go back there again until sometime in ’75, in need of a fix, not sure what I was looking for. Got a fucking concussion tripping on a full-length mirror. I fell on the floor. Stared right into a shank shaped like the Empire State Building, covered in white residue. I was a man eye-to-eye with his own depraved soul. It was the night I met my wife.”
“You married a whore?” asked Rashaud.
“Naw, man. I married the nurse who picked out the glass shrapnel from my face.”
Anwar pulled out a bag of spicy corn chips and passed it around. The men grew hushed, crunching their chips.
Anwar daydreamed about the history of his home. Images flashed in his mind like skipping across channels on the television. He saw woman’s corpse blackening under a hot sun. Fires and mobs justified in their anger. Abraham Bright in his policeman’s uniform. Tasha, living in Atlanta with her kids, a husband, maybe. A 1970s pimp fitted in a fox-fur coat, holding a rose, a revolver, a dead girl’s hand.
Anwar stared up at the paper lanterns overhead, wondering how such a simple thing, paper bent into a sphere, could be so beautiful.
* * *
“This morning I got attacked by my tenant’s lover,” said Anwar, breaking the silence.
Bic raised a brow. “How’s that?”
“Oh, god.”
“She’s gorgeous,” said Rashaud. “I seen her doin’ laundry at Miss Hashi’s, just today.”
“You saw Miss Hashi today?” asked Anwar. “And Ramona?”
“This morning,” said Rashaud. He traced his thin eyebrows withhis fingers. “She shapes me up. I also seen that woman Ramona before at the hospital.”
“You have?” It had not occurred to Anwar before to visit her at the hospital under the pretense of ailment—a brilliant idea. “Why were you there?”
“Oh you know, she work at the free sexual health clinic.”
“I think I know who you talkin’ about. That pretty nurse—man, I was embarrassed. That godforsaken prick in the prick,” said Bic, wincing at the memory. “She’s fine as they come. Why bother renting without the perks?”
“You all know Ramona?” asked Anwar. “And you are all getting tests for VD?” Going to get a VD test from her was not the way to impress her.
“Can’t have that VD,” said Bic. He cleared his throat and looked at Malik, who looked shyly down at his sneakers.
“Your wife?” asked Anwar. “But you took the test—?” He stopped himself and raised a hand. “Understood.”
“Games change,” said Bic, laughing. “Good ones, at least.”
“I suppose you are right on.” Anwar continued, “Anyway, Ramona likes to argue with this man, a shouting man, who I presume is her lover. This morning was the usual fight and like a terror he bolted downstairs from her apartment, jabbing me hard in the elbow, as I was locking my door, so hard that I almost fell over. From the back side the man had the figure of a wrestler, stacked and burly, and a strange long braided strip of hair down his neck.” He let the last embers of ganja die in his fingers.
“Motherfucker had a rattail?” asked Bic. He looked over at Malik and shook his head. “I feel high as fuck, gentlemen, but now I must get home and cook my wife some dinner. Here you are.” He handed Rashaud a wad of twenty-dollar bills.
“Gentlemen, it’s been fantastic,” said Anwar. He sighed with pleasure. He was content to be with these men. There was no other company he’d rather smoke ganja with (well, perhaps he could do without Malik). He felt a faint glimmer of paranoia—Bic’s story about the Brights—did he live in a haunted house of some kind? He shook his head. No use thinking about it now. “Gentlemen,” he said, “next time, I will make bhang.”
“Sounds real dutty .” Rashaud giggled.
“It’s quite clean. It’s a drink of hash, water, millet, and cinnamon and honey. The trouble is that there is no telling when the high begins and when it will stop.”
They all laughed. Anwar turned off the lights in
“You married a whore?” asked Rashaud.
“Naw, man. I married the nurse who picked out the glass shrapnel from my face.”
Anwar pulled out a bag of spicy corn chips and passed it around. The men grew hushed, crunching their chips.
Anwar daydreamed about the history of his home. Images flashed in his mind like skipping across channels on the television. He saw woman’s corpse blackening under a hot sun. Fires and mobs justified in their anger. Abraham Bright in his policeman’s uniform. Tasha, living in Atlanta with her kids, a husband, maybe. A 1970s pimp fitted in a fox-fur coat, holding a rose, a revolver, a dead girl’s hand.
Anwar stared up at the paper lanterns overhead, wondering how such a simple thing, paper bent into a sphere, could be so beautiful.
* * *
“This morning I got attacked by my tenant’s lover,” said Anwar, breaking the silence.
Bic raised a brow. “How’s that?”
“Oh, god.”
“She’s gorgeous,” said Rashaud. “I seen her doin’ laundry at Miss Hashi’s, just today.”
“You saw Miss Hashi today?” asked Anwar. “And Ramona?”
“This morning,” said Rashaud. He traced his thin eyebrows withhis fingers. “She shapes me up. I also seen that woman Ramona before at the hospital.”
“You have?” It had not occurred to Anwar before to visit her at the hospital under the pretense of ailment—a brilliant idea. “Why were you there?”
“Oh you know, she work at the free sexual health clinic.”
“I think I know who you talkin’ about. That pretty nurse—man, I was embarrassed. That godforsaken prick in the prick,” said Bic, wincing at the memory. “She’s fine as they come. Why bother renting without the perks?”
“You all know Ramona?” asked Anwar. “And you are all getting tests for VD?” Going to get a VD test from her was not the way to impress her.
“Can’t have that VD,” said Bic. He cleared his throat and looked at Malik, who looked shyly down at his sneakers.
“Your wife?” asked Anwar. “But you took the test—?” He stopped himself and raised a hand. “Understood.”
“Games change,” said Bic, laughing. “Good ones, at least.”
“I suppose you are right on.” Anwar continued, “Anyway, Ramona likes to argue with this man, a shouting man, who I presume is her lover. This morning was the usual fight and like a terror he bolted downstairs from her apartment, jabbing me hard in the elbow, as I was locking my door, so hard that I almost fell over. From the back side the man had the figure of a wrestler, stacked and burly, and a strange long braided strip of hair down his neck.” He let the last embers of ganja die in his fingers.
“Motherfucker had a rattail?” asked Bic. He looked over at Malik and shook his head. “I feel high as fuck, gentlemen, but now I must get home and cook my wife some dinner. Here you are.” He handed Rashaud a wad of twenty-dollar bills.
“Gentlemen, it’s been fantastic,” said Anwar. He sighed with pleasure. He was content to be with these men. There was no other company he’d rather smoke ganja with (well, perhaps he could do without Malik). He felt a faint glimmer of paranoia—Bic’s story about the Brights—did he live in a haunted house of some kind? He shook his head. No use thinking about it now. “Gentlemen,” he said, “next time, I will make bhang.”
“Sounds real dutty .” Rashaud giggled.
“It’s quite clean. It’s a drink of hash, water, millet, and cinnamon and honey. The trouble is that there is no telling when the high begins and when it will stop.”
They all laughed. Anwar turned off the lights in
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