Kickass Anthology (20 page)

“Hello.” I could barely hear the sound of my voice over the sound of my racing pulse pounding my eardrums.

He said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, until…

“Hello.” His voice was much deeper than I’d expected. Was he older than I’d guessed?

“My name is Charlie. Charlie Hughes. I’m one of the student volunteers.”

The words spilled out of my mouth so fast I could barely understand myself. He furrowed his brow in confusion before he finally replied, “I am Bashir,” with a quick nod.

Shit. He spoke English.

“You speak English.”

“A little. I—how do you say—understand better than I speak.”

“I don’t speak much Arabic at all, I’m afraid.”

“I know. Very few of you—” He gestured towards the group of students smoking their post-lunch cigarettes. “Bother to learn our language.”

“We’re a bunch of lazy Americans.” I replied, half-joking.

“It is disrespectful to work in our country and not learn our language.” His tone was even-tempered but humorless.

“Yes, it is. Maybe you can teach me some Arabic.”

He smiled, again. “Maybe.”

Bashir bent down and retrieved the wooden box by his feet that had contained his lunch. Every day the workmen brought their meals from home. I imagined their wives and sisters handing their lunch boxes to them in the morning with a, “Have a nice day, dear” and a peck on the cheek, like a scene between Ward and June from “Leave It to Beaver.” Hey, I like sitcoms from the fifties. The world was much friendlier in black and white.

Two days later, I spied Bashir by the metal tool shed again, standing in front of the rickety door, wringing his hands. The day before, after the workmen had left for their homes, Chatsworth had told Jimmy to lock the shed with a chain and a huge, sturdy padlock. I took off my glasses as I approached him. I thought that I looked pretty decent when I wasn’t wearing my glasses. Blind as a fucking bat, but decent.

“Hi, Bashir.”

“Hello, Charlie. I have not seen you without those.” He pointed down to the thick, tortoise-shell plastic-framed glasses in my hand and smiled that incredibly attractive smile of his. “You are…” He was searching for the right word. “You have a good face. Charlie, this lock on the tool shed is new, yes?”

“Professor Chatsworth noticed that some items had gone missing and he decided to lock it to remove temptation.”

At first, I wasn’t sure if Bashir understood my clunky explanation. He stood in silence, staring at me with those bright emerald eyes, until he mumbled dejectedly, “I see.” He pulled his scarf up over his nose and mouth and walked off towards the trenches.

I didn’t notice that Jimmy had come up behind me until he tapped my shoulder.  “I bet you anything that he’s the one stealing the tools and shit, fucking beady-eyed camel spawn. They’re all sneaky little thieves, you know. It’s in their blood.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m not joking. It’s him. I’d bet a thousand dollars.”

“You’re wrong, Jimmy. Bashir is a hard-working guy. But if you want to throw away your money, I’ll take that bet.”

“You have a grand in your pocket, faggot?”

“No.”

“Well, how are you going to pay me when you lose?” He poked me in the chest. And then a light bulb, a dim one, seemed to go off over his head. “I got it. You’ll give me copies of all of your study guides for our exams next fall, along with those awesome pictures that you draw.”

I shook my head and laughed at his idiocy. “You’ll need more than those to pass, Jimmy. But you won’t win. Bashir’s not a thief.” I shoved my glasses back on my face and took a few steps back. “Asshole.”

Shit, Jimmy was strong and surprisingly fast. I was flat on my back in the sand before I knew what had happened.

He looked down at me and scowled. “OK, here’s the plan, Hughes. The stuff always goes missing after sunset. Tomorrow night, after we finish dinner, you and me are going to unlock the shed, hide over there behind those crates and see if... What’s his name? Bashir? We’ll see if sticky fingers Bashir shows up. I’ll make sure all the workers know that the shed will be open. Be there.”

When he stormed off, his shadow left with him and the sun blinded me. I had a flashback to some school playground—blue monkey bars, a squeaky rusted seesaw, and one of those merry-go-round rides that spun kids until they were close-to-puking dizzy. And there was me getting beat up over in the corner. And no one—not the teachers, not the other kids— cared at all if the sandy-haired, skinny gay freak got hurt.  They ignored it, pretended it didn’t happen. They pretended that I didn’t happen.

The silhouette of a hand, rough with calluses, reached down for me and I grabbed it. I knew it was Bashir even before I could see his eyes or hear his voice.

“Are you hurt?”  He asked, as he pulled me to my feet.

“No. Except for my pride, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“That student who pushed you—we would call him
hmar
.”

“
Hmar
? What does that mean?”

“Jackass. And see? You have just learned an Arabic word.” He grinned ear to ear.

I laughed as I brushed the sand off my jeans. “Thank you, Bashir.”

“
Aafwaan
, Charlie. And there is another word for my new student. I must go now or my uncle will be angry that I am not working. Are you sure that you are all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks again and I’ll see you later.”

“
Baadin
.” Bashir nodded with a smirk, adding over his shoulder as he walked away, “Later, Charlie.”

