---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Wed, 10 Oct 2001 13:03:49 -0600
From: Ben Reed
Reply-To: w00f@rye.org
To: Kathy Anderson , w00f@rye.org
Subject: [w00f] Arabian Psycho
A Beachside Cafe in Opa-Locka
"You should match your ghitra to your kandura," Waleed Alsheri tells
Abdulaziz Alomari, who's listening intently, stirring his yogurt on the
rocks with a swizzle stick.
"Who says?" Abdulaziz asks.
"Now, listen," Alsheri patiently explains. He's drinking a glass of apricot
nectar and eating rice wrapped in grape leaves with goat sausage and,
incongruously, French fries. "If you wear a white ghitra, you wear a white
kandura. It's as simple as that."
"But wait," I interrupt. "What if his bischt is black?"
"For God's sake, Ali-Hamoud," Alsheri moans. "I wasn't talking about
dressing for a fucking wedding. What's wrong with you?"
"The bischt isn't only for formal occasions anymore," I shoot back. "Sure,
the older, thicker bischts, the ones made of heavy wool or cotton material,
are used exclusively for ceremonial occasions. But the lighter version, the
semi-see-thru bischt made of thin linen, is often worn now as an everyday
alternative to formal business wear. As professional attire, it has a
playful but regal quality, but it is also the garment of a good Muslim."
Alomari nods as though he's taking this in, but I know that he knows this
already, and it irritates me that he's pretending. "Okay," he says. "I get
it. But what about the color? Fine, black, beige, and brown, but what about
the gold trim? Isn't the use of gold trim restricted anyway depending on the
social status of the wearer?"
"Fuck you, Abdul," I hiss. "You know as well as I do that it's the material,
not the color, that signifies social status. Is that your Taurus
double-parked out there?"
He peers under the table canopy toward the street, seeming crestfallen all
of the sudden. A pair of ripped jogger-faggots wearing sweat-drenched
Florida State t-shirts trots by. "No," he whispers, shaking his head sadly.
"No, that's not mine. I don't have a Taurus."
The three of us, Abdulaziz Alomari, Waleed Alsheri, and I are sitting at
Easy Earl's beachside cafe in Opa-Locka, and it's a little after four.
Alsheri is wearing a beige ankle-length dishdara with flared bushti and red
micro-piping, a matching gahfiyya and gold-encrusted agal made of
tightly-wrapped spider silk, all by Fahad, and black Mecca sandals with
camelskin toe-straps that I mistakenly think at first are Nila Rafiq but
which are actually, Alsheri tells me later, handmade. Alomari is wearing an
understated sleeveless Elham Abbas kandura, a red-and-white patterned El
Mouf ghtira, and a pair of tan Armani poplin shorts to help fight of the hot
Florida weather (we're allowed to wear shorts with a kandura). Our table is
on a raised oak deck overlooking the ocean. I'm wearing a Joseph Abboud
solid red silk dishdara that comes with a matching exercise bag and, like
Alomari, a red-and-white patterned ghtira-gahfiyya arrangement, although
mine is Elham Abbas and much more expensive. Alomari and Alsheri finished
their flight classes early for facials somewhere and their tans look good.
The O'Reilly Report today was about the expansion of NATO to include the
Baltic states.
"Guys, guys," I say. "Who's sitting with Karim Koubriti over there? Is that
Ahmed Hannan?"
"Negative," Alsheri grunts. "That's Nabil Al-Marabh. You can tell by the
crop-duster glasses."
There's a short but uncomfortable silence at the table. "No," says Alomari
quietly. "That's not Al-Marabh."
"Are you sure?" I ask.
He nods, and you can see it all of the sudden: he's never been more sure of
anything in his life. "It's not Al-Marabh," he says. "It's... Atta."
The infidel hardbody waitress, definitely an FSU cheerleader type (or maybe
Georgia Tech), blond, huge tits, snake-pattern tattoo encircling the left
bicep, sleeveless cutoff T-shirt, denim jeans, friendly face, comes over to
ask if we want a new drink. We've been coming here every day for four weeks
and she's always asking us questions, trying to make conversation and get to
know us. "Where y'all fellas from?" she asked Koumbari and me yesterday.
"Howdaya like Opa-Locka?" "Opa-what?" I answered. "Opa-Locka," she said.
"Our town." "I know it's the fucking town," I growled, and after that she
didn't ask us any more questions. Now she's trying to smile but is
definitely keeping her distance as she steps around Alsheri's dishdara to
pick up his plate.
"They make them healthy here, that's for sure," Alsheri says, leering, as
she walks away.
"Just once, God," Alomari says, mock-bowing toward Mecca. "Just once. After
that, you can do what you want with me."
"Yeah," snorts Alsheri. "He can do what he wants with you. Just wait."
I'm not sure how Alomari knows Atta so well-maybe through the Germans?-and
it slightly pisses me off but I decide to even up the score a little bit by
showing everyone my new box cutter. I pull it out of my exercise bag
(Ahmed's, $39) and slap it on the table, waiting for reactions.
"What's that, a lighter?" Alsheri asks, not apathetically.
"New box cutter," I say, trying to act casual about it, but I'm smiling
proudly. "Opinions?"
"Whoa," Alomari says, lifting it up, snapping the blade in and out of its
stainless steel sheath, turning it until it glints in the sunlight. "That is
nice, Ali-Hamoud. Take a look." He hands it to Alsheri.
"Picked it up at Staples yesterday," I say. "Jiffi Safe Cutter, 2 and 3/4",
Left hand model, custom-shined. Ninety-seven dollars for a pack of six."
"Good coloring," Alsheri says, studying it closely.
"That's Siberian steel," I point out. "Something called Omsk Blue."
"Omsk blue?" Alsheri asks.
"Really stands out, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," Alsheri says guardedly, the jealous bastard, "it is cool,
Ali-Hamoud. I'm sure the fucking metal detectors will like it, too."
Alomari doubles over. "Oh, shit," he says, wheezing with laughter. "Oh,
shit!"
Alsheri just sits there, grinning smugly, pulls something out of his bag and
slaps it down on the table, next to the napkin dispenser. "What you really
need," he says, "is something like this." He turns to me. "What do you
think?"
"Nice," I croak, but under the table my hand is involuntarily gathering into
a fist.
"Good God," Alomari says, picking it up. "Is that a three-color plastic
design?"
"Four," Alsheri says.
I snatch it away from Alomari, who's smaller than me and, I think, worried
that I might secretly be on the liquidation team. He relinquishes it
instantly. "Where's the fourth?" I say, not looking up. "I only see three."
"Modern Specialties, Inc.," Alsheri says. "Kutto Master Carton Cutter. Model
#20. Right-hander. The shell is three-color plastic, but get this: the blade
is plastic, too. Well, the outside of it, anyway."
"An alloy?" Alomari says, admiringly.
Alsheri shakes his head. "Not only," he said. "The body is a plastic alloy.
But there's a hardened polymer coating. Totally undetectable."
Even I have to admit it's magnificent.
Suddenly the cafe seems far away, the wind dies, even the sound of the waves
diminishes, everything a meaningless hum, next to this box-cutter, as I hear
Alomari reading the sans serif inscription on the shell: "Al-Qaida, Laden,
Inc..."
"Holy shit," Alomari says. "I've never seen anything like-"
Atta stops by our table on his way out. He's wearing sunglasses by Persol
and he's carrying a briefcase by Coach Leatherware.
"Allah Akhbar," he says. "What have we got here, box cutters?" He lowers his
sunglasses just to make sure, picking up Alsheri's, not even looking at
mine. "Modern Specialties, Inc. I recognize it. The Kutto Master. Not
bad-but look at this."
He opens up his briefcase and takes out a large plastic shopping bag and
turns it upside down, emptying the contents-a good two dozen completely
translucent box cutters-onto the table. One spills off the edge, bounces off
the deck, and lands in the sand. A fat infidel who's been sitting at the
next table with his fat infidel wife and their two children with
jelly-stained faces reaches down to pick it up, just being friendly. Atta
slaps at his arm.
"Hands off, devil," he hisses.
"I'm just trying to help-" the infidel begins.
"Help yourself first," Atta snaps. "Lose some goddamn weight."
"And stay away from New York," Alsheri says.
"Shut up, you fool," Atta snaps.
The infidel crawls back to his seat. Catching his breath-he was shaken by
this totally unnecessary interruption-Atta picks up one of the cutters on
the table, flicks open the blade, and holds it, demonstratively, to
Alomari's throat.
"Griptite, USA-made, three-inch, Right-hand models all," he says. "These are
custom-built diamond box cutters. Razor sharp, saws through iron.
Individually, they cost $960 apiece, but I got a volume discount-96 for
$80,000. And the guy who made them is already dead."
