Interesting Smells

If You Open Up, I'm Going In

2006-07-16T03:34:00.000-07:00

At some drunken party, at some rich prick’s house, for some forgettable excuse for a gathering, I saw what I knew could only be trouble. She sat on the stairs, surrounded by two other girls, each struggling to nurse a drink, a cigarette, and one terribly wasted friend. She sat crying, or pretended to, her long curly hair covering her face as she cupped a hand on her forehead. One of the other girls looked like the chubby best friend. She was rubbing weeping girl’s back, whispering something in her ear, which in my experience was an altered version of either ‘hey sweetie, everything will be alright’ or, if extremity dictated, ‘come on, sweetie, let me take you home.’

The other girl just seemed like an accessory. Chubby friend said something to her and they both got up to go, trying to pull the crying girl to her feet. But she didn’t want to go anywhere. She didn’t even want to stand up. So the two gently gestured to her and left her on her own.

Tom had obviously taken hold of the sound system, because now I could hear New Order playing Regret. There were people dancing in the living room, the space between each body giving me random glimpses of the girl at the other end of the room. Still alone, still crying.

“You’re a prick,” said Arjun, who was standing on my right and had apparently seen what I saw.

“Fuck off,” I replied.

I didn’t know Arjun very well, but somehow he knew me well enough. Not good. Besides, what exactly did he think I was going to do?

“She’s a mess, dude,” Arjun said.

“Who?” Eric cut in. Eric was one of those people who was always with a crowd, but never understood what they were talking about. The one who goes to bars with his friends and busies himself with listening to the band while everyone else stares at the fit waitress.

“Oh, her,” he said as Arjun motioned his head. “Yeah, that’s Reema. Total drama queen.”

It was getting too smoky. “I’m heading outside,” I told the guys and walked off.

Sensing that my can was getting light, I headed to the bar to get a new one. I saw Ryan and Ash there, looking slick and talking shit. Ash’s real name is Abdul Haziz. How it became Ash, I’ll never know. He ran an event company that organized DJ parties in small clubs around Dubai. His master plan was to promote local DJs he believed were on the verge of breaking through. None ever did. They always played the same kind of garbage that only results from mixing traditional chants with cheesy Euro dance. He saw me approaching and smiled me a welcome, his teeth yellow from a staple diet of Lebanese Bistro showarmas. What I thought would be a five-minute task soon became a fifteen-minute debate on whether The Prodigy would ever come to Dubai, and how long their gig would go on before the CID came to pull the plug.

I lit a cigarette as soon as I got out. The rich kid’s house had an impressive pool. But no one was outside because it was smack in the middle of July and the humidity was just satanic. I was halfway through the stick when I heard someone ask: “Did a girl with curly long hair come here?”

I turned around and saw chubby girl holding two plastic cups. I told her no, thinking she would turn around and leave, but she just stood there. She started drinking one of the cups and tried to make conversation.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” she prodded.

“I dunno. Maybe.”

The thing I hate the most about small talk is how you have to try and answer each stupid question with equally stupid answers.

“I’m sure I saw you somewhere before.”

“At a gig, maybe.”

“No, somewhere else.”

“On stage?”

“No… oh, you’re in a band?”

“Yeah.”

“No, not that. Somewhere else.”

She had already finished her drink and was beginning to eye her other cup intently.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “The beach. I saw you at a beach.”

“When?”

“Last week, I think.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you were surfing, I think.”

“I don’t surf.”

“No?”

“And I… don’t go to the beach.”

“Oh.”

She had already finished her drink (both of them). She started giving me that expected package of engaging smile, ego boosting enquiries and submissive nods. But we didn’t have much to talk about, except how humid it was outside and what a great party it was inside. It was either my lack of enthusiasm or her empty cups that urged her back in.

I was already sweating. My cigarette started tasting saltier and each drag heavier. I knew if I came in now, people would smell me from a distance.

“Is she gone?”

I turned around and saw Drama Queen. Eric said her name was Rita. Or something like that.

“Your friend?” I asked. “Yeah, