Koolaids by Alameddine Rabih Page B

Lebanon. The men who ruined her life would pay anything to get a glimpse of her.
    â€¦
    It is true. He is right.
    â€œNick is a great guy,” the driver says cheerfully. If she keeps quiet, he’ll probably stop talking. They keep getting younger. He, on the other hand, is probably the same age as she. She is sitting in the back seat of the Range Rover, the current car du jour of gangsters and militiamen. Her husband has one, of course.
    There is nobody at the Franciscaine crossing, which takes its name from the Franciscan school. The car breezes past the Christian checkpoint. When it gets to the other checkpoint, the driver shows them a government pass and is let through. Mr. Akra must be important.
    â€œI want you to relay a message to your boss,” she says calmly.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œTell your boss that if he ever sets foot in this part of town, I will have him killed. Very slowly.”
    The driver is aghast. He did not expect that.
    â€œCan you relay the message, exactly, or should I send it with somebody else?”
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am,” he stutters. “But why? Nick is a great man. He is a gentleman too.”
    â€œYou just give him the message, okay?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Does that mean you don’t like him?”
    She shakes her head in disbelief. Her ten-year-old is smarter than this.
    â€œHe will be disappointed, ma’am. I think he likes you. He told me I am supposed to remember how to get to your house because I will be picking you up to help you cross over.”
    â€œHe told you what?” The man is completely crazy. “Just give him the message. Just give him my message.”
    â€¦
    Sex. In America an obsession. In other parts of the world a fact.
    Marlene Dietrich said that. She never used verbs because she was a cheap German.
    â€¦
    I wake up in my own room. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. Life is a repeating pattern.
    â€¦
    Brain stem, you say? By that definition, Juan should have been declared dead long before he even got to the hospital. I went to visit him and I could not believe what I saw. How do I describe the state he was in? He had his eyes open, but he was unconscious. Insensate? Insentient? But he wasn’t catatonic. He was shaking constantly. Palsied? He was drooling continuously, farting every ten seconds.
    His lover told me I could speak to Juan. He could hear me. Speak to him? I wanted to shoot him and put him out of his misery. He had completely lost motor coordination.
    God is merciless. Juan had claimed he beat the virus. He went around the country lecturing on how he overcame AIDS. He felt better. Bang. What a way to go, huh?
    I wonder if he was conscious. Just think of it. What if it were you? You are lying in a hospital bed. Spittle oozing out of your mouth constantly. You have to rely on your loved ones to wipe it for you, but it is endless, so they stop doing it. You are constantly shaking, not mild shaking, but heavy shaking, like an epileptic seizure. Think about this. All your loved ones are there and you keep farting every ten seconds. You can’t stop. Fart, fart, fart, fart, fart. How would you feel? It’s a good thing you have