"Is this the Cedar Rapids factory?" asks Alomari, the ass-kisser.
Atta turns to him and frowns contemptuously, which pleases me. "Cedar
Rapids? Griptite's Cedar Rapids location is closed. These are from Butte."
"Opened three months ago," sighs a defeated Alsheri.
Atta turns to me. "What do you think, Ali-Hamoud?"
"Nice," I say. "Very nice."
Flight School
I'm on the verge of tears by the time we reach SimCenter because I'm
positive we won't get any time on the simulator, but there's practically no
line when we get there, and relief that is almost revelatory in scope washes
over me in an awesome spiritual wave. The instructor is a serious infidel
hardbody, not quite blond, huge tits, good ass, blue instructor's suit by
Karl Lagerfeld, silk gazar blouse, gold sling-back pumps. I'm positive
Alsheri has fucked her. It's near impossible to get screen time at SimCenter
on short notice and I think the rest of us-besides Waleed, I'm with Alomari
and Ahmed Hannan-are a little jealous of Alsheri's prowess in securing
reservations. When we piled into the 1989 Pontiac Grand Prix in Palm Beach
we realized we had no simulator time booked and while we debated the merits
of a new program at Huffman aviation-my panic so great I nearly slit my
wrists with one of Atta's diamond boxcutters-a consensus seemed to emerge.
Alsheri had the only dissenting voice but he finally shrugged and said, "I
don't give a shit," and dialed up SimCenter on a secure satellite phone as
we rolled out onto the highway.
"Okay, pop TQ quiz," Hannan says. "On what days can you trim your beard in
Kabul?"
"You can never trim your beard in Kabul," I say, annoyed.
"You can do it in private," Alomari says haughtily. "When no one is looking.
If you do it less than once every two months, no one notices."
"Oh, really?" I say. "And where do you plan on doing it, Alomari? In the
bathroom? Where your wife might come in? Not fucking likely."
"Come on, Ali-Hamoud," Hannan says, flicking on his left turn blinker and
glancing over his shoulder. "You've got to remember you're dealing with true
Islam in Kabul. No wife would dare raise her hand to point a finger at a
husband, for God's sake. They'd fucking put her to death just for that. And
you can go back to trimming your beard. There's another one of those new
Volkswagen bugs."
"The old ones were better," Alsheri says absently. "They were cheaper." He's
been in a bad mood about something since before the call to SimCenter.
"Hannan," I say sharply. "Whether or not you can get away with trimming your
beard in front of your wife... that's not the point. A Muslim's job is to
provide an example for his family. And besides..."
"Here we go again..." Hannan groans. "You're a goddamn cleric, you know
that, Ali-Hamoud?"
"And besides," I continue, "you're forgetting the main problem, which is
that the main issue with trimming your beard is that fucking God sees it. It
is written: 'Conduct yourself with justice and bear true witness before God,
even though it be against yourselves, your parents, your... your..."
"Your what, Ali-Hamoud?" Hannan snaps. "Your what?"
"Your hairy ass?" Alsheri says, brightening suddenly.
"Ali-Hamoud's ass isn't hairy," Alomari says. "I've seen it. He bent over to
pick up a penny last week and his kandera fell down. Caused some infidel
faggot to wreck his car on Dale Mabry highway."
Alsheri gives him a high five. Even Hannan laughs.
"Your kinsfolk," I interrupt. "Even though it be against your kinsfolk.
What's wrong with you people? Aren't you even Muslims?"
"Ali-Hamoud, you are some kind of morose bastard," Hannan says. "You should
cut down on the goddamn nectar."
When we get to the waiting room at SimCenter Alsheri and Hannan disappear
suddenly and I know right away what's going on. Five minutes later Alsheri
returns more pissed off than ever. "This place sucks," he says. "You can't
even get your prayer mat down in the bathroom stalls."
"Why don't you go outside like everyone else?" I say, pointing at a
bucktoothed infidel in a tie, short-sleeved white Arrow shirt and baseball
hat who is sitting across the room. "Ricky here isn't afraid to pray in the
parking lot. Are you, Ricky?"
"It's Billy," the infidel says meekly.
Alsheri scrunches his nose in disgust, as though smelling rotted cheese.
"Who cares what your fucking name is?" he shouts. "There's ESPN in the other
room if you don't like it. Infidel."
