short time, he reached the halfway point and the mountain flattened out for a ways.  As he surveyed his surroundings he could see that the crack he had come through was actually a crack in the wall of the mountain he was currently standing on.  The first, smaller cavern had been inside the mountain.  He tried to imagine where his village was from this place, but it proved difficult.  It was no matter anyway, he would soon be home.

He ran swiftly across the flat part of the mountain, ready to begin the last leg of the climb when suddenly a searing light spread throughout the land, blinding and immobilizing him for an instant.  He regained his wits just in time to see the gargantuan outline of some huge figure lumbering towards him.  As it neared, he could make out some of the disgusting features of the terrible monster: its body was disfigured and bent in unnatural ways; its bare skin was soft and mushy and brown and parts of it were covered in hair; it had huge eyes and sharp teeth that could be seen clearly when the revolting creature opened its mouth to bellow; the stench was simply repulsive; and the whole situation was deathly frightening.  Completely paralyzed, he sat staring at the ugly monster until a giant something came crashing down on him from the sky, killing him instantly.

“Fucking cockroaches.”

A Glass Half Empty

      She said I had nice veins.  I thought this a strange compliment until she began to describe for me the ways in which she would like to kill herself.  None were more gruesome than the others.  They were all simple and straightforward; not celebrations of death, merely quick and effective means of ending a life filled with suffering and boredom.  She spoke of her impending suicide as a matter of fact, as something to be done, the way one would normally talk of grocery shopping or laundry.  There was neither fear nor excitement nor sadness in her voice or eyes, only a steady calmness that indicated that she had put much thought into her future.
      We sat facing each other on oversized couches with splintered wooden backings.  A dusty, beige fan spun slowly overhead, gently pushing warm air around the small, windowless foyer.  Bright sunlight came streaming in through the open doorway, bounced off a small section of floor and flooded the room with a warm glow.  Two glasses of tea, one half empty, sat steaming on an antique, lacquered coffee table in front of us.  Alongside the tea laid two sweet rolls, each with a drop of chocolate hidden inside, both as of yet untouched.  The sounds of children playing rolled in through the doorway in waves.  The only other noise was the subtle whirring of the slow moving fan.
      What does one say in a situation like this?  How can one even begin to address the myriad complexities inherent to human life?  Can we talk off of ledges those who truly intend to jump?  Convince them through sound analysis and persuasive argument?  Or can we merely act as sounding boards, echoing back their sentiments and allowing them the space to sound out their thoughts and feelings; their reasons and regrets; their inhibitions, desires, passions, and hatreds?  These things they have thought about time and time again, do they sound different when reflected back by another soul?  Do meanings change?  Do murky waters become clear?  Is there something inherent in listening, in empathy, that can provide context to a given situation?  Are vibrations in the air distorted by contact with human life such that when they return to the speaker they have taken on a new tone and the ear hears them in a new light?  Perhaps simply the company of another, the knowledge that we are not alone can, in and of itself, change our perception.  The words, the reasons, the meanings, the vibrations, the context: perhaps it is not these that are important, but merely the presence of another.  Could sitting in silence change the course of history?
      Our time together had ended just as the foyer opened up to a deluge of sweaty, smiling children.  Laughter and yelling rang out through the hollow building, assaulting the eardrums in a way that was at the same time enjoyable and disagreeable.  The girl rose to leave and prepare for the next activity.  I looked up at her with as soft a smile as I could manage and I could see my efforts reflected back faintly in her young face.  As she walked away, I let out an inaudible sigh and rested my head in my hands, elbows on knees, eyes closed.  I sat like this for a long moment, thinking nothing.  When I opened my eyes again, I could see only the remnants of our shared snack sitting still and lifeless on the ancient coffee table: shredded bits of napkin scattered about like fallen snow from winter’s first freeze; a few torn chunks of sweet roll, picked apart and surrounded by tiny bits of crust; and standing tall and straight amidst all the crumbs and pieces of tissue, two glasses of tea, one half full.

