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.

The Samsar

            “Dar zwina yak? Dar zwina?”

            “Makaynch bit lma.”

            “Kayn! Chuf, tmma.”

            “3ad glt lik, bghit lbit lma F ddar, machi BRRA ddar.”

            This was the third house of the day.  And like every other house on every other day, it was missing a bathroom. 

            “I know there are houses in Khemisset with bathrooms.  I’ve seen them.”

            “Yes, the last house had a bathroom, remember?”

            “It also had a giant crack in the ceiling that leaked rain water and caused mold, remember?”

            It was the middle of January and six weeks into my house search.  I had started downtown, near my host family’s house, and had been gradually moving outward.  The apartment we were at now was a thirty minute walk from the city center, but it was nice; it was tiled, had windows, no cracks, no leaks, etc.  The only problem was that the bathroom was downstairs, in someone else’s apartment. 

            This was pretty much par for the course: mold, missing toilet, missing shower, shared kitchen, no windows.  I hadn’t seen a house that had all of these problems, but I also had not seen a house that was devoid of all of these problems.  When I found that house, I would live in it.

            “This is a big city; lots of people.  If you want a nice house you have to pay for it.”

            “I’ve told you already it’s not my decision.  They give me 900 D’s.  Safi.”

            “Well then you should ask for more.”

            “No shit Shakir.”

            “I told you, I am Hamid.”

            “Look, you got any more places to look?  Otherwise I have another samsar up the road that I need to talk to.”

            “No, no, no.  I have another house.  It’s very nice; bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, toilet, everything.”

            “Sounds expensive.”

            “1000 D’s. You can ask your organization to give you a little more.  It’s a great house.”

            I sighed

“Ok, let’s go look.”

            And with that we walked off into the brisk winter air, moving farther away from downtown and closer to my dream of living alone.