"I... I do pray in the parking lot," Billy says. He looks too old for
college but too dumb for adulthood.
"You see, Waleed?" I say. "He does pray in the parking lot."
"Bullshit," Alsheri says. "No one prays in a parking lot. Not even an
infidel."
"Why shouldn't he?" I say. "He's accepted Jesus Christ as his personal
savior. Haven't you, Billy?"
"I have," Billy says. "Yes, sir, I found the Lord. He helped me through a
trane-sishunul peer-yud."
"Yeah?" Alsheri snorts. "What 'tranesishunl peer-yud was that?"
"Ah was incarcerated," Billy says. "I had sinned against the Lord. Which is
the same as sinning against myself."
This kid is a real winner.
"What were you in for, Billy?" I say, in a comforting voice.
The infidel leans forward and swallows so hard his tie leaps forward. "I had
exposed myself to a person of under-a person of younger-to a minor."
"Well, that's brave of you to admit that, Billy," I say. "Now do you mind
telling us: what the fuck are you doing in Boeing flight school?"
"Is that what this is?" he says. "I had no idea. I'm just here for a
janitor's job. They told me this was an airport."
"It's an airport," Hannan groans, "and a flight school. Mother of God." He
slaps his forehead.
"How do these people feed themselves?" Alomari whispers to me.
"They put them out in fields," I say sagely, "to graze."
"Okay," Alsheri says, getting up and walking toward the door, his
gold-embossed Fahad sandals clacking against the tile. "That's it. I'm
leaving. There has to be some place in this fucking town to pray. You idiots
can do what you like."
"Good riddance," Hannan says. "Now there's less competition for the
instructor."
"She's too old to fuck anyway," Alsheri says, walking out the door.
A Glimpse of a Tuesday Morning
And it's early morning and I find myself standing in line at the check-in at
Logan airport behind three infidels in suits, they don't know what's coming,
and I'm sweaty and a pounding migraine thumps dully in my head and I'm
experiencing a major-league anxiety attack, searching my pockets for Valium,
Xanax, an apricot pit, and all I find are three sesame seeds in a Fari
Narwaq pillbox, so I pop all three in my mouth and swallow it with a
chocolate Yoo-Hoo and I couldn't tell you where it came from if my life
depended on it. I've forgotten who I'm on this run with and, more
importantly, where I'm supposed to be sitting. Is it next to Atta, who's
standing far ahead of me in line and glaring at me (even though he's not
actually looking at me or turning around at all, I can tell, just by looking
at the back of his head, that he's glaring at me all the same), trying to
convince me to calm down? Or is it next to Alsheri? Is Alsheri even on this
flight? There's someone about 10 feet behind me who looks like Alsheri, but
couldn't that also be Al Shehhi? Not that I haven't spent a lot of time with
Alsheri, I have, I've seen him almost every day, he's the only interesting
person I know, but I still can't even distinguish this person, objectively
important in my life, from a stranger. Did I have the yogurt kebabs last
night for dinner, or was it moussaka? "Oh, God in heaven, I can't remember."
But soon we're on the plane and everything is clear: Atta is bounding into
the cockpit, diamond boxcutter in hand, and Alsheri/Al-Shehhi is pouncing on
the two hardbody infidel stewardesses in the front of the cabin, and
suddenlly the plane lurches sharply downward and to the left, screams
everywhere, total pandemonium, but then magically my composure is regained,
this is all automatic now, I've been through this a thousand times before,
and mechanically I stagger forward toward the cockpit as the plane rights
itself and quickly I assume the seat of the (already deceased) navigator and
shut off the radar tracking devices before shouting into the radio, "I am a
personal acquaintance of Assad's second cousin. Do you hear me? I know him
personally." The infidel voice on the other end of the line, confused: "UA
11, repeat transmission, over, didn't catch that, over." "My kandera never
fell off in Tampa. I never picked up that penny!" "Shut the fuck up, you
moron!" Atta is screaming, I can only see the back of his head, his ears are
highlighted against the sun shining in from the cockpit window, clouds are
rushing past us, and I look down and I'm holding the microphone in my hand
weakly, like it's something limp and soggy, but I'm still whispering to
somebody "ghirta ghirta ghirta" then the clouds parted and the skyline
appeared
Benjamin W. Reed
Deputy Public Defender
2708 1st Ave. N., Ste. 400
Billings, MT 59101
(406) 256-6861
fax: (406) 256-6899
Please treat this e-mail as confidential.
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