Clothes We Wear

She stood staring into the mirror for long time, examining the lines around her eyes, the puffs above her cheeks, and the open pores of her forehead and nose.  She frowned as she surveyed the tiny, blond hairs growing above, between, and below the space where she had decided her eyebrows should be.  Even worse were the hairs on her upper lip, the ones she plucked and dyed religiously.  She opened her mouth wide to reveal a set of dull white teeth.  Her hair sat flat on her head and fell down lifelessly past her shoulders; it hung as straight and as boring as she had always thought it to be.  She let out an exasperated sigh and set to work.

            Her morning routine was almost sacred; she never left the house without first prostrating herself before the mirror God.  Her worship consisted of a long procession of washing and scrubbing, flipping and fluffing, blotting, dabbing, wiping, and brushing.  Liquids, bars, powders, and gels were each applied in turn.   “No one wants to see me like this,” she thought as she dipped a small sponge into a plastic container of age defying chemicals.  Though she was well practiced in her daily tradition and went through each motion with swiftness, it still took a half hour before she had finished completely.  “There,” she thought at last, “that’s better.” 

            She left the bathroom and made her way to the closet.  It was overflowing with clothes from the past: jeans and pants that were no longer in style, last year’s blouses and tops, jackets that were not currently fashionable, shoes she had once loved but now considered passé, and an assortment of belts, purses, and other accessories that had each had their turn in the sun but had not seen the light of day for some time.  At the forefront of all of this hung the clothes from which she was now selecting.  She grabbed a pair of dark blue jeans and struggled mightily to pull them up over her womanly curves.  She did a few, quick squats to stretch the material out so her skin could breathe, but it had little effect: every inch of the fabric clung to her legs like frightened children in a haunted house.  She selected an overpriced shirt with simple design and pulled a tight fitting, black jacket over it.  When she had finished adding a belt and jewelry she picked out a pair of towering, black leather stilettos from the closet floor and set about strapping them to her pedicured feet.  Her jacket and jeans constricted her movements considerably and by the time she had finished with the shoes there were a few tiny dew drops of sweat on her brow.  She dabbed these away with a nearby towel and pushed herself off the bed and into an uneasy stance.  She steadied herself quickly and stood staring at her reflection in the full length mirror attached to the inside of her closet door.  The sore spots around her eyebrows and lips were well hidden by heavy makeup, but she could still feel the slight burn of plucked hair.  The jeans were still synched to her legs and the jacket restricted her arm movements.  Her feet showed marks from the blisters that had formed after the last time she had worn these stilettos and already she could feel the material slowly rubbing away at the sensitive skin.  But none of this mattered in the face of one important fact: she looked good. 

            She left her apartment with her head held high and her hips on swag.  She had reason to be confident: she had the look.  The tight jeans, the tall shoes, the dark colors, the perfectly coiffed hair, the painted on face, all of this was in perfect alignment with the most popular style at the time.  She looked exactly as she should.  As she made her way down the street she crossed paths with a woman wearing a colorful, flowing dress that came down to her knees.  It had a bright, floral pattern and seemed happy to be worn.  “What is she wearing?” our heroine thought to herself.  “When was the last time floral dresses were even in style?  And all that color.  Doesn’t she know that darks are in?”  She scoffed at the poor woman and proceeded onwards.

            Sometime later, as she was nearing her final destination, she came across two Muslim women, both of whom were wearing veils hiding their hair and ears and long sleeve shirts and pants covering both wrist and ankle.  She thought they looked uncomfortable.  She had asked women like this before why they allowed themselves to be told what to wear; why they didn’t choose to dress more freely.  They had replied that it was indeed their choice and that they preferred to dress the way they did.  She was incredulous.  “What sheep,” she thought to herself.  “What mindless adherence to such an obviously chauvinistic standard of proper dress.  Isn’t it clear to them that this style, if one can call it a style, is the result of the interpretations and opinions of a patriarchal society?  Can’t they see that they are being forced to adopt someone else’s standards of decency?  Don’t they realize that it is not their choice, not their free choice, to wear such cumbersome and uncomfortable clothes?  That it was ordained by society, by culture?  Predetermined by a paternalistic majority, dead-set on forcing upon women their own ideals of propriety?  They think they are free.  They believe they have chosen to wear these clothes, that they had a say in the matter.  Ha!  If only they would open their eyes to the world around them.  Their society has dictated what clothes they wear.  Their culture, their religion, their community and family: these are the elements that have chosen for these young girls what clothes they should wear, what style they should embrace.  These girls are mere sheep, being led by the traditions of men who have died many centuries ago.  Sheep, being forced into bulky and burdensome clothing, all the while thinking that it was their decision to make.  Ha,” she laughed again, “Stupid girls.  They are not free like I am.  I wear whatever I want: short or long, colorful or dark, simple or elegant.  I don’t have to conform to someone else’s ideas and opinions.  I have freedom.  Real freedom.  These girls have only an illusion.”

She continued on confidently until a flash of color caught her eye.  Many stories above, painted on a giant billboard, a woman was smiling down on her.  She was dressed in a flowing, brightly colored floral print dress that was being blown by an unseen breeze.  In the bottom right-hand corner of the billboard, the words “the next BIG thing” were printed in simple, white lettering.  Just below that, the name of famous designer in New York.  She gazed up at the oversized poster for a moment before moving on.  “What a beautiful dress,” she thought gaily to herself, “and those shoes!  Oh, just darling.”  She stole a quick glance down at the clothes she was wearing now.  They seemed so drab and lifeless, so clingy.  Where was the color?  Where was the flow?  A feeling of insecurity began to well up inside of her until it felt as though every person she saw was silently passing judgment against her.  “I’ll have to go shopping this weekend,” she decided, “I can’t be happy in such dreary, ill-fitting clothes.”

Moroccan Rain

The midday sun is hidden behind a thick layer of black and green clouds.  Only its golden rays are visible; they light up the edges of the clouds with a literal silver lining, contrasting greatly with the dull grayness of the clouds interior and exclaiming to the world that the sun is indeed still with us and that this too shall pass.  For now though, the darkness has spread over three quarters of the sky, extending way off into the distance and leaving only a small patch of blue in the east.  The distant earth is dark and drab, as though night has fallen early.  The western horizon is lost between the blackness of giant, bulging clouds and a land unseen by the sun; it cannot be determined where the one ends and the other begins.  Steady gusts of wind indicate to all that this darkness is coming soon.

The silence is pervasive.  Ancient trees shake from fear of the coming assault but dare not make a sound, lest the storm find each of them individually and put in double efforts to uproot them from their earthen homes.  The air is thick with moisture and smells of Mother Nature’s own sweat, the natural musk of an old, yet vibrant woman who has been hard at work and still has much to do.  The streets are clear.  Sidewalks and intersections are almost deserted, save for a few scattered souls finishing some last bit of business before making their way inside.  Shops have been closed, windows shut, doors fastened, and ropes tied.  An uneasy calm has descended upon the city.

The clouds overhead are heavy with rain and decide intermittently to lighten their load, casting down tiny droplets of dirty water upon the residents of this dusty town in northern Morocco.  Some drops fall without care, allowing themselves to be pushed by the wind this way and that until eventually they reach their final destinations with a silent thud.  Others are more playful; they race their friends and lightheartedly argue over who is faster or who has the better aim.  They speed down towards the earth and call out to the others, “Look at me!  Look at me!” before landing on the heads of the passing humans with triumphant splashes, their kamikaze missions complete.  The largest drops fall rapidly, cutting through the wind as though it were non-existent.  When they finally do touch down, their mass and speed lead to spectacular crashes.  They bounce high off of the ground, jumping for joy in celebration of their arrivals, only to fall yet again, landing softly and forming groups of small, nearly indistinguishable puddles.  These first, slight showers are erratic.  They start and stop with an eerie irregularity.  They are just the first wave of the coming onslaught; soldiers of the front line.  The heavy rumblings in the distance indicate that the cavalry and tanks are on their way.

The Intersection

The intersection is alive with a cacophony of whistles, horns, and yelling; the sounds of early morning traffic.  Two policemen stand opposite each other, flags in hands and whistles at the ready, blowing and yelling at drivers and walkers alike.  They are well practiced and move in sync; the traffic continues to rotate around the round point without incident, though at a snail’s pace.  Pedestrians weave in and out of the traffic, brushing up against the slow rolling cars as they carry on towards some important place in order to do some important thing.  They do not recognize the cars in front of them; they see them merely as hopable obstacles, speed-bumps on the way to getting things done.

The circling drivers clench their steering wheels tightly and keep their right foot centered between the gas and brake pedals.  Each has his head on a swivel, ever ready to take advantage of an opening in the steady flow of automobiles surrounding him.  The weaving walkers do not bother the drivers; after all, they are not people, only objects not to be hit, like the cars and curbs.  A few of the more vocal drivers lean out of their windows, shaking fists and yelling at the others who are driving too slow or too fast or at those who change lanes too often or not often enough.  “Why can’t they all drive like normal people,” they each say to themselves.  Really they mean, “Why can’t they all drive like me?”

A giant, vine covered palm tree stands erect at the very center of all this commotion.  Leaning slightly, it allows its supple branches and leaves to dance to the music of the wind high above the circling cars and trucks.  Birds fly overhead, but none bother to rest on the dancing branches.  They prefer instead to play in the wind, circling and diving then climbing and rising only to allow themselves to fall yet again, all the while maintaining the grace of a gazelle performing ballet.  At its base, the tree is surrounded by a carpet of green and pink, the results of careful gardening and flowers in full bloom.  It is an island of calm amidst a sea of chaos.

A large mosque looms in the background and invites the passing drivers to stop and pray.  Few heed its call.  One side of its towering minaret is lit up brightly by the newly risen sun, displaying for all its intricate carvings as well as its chipped and cracked façade.  The rest of the mosque is hidden in shadows, its green and white exterior made even cooler by the added shade of a row of small palm trees guarding its perimeter.  Just outside, beggars sit in ragged sheets and robes, asking for pocket change from the passing stream of people and blessing the parents of any who help, though most of the walkers are too busy to be bothered; indeed, most are concentrating too hard to even notice.

The large mosque is made less large by the even larger apartment building across the street.  This building is obviously newer than the mosque, but is already showing signs of wear.  Its white exterior is in need of repair and the black iron railings on the balconies could use painting.  The building is well lived in: clothes of every sort hang from hooks and ropes, soaking up the sunshine until they are a scratchy, crispy dry; potted plants sit on tables and chairs, hang from ceilings, and wrap around posts and table legs; and one particular elderly couple sits many stories up, enjoying the breeze and looking down on the intersection, wondering if the world below will ever slow down enough to enjoy the gift that is this day. 

Meanwhile, the drivers continue to circle.  They do not look up to the couple sitting above, only straight ahead, towards the next intersection.

The Bus Ride

‘Ring ring.’  The telephone’s siren has broken the peaceful silence yet again.  The people closest groan audibly as the young woman in the far back right seat answers loudly.  The conversation begins with a series of questions until finally the matter of who is who is settled and the ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s begin.  She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear as she picks the old, red paint off of her fingernails.  She shifts in her seat and switches between ears.  She laughs loudly at some unheard comment, tossing her head back and dropping the phone with a thud.  She hastily retrieves it, switches positions, and continues the conversation and nail picking.

A moment later the ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s have ended.  She begins now to retell, for the twentieth time that day, the story of her vacation, the details of which the passengers around her now know as though they were their own.  She tells about the beach, the nightclubs, and the restaurants; the hotel with the cute bellboy and rude receptionist; the taxi driver who almost hit the bus in the middle of the intersection; etc, etc, ad infinitum. 

 Finally, the vacation story is over and the most wrenching part of the conversation has begun.  “So..?” she says.  “So..?”  “So..?”  That simple, seemingly benign word grates on the ears of her fellow passengers like nails on a chalkboard.  “So..?”  A bit of silence, a bit of talking, and then another “So..?”  More silence, more talking.  “So..?”  “So..?”  “So, if you have nothing to say, then hang up the fucking phone!” the other passengers scream inside their heads.  They exchange glances with each other, rolling their eyes and shooting themselves in the head with their fingers while the girl blabbers on, “So..?”  “So..?”

It’s one o’clock in the morning.  The bus is in its seventh hour and the young lady has been on the phone for at least five of those seven.  Every time she hangs up, the bus breathes a heavy sigh of relief, thanking God that the banality of her conversation is over.  And then, with every ‘ring ring’, stomachs drop and eyes close.  The people here are only too aware what it means and are only able to speculate as to how long, and how trite, this new conversation will be.

“Ok.  Ok, I will.  Ok, thanks.”  Ears perk up.  Could this be it?  Is this the end of the torture?  Necks crane as eager listeners try to catch the slightest hint that the suffering is over.  “Goodbye,” she says, and with that, smiles spread over the tired faces of the other passengers like melted butter in a skillet.  They sink deeper into their chairs, listening to the final ‘goodbye’s and ‘farewell’s and preparing for a long awaited rest in the silence of the night.  “What? Oh, haha!”  The girl’s shrill laugh cuts through the air, causing her fellow rider’s heads to jolt forward.  They stare wide eyed at the headrest in front of them, hoping to hear another series of ‘okay’s or ‘goodbye’s, anything signaling the end of the torment.

“So..?”

The Breakfast

            Before you even reach the doors, the smell emanating from within takes you back to every morning you ever woke up at your grandmother’s house.  You can almost see the hot, black coffee dripping slowly into a see-through pot on the countertop; the sweet, gooey frosting dripping down the side of a mountain of freshly baked cinnamon rolls; the mound of fresh fruit sitting ripe and ready in a bowl on the table; and the thick patties of seasoned sausage sizzling happily on a lit stove.  Only the din of clinking plates and forks and the scraping of pans brings you back to the present moment.

            Many moons have come and gone since you last had a proper breakfast.  The days of waking up expectantly, hoping that the most important meal of the day would be something different, something substantial, have long since passed.  You know now what to expect; you no longer wake up hopeful.  Weeks upon weeks of bread, butter, and olive oil have slowly crushed your appetite and your spirits until even you yourself have begun to believe that a handful of flour and some churned milk are proper breakfast fare.  But as you approach the large, swinging doors ahead of you, the aroma of foods you have almost forgotten tickles your nose and those wicked and wily thoughts are dashed like stale pastries on the rocky shores of appropriate breakfast cuisine.  Neurons fire and taste buds tingle as memories of what used to be march victoriously back into your consciousness, declaring with trumpets blaring all that is right with the world.

            Into the dining room now; it is as large and as sacred as a cathedral, and on this Sunday morning, you are about to be saved by a sermon unlike any other.  The aroma is stronger here, and your eyes are free to roam and match the wondrous smells with the gleaming, metallic serving pans from which they spring.  Rows upon rows of tasty treats are laid out before you; foods you haven’t tasted, smelt, or even seen in what feels like half a lifetime.  You stop just inside the entrance, closing your eyes, extending your arms out to the side, and tossing your head back, allowing the sanctity of this blessed moment to engulf you; to swirl around you and seep into your skin pores; to wash over you like a tsunami wave until you are caught up in the current and dare not fight against it.

The moment passes and you break free from your trance to join the chaos of the crowd.  You fall in line with the madmen, the jokesters, the clowns; this unenlightened mob who know not the importance of this event.  They pile their plates high with your dreams, shove mouthfuls of your desires down their throats, and throw your fantasies into the garbage without thinking.  You yearn to show them the error of their ways, to impart upon them the understanding that this is something to be appreciated; to be looked forward to and reflected upon.  You pity their simplicity.  But how can you blame them?  You were once like them. 

You recollect yourself and move on; slowly examining all that is available.  You pass pan after pan of deliciousness, each with its own smiling server, who, given the slightest nod, would present to you the entire eight liter pan of food and not even think twice about it.  Eventually though, you have seen enough.  You grab a large ceramic plate and you begin your search for the one thing that you have anticipated above all else; the one thing you have seen in your thoughts and in your dreams, both in the day and the night; the one thing that is lacking from every meal of every day; the reason breakfast was invented: bacon.