Wednesday night was cloudless and the moon near full and impossibly bright. I brought a flashlight, even though I didn’t need one. I’d told Angie the general area that I was going to but not why. When she asked, I lied—something about an unusual alignment of Jupiter and Venus or some other off-the-cuff bullshit. She chuckled but didn’t push. She probably thought I was headed out to my secret jack off spot.

I arrived before Jimmy and sat down on the ground behind the high stack of crates near the tool shed. After five minutes, still no Jimmy. Instead, I spotted a figure wearing dark colored clothes approaching the shed.

Bashir?

Shit, it was Bashir.

I startled him when I ran up to him. Trying to catch my breath, I blurted out, “Bashir, what are you doing?”

He spun around, his eyes wider than I’d ever seen them. “Charlie? Why are you here?”

“Jimmy is—he’s trying to catch the person stealing tools from the shed; I got roped into helping him. Why are
you
here?” My question sounded more accusatory than I intended.

Even in the darkness, I could see his green eyes glaze over with tears. “I am fixing things.”

“Fixing what?”

“Charlie. I will explain this to you. Please, don’t tell that jackass that you saw me here. I will lose my job. I can’t lose my job.” He paused to wipe his eyes. He was shaking. I wanted to hug him, hold him in my arms, but I was frozen in place, as scared as he was. Like I said, a chicken shit peon. “Tomorrow evening you will come to my home for dinner, Charlie. I will show you. I will explain.”

Another person, who I easily recognized by his cave-man gait, came lumbering towards the shed from the opposite direction.

“Leave.“ I whispered as I shoved Bashir an inch or two away from the shed.

He said nothing. Only a brief, thankful smile and a quick brush of his hand across my cheek, and then he disappeared into the darkness. His touch had felt nice. I pressed my palm against the spot and smiled.

“Hughes!”

“Hey, Jimmy. Thought you weren’t showing up. You missed all the action.”

“Crap! Who was it?”

“Two guys that I’d never seen before. They ran off when I yelled and threw my flashlight at them.”

“Fuck, did you hit them?”

“No. And I didn’t get a good look at their faces either. But they were scared. I doubt they’ll be back.”

“Damn. I would’ve clocked them in the head. And it might have been that worker kid after all, right? I guess we’ll never know for sure. I’ll tell Chatsworth in the morning that I solved the mystery and it’s all taken care of for now.”

“I’m sure you will. I’m heading back to the house. Hopefully, I can get some sleep because tomorrow’s going to be another long, hot day.” I started walking towards the dorm house when I stopped to tell him, “And I won’t be at dinner tomorrow night, Jimmy.”

“Why not? You got a hot date, fag?”

“Yeah, I do, douche bag.” And then I started running. He was fast, but I was faster. Jackass.

“MY HOME is there.” Bashir pointed down the narrow street. His house, I soon learned, was a two-room, first floor apartment in a dingy, off-white three-story building located on the edge of one of the poorer districts of Tunis.

There was no actual door at the entrance, only a colorful woven blanket suspended from hooks. He pushed back the fabric and the rich smells of home cooked food filled my nostrils. The room was packed with cushions and rugs, while over in a corner was a small stove. A girl wearing a red and yellow dress, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, stood in front of it and stirred the contents of a black cooking pot with a long wooden spoon.

“Please wear these slippers.” Bashir nodded to a row of different sized slippers arranged neatly by the door. I removed my shoes, careful to keep the soles face down; the colorful indoor footwear I was offered was snug but comfortable.

Bashir waved towards the stove. “This is my sister, Mariem. She speaks no English.”

I nodded to Mariem and smiled, but I remembered not to allow my eyes to linger in case it seemed disrespectful. As she politely returned the greeting, two young boys came running into the house from outside. They took off their sneakers as they laughed and poked each other.

“And these are my brothers.” Bashir placed his palm on the head of the taller of the two. “This is Mohamed.” He tilted his chin toward the little curly-haired boy with rosy cheeks. “And that is Youssef.”

“Are you the oldest?” I asked.

“I have an older sister, Yesmine, but she is married. And my youngest sister, the baby, is staying with Yesmine’s family for the week.”

The youngest boy, Youssef, tugged on the hem of my polo shirt and giggled something in Arabic.

“What did he say, Bashir?”

Bashir laughed. “He says you have a nice face.”

Youssef giggled again and curled his finger a few times; Bashir leaned down so the boy could whisper something into his ear. While they were occupied, I looked around the front room. Although the small space was crowded with a kaleidoscope of colors and fabrics, the room was clean and deceptively tidy. A closed door—a real wooden door with a doorknob—led to what I assumed was a back room.

“Charlie, Youssef is worried that you are too skinny, so he says you will eat extra servings tonight.” As he affectionately fluffed his brother’s honey-brown curls, Bashir grinned and winked at me. I felt my knees wobble but I managed to recover before Youssef grabbed my hand and led me over to a pile of cushions. With a stern look, the cherub-faced boy pointed to a large purple floor cushion. “Sit.”

“He speaks English too?”