wheels
People who know they're about to die do weird shit. Men with cancer will start hang gliding and skydiving, just throw themselves out of windows with their wallets. Businessmen, postal workers, students who've snapped and gone on these suicide shooting sprees are shown to have put elaborate care into their breakfasts that morning. Hell, look at how many people suddenly understand Jesus. Death does weird shit, man.
Terrorists. They sing. Mot all of them, not as a matter of protocol, but it happens a lot. They don't know that here where nobody really has ever survived a good suicide bombing, but in Israel, in Palestine, they know. I can't say personally, but it's probably the same thing in Ireland. They don't mention it on the news. I guess it humanizes them in a weird way.
No one knows why so many terrorists sing. Maybe it's calming; maybe they want to hear a song before they die, maybe it means nothing. Maybe the suicide is their statement, the homicide is their punctuation, and this is their soundtrack. I don't fucking know.
I was on a bus one day, wasn't going anywhere. Loose plans to buy a new pair of sunglasses downtown. There was a redhead at the other end of the bus. Sophisticated, with long arms and legs like an acrobat. There were other people on the bus but Fuck 'em, I like redheads. There was an old black guy, some really loud kids in uniforms fresh out of class, an older woman with a chihuahua's little football head sticking out of her purse. Maybe 15 other people. The redhead was wearing a sundress, only it looked more like a cocktail dress. It was black with red dots the size of nickels all over. Her nexk was long. Maybe she was taller than me. She had red shoes with fake bows for buckles. She rubbed her ankles together like a horny cricket and I tried not to stare. I'm a bit superstitious sometimes on the bus. I wonder if other people on the bus are psychics, reading my mind. I hoped she wasn't a psychic, but in my head I thought 'hello.'
We were about halfway downtown when this Arab guy got on. He wasn't a redhead but I noticed him. It was his beard, he had a full beard but it was clopped close. He had a threepiece suit that was cut real well. It was grey with grey pinstripes and made his arms look like trunks. Dynamic. You could tell that's the word he was going for, like he went to a tailor, some old Welsh cobbler with a tape measure and a pencil behind his ear and just whispered "Dynamic" and that's what he got.
I was looking at his beard. He looked like he could've been my Dad except for that. It'd been so long since I'd seen an Arab wearing a beard just for fashion. The men in my family don't. They're all either completely clean-shaven with boring haircuts, had long beards like old brushes that they wore like neckties. I've got a goatee, but I'm only 24. A student. I don't count.
He looked at me and looked away quickly, the way I looked at the redhead. I wondered if he wondered if I was psychic. His pupils were dilated or maybe he just had the biggest damn eyes I'd ever seen.
He laid his head down on his chest and closed them, opened his mouth and started singing, in Arabic. I started to laugh and the rest of the bus turned to look at me. Most of them were puzzled, she smiled.
I wasn't laughing because he was singing. As far as weirdos on the bus go, that woyuldn't have warranted a raised eyebrow. It was what he was singing. It was this pop song, a big hit in the mid 90s. A controversial one even, because it was so big and secular and American. It was one of those sweet group vocal efforts. Think early Boy II Men, that "Motown Philly" shit.
When I was fifteen and lived with my mom in Libya, it was always playing on this radio station broadcast out of Egypt. My mom would listen to it every night as she cooked dinner. The kitchen was 90 degrees with the windows open and the oven on. It was the only time I ever saw Mom sweat. As soon as she was done she'd open the fridge to cool the room, run upstairs and change into a new dress. She was born here and wore dresses when she was at home., and never shoes or wraps. She kept her hair in a long black ponytail and brushed it as often as she could. Dad wondered how we went through laundry so fast. He never understood the machinations Mom went through to make it all seem effortless. So she listened to the radio and I listened to the radio because there was nothing to do. For a whole summer Egyptian djs pretended to be British djs while they played this song for teenage girls and housewives cooking dinner. I hadn't thought of it in years and remembered the translation for the first time in years:
"Love it With me"
He sang it well. He sang all five vocal parts, and breezed through the harmonies in a low barritone. Me and the redhead exchanged glances. No one else gave a shit. His eyes wrinkled shut like old walnuts. His head rocked in a circle as he sang louder and louder. He was dripping sweat.
I moved up next to him and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey Buddy. I haven't heard that song in years. Makes me feel homesick in a really weird way.
His eyelids rolled open and his eyes were as big as fists. He looked at me and I could swear I saw the beginning of a tear. He stood and I shrank under him, strange cause he wasn't that big of a guy. He shoved me to the floor and yelled something I couldn't understand. He pushed me hard as I was getting up, knocked me back with one hand. I swung an elbow and it his the side of his knee, I jumped and pushed him back down in his seat and backed up away with my palms out. The bus stopped hard and screeched to a stop. The driver, an older lady with overdone lipstick and a bad perm yelled that if she had to come back we were both going to jail.
"Fucking psycho," I spat. He kicked a briefcase under his chair to make way as I passed to the back of the bus. I never took my eyes off him. His seemed desperate.
The bus jerked to a start and everything went white.
I woke up in a hospital and everything was still white and humming. At first I wondered if I was in heaven like some sitcom boob who's been knocked on the head. Immediately I felt embarassed about the thought. Stupid. Angels don't have stitches. My whole body was numb but the stitches in my brow made their presence known when I tried to close a lid back over the swollen eye. I could tell it had been longer than a few hours. Long enough to bruise. Hemmorage time, even.
When the doctor told me I'd have to lose the leg (my left), I swore in Arabic.
Terrorists. They sing. Mot all of them, not as a matter of protocol, but it happens a lot. They don't know that here where nobody really has ever survived a good suicide bombing, but in Israel, in Palestine, they know. I can't say personally, but it's probably the same thing in Ireland. They don't mention it on the news. I guess it humanizes them in a weird way.
No one knows why so many terrorists sing. Maybe it's calming; maybe they want to hear a song before they die, maybe it means nothing. Maybe the suicide is their statement, the homicide is their punctuation, and this is their soundtrack. I don't fucking know.
I was on a bus one day, wasn't going anywhere. Loose plans to buy a new pair of sunglasses downtown. There was a redhead at the other end of the bus. Sophisticated, with long arms and legs like an acrobat. There were other people on the bus but Fuck 'em, I like redheads. There was an old black guy, some really loud kids in uniforms fresh out of class, an older woman with a chihuahua's little football head sticking out of her purse. Maybe 15 other people. The redhead was wearing a sundress, only it looked more like a cocktail dress. It was black with red dots the size of nickels all over. Her nexk was long. Maybe she was taller than me. She had red shoes with fake bows for buckles. She rubbed her ankles together like a horny cricket and I tried not to stare. I'm a bit superstitious sometimes on the bus. I wonder if other people on the bus are psychics, reading my mind. I hoped she wasn't a psychic, but in my head I thought 'hello.'
We were about halfway downtown when this Arab guy got on. He wasn't a redhead but I noticed him. It was his beard, he had a full beard but it was clopped close. He had a threepiece suit that was cut real well. It was grey with grey pinstripes and made his arms look like trunks. Dynamic. You could tell that's the word he was going for, like he went to a tailor, some old Welsh cobbler with a tape measure and a pencil behind his ear and just whispered "Dynamic" and that's what he got.
I was looking at his beard. He looked like he could've been my Dad except for that. It'd been so long since I'd seen an Arab wearing a beard just for fashion. The men in my family don't. They're all either completely clean-shaven with boring haircuts, had long beards like old brushes that they wore like neckties. I've got a goatee, but I'm only 24. A student. I don't count.
He looked at me and looked away quickly, the way I looked at the redhead. I wondered if he wondered if I was psychic. His pupils were dilated or maybe he just had the biggest damn eyes I'd ever seen.
He laid his head down on his chest and closed them, opened his mouth and started singing, in Arabic. I started to laugh and the rest of the bus turned to look at me. Most of them were puzzled, she smiled.
I wasn't laughing because he was singing. As far as weirdos on the bus go, that woyuldn't have warranted a raised eyebrow. It was what he was singing. It was this pop song, a big hit in the mid 90s. A controversial one even, because it was so big and secular and American. It was one of those sweet group vocal efforts. Think early Boy II Men, that "Motown Philly" shit.
When I was fifteen and lived with my mom in Libya, it was always playing on this radio station broadcast out of Egypt. My mom would listen to it every night as she cooked dinner. The kitchen was 90 degrees with the windows open and the oven on. It was the only time I ever saw Mom sweat. As soon as she was done she'd open the fridge to cool the room, run upstairs and change into a new dress. She was born here and wore dresses when she was at home., and never shoes or wraps. She kept her hair in a long black ponytail and brushed it as often as she could. Dad wondered how we went through laundry so fast. He never understood the machinations Mom went through to make it all seem effortless. So she listened to the radio and I listened to the radio because there was nothing to do. For a whole summer Egyptian djs pretended to be British djs while they played this song for teenage girls and housewives cooking dinner. I hadn't thought of it in years and remembered the translation for the first time in years:
"Love it With me"
He sang it well. He sang all five vocal parts, and breezed through the harmonies in a low barritone. Me and the redhead exchanged glances. No one else gave a shit. His eyes wrinkled shut like old walnuts. His head rocked in a circle as he sang louder and louder. He was dripping sweat.
I moved up next to him and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey Buddy. I haven't heard that song in years. Makes me feel homesick in a really weird way.
His eyelids rolled open and his eyes were as big as fists. He looked at me and I could swear I saw the beginning of a tear. He stood and I shrank under him, strange cause he wasn't that big of a guy. He shoved me to the floor and yelled something I couldn't understand. He pushed me hard as I was getting up, knocked me back with one hand. I swung an elbow and it his the side of his knee, I jumped and pushed him back down in his seat and backed up away with my palms out. The bus stopped hard and screeched to a stop. The driver, an older lady with overdone lipstick and a bad perm yelled that if she had to come back we were both going to jail.
"Fucking psycho," I spat. He kicked a briefcase under his chair to make way as I passed to the back of the bus. I never took my eyes off him. His seemed desperate.
The bus jerked to a start and everything went white.
I woke up in a hospital and everything was still white and humming. At first I wondered if I was in heaven like some sitcom boob who's been knocked on the head. Immediately I felt embarassed about the thought. Stupid. Angels don't have stitches. My whole body was numb but the stitches in my brow made their presence known when I tried to close a lid back over the swollen eye. I could tell it had been longer than a few hours. Long enough to bruise. Hemmorage time, even.
When the doctor told me I'd have to lose the leg (my left), I swore in Arabic.
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