One?

            It’s almost nightfall when you set out.  The winter air is chilly and the wind blows holes in your ragged sweater, caressing your skin with icy fingers and giving you goose bumps that rise like yeast in the oven.  Your hair is disheveled and dirty; your clothes are the same.  You look up and down the street, trying to decide which way to go first: the neighborhood to the east is nicer, but the west is always crowded.  You settle on a direction and head off into the darkness.

            It takes only a few minutes to reach the first café.  As you come upon it, you slow your pace and begin to shuffle your feet; nothing too drastic, just enough for people to notice.  You enter the patio and put on your game face; somewhere between sad and lost.  You approach the first table slowly and already the men pretend like they don’t see you; they look off in every direction but yours.  You wait until you are directly in front of them before sticking out a dirty hand, index finger raised, saying, in a voice just above a whisper, “One?”  The men continue to look away.  You ask again and they shift in their chairs.  They are uncomfortable; you can sense it like wild animals sense fear.  Now you have a decision to make: keep standing or ask again.  Standing builds the awkwardness and many will pay just to have their comfort back.  But they may find their strength in the silence.  Asking a third time forces the issue.  There can be no hiding at that point; they’ll have to respond.  You decide to go for it.  “One?”  “God help you.”  The words hit you like a punch in the gut.  Your head reels a little and you slowly withdraw your hand, mentally kicking yourself. Three men at the same table; one is bound to give in.  You know better.  You shake it off and move on. The next man has his head buried deep in his newspaper and shoos you away like a fly before you even have a chance to extend your hand.  You give a feeble, “One?” anyway, just to check, but he has already become engrossed in the next article and gives no reaction.  You take a quick glance at the front page to see what is so important and you recognize the letters, but you can’t make out the words.  You continue.  Inside, an older couple offers you the remains of an avocado and banana milkshake and although you would much rather have coins in your pocket, you gladly accept.  The drink is gone before you take a second breath and the couple smiles at you as though they’ve saved you forever.  You force yourself to reciprocate.

            The café is full and by the time you finish you’ve collected four dirhams, two pieces of bread, a package of cookies, half a milkshake, and a shot of espresso.  Not a bad start.  As you move on to the next café you can only hope that the people there will give more coin and less food; the young ones will appreciate the cookies, but the landlord expects cash.  So do the doctors.  But beggars can’t be choosers and you can’t ask for cash value. 

            You carry on for the next three hours in the same manner.  You’re offered more bread; some cubes of sugar; a glass of water.  Occasionally someone will reach into their pocket and pull out a dirham or two and you’ll add these to the ones in your own pocket, privately rejoicing in the weight of the coins and listening to the satisfying clink-clink as you shuffle on.

By ten o’clock it’s time to turn back.  You’ve hit every café on the main roads and you’ve spoken to anyone who looked like they would be willing to help.  Your stomach is full of empty calories and you’ve got 23 and a half dirhams in your front pocket.  The shopping bag of stale bread and biscuits you have clutched in your left hand will be enough to feed your family for the night, possibly with some left over.  The walk home is a pleasant reprieve from life.  It is the one time of the day you have to relax.  You look up at the stars and you find one you especially like and make a simple wish for a better life.  The star twinkles back at you knowingly and you allow yourself a genuine smile for the first time that night.  But you had better hurry back; there’s work to be done at the house still.  And on top of that you’ve got two pages of homework to do.  And a quiz to study for.  Third grade can be such a bitch.

Old Friends

            “Hey man.”

“Hey.”
            “Been waiting for you; where you been?  Working?”

            “Yep.”

            “Yeah that’s what I thought.  It’s a little late though right?  I saw you come up, you look tired man, you ok?  How was it?”

“Eh.  Same ol’ same.  Boss was riding me all day.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.  He treats me like an ass sometimes.  I do all the heavy work and he just stands there yelling at me to work harder.  Like I’m the one slacking off.  I’m really starting to hate that guy.”

            “Yeah well forget about him, man.  He’s an idiot anyway.  He couldn’t do half the work you do.  Anyway it’s the weekend man, what you gunna do?  You got plans?”

            “Plans?  You taking shots at me or something?  You know I don’t have any plans.”

            “Well, I don’t know man, I thought, I don’t know.  I thought you might go into town with the family or something.  I don’t know.”

            “No, I’m not going into town with the family.  Not that I know of anyway.  Probably just be right here the whole time.”

            “Well that’s cool man.  Beats working,” he stopped briefly to attack a sudden itch behind his ear.  “Hey I saw that foreigner again.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah man.  He came up to me today, started talking.  But I aint understand a word he said.”

            “Yeah he said something to me the other day too.  I didn’t understand him either; I just pretended like I didn’t hear him.”

            “Ha, yeah man.  He seems nice enough though right?  I kinda like him.”

            “Yeah, me too I suppose.  Though, I really don’t know anything about him.  But at least he doesn’t bother me.”

            “Yeah not like those kids round the way, right?”

            “Let’s not even start about the kids.”

            They both sat quietly for a moment.  The sky above faded from deep purple in the east to bright blue overhead to blazing orange in the west and was dotted with slow drifting white clouds and small groups of wandering black birds.  The late September sun was just beginning to nestle down for a nap in between two groups of trees and the warm glow it cast was reflecting off the whites of the houses and onto the faces of the two old friends.  They closed their eyes and imagined themselves far away, in no place particular, just somewhere different; a place so nice that it couldn’t be bothered by details.  They sat this way for a long time, until finally the silence was broken by a sigh.

            “I gotta get out of here.”

            “Yeah, tell me about it man.”

            “No, I’m serious.  I, I can’t live like this.  I gotta go.”

“Oh yeah,” he turned and eyed his friend suspiciously, “Where would you go?”

           “I don’t know, I just.  I just can’t keep this up, that’s all.  This job, this life.  I work all the time and for what?  What do I have to show for it?”

            “Hey well no offense man, but at least you got a job, right?  You work and you get to eat.  Me?  I’m living off scraps, you know?”

            “Yeah,” he let his head fall and said quietly, “but at least you have your freedom.”

            “Freedom?  Freedom to do what man?  Freedom to dig around in the trash for my lunch?  Freedom to sit at people’s doorsteps and hope they give me their left-over’s?  No way man.  If that’s freedom then I want my money back.”

            “Well, I’m just saying man, this,” he nodded at his surroundings, “This isn’t the life for me.  I gotta get out.”

Again they sat in silence.  Nearby a woman in a ragged apron and plastic sandals was taking the last piece of bread out of a large, clay oven.  The two friends watched as she placed this one on a plate with the rest, covered them with a dirty dish towel, and carried them back into her house.

“You could come too you know.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.  You just said you don’t have anything around here to live for.  You can dig through the trash anywhere.”

            “Yeah. But, but I’m comfortable here.  You know?  I know everyone.  I know where everything is.  It’s just.. I’m comfortable here.  I thought you were too.”

            “Comfortable?  You’re joking right?”

“Well, maybe not comfortable comfortable.  I just meant, you know, you got a job, you get dinner every night.  You have stability, you know?  It could be worse.”

“Yeah well I don’t see how.  You’ve seen the work I do.  You’ve seen my boss, the way he treats me.  Then I come home to this place.  No, I can’t do it anymore.  I gotta find a way out, and soon.”

Five o’clock was just turning to dusk as I peeled off from the alley and headed towards the courtyard.  Sounds of children’s playing soared over the wall and fell on my ears like carols at Christmas.  The communal oven just outside our yard was black with a new layer of soot and already I could smell something delicious cooking on the stove from within the house.  The family donkey stood tied up to half a tree just a few paces off from the gate, and at his feet laid a dog that would often keep him company in the evenings.  They both looked up at me as I approached and I could see in their eyes that they would have liked to tell me something if I could have understood.  I spoke a few soft words to them and turned to enter the courtyard, not wanting to impose on their time together.  It seemed to me that these two were always deep in conversation, though I was never quite sure what they were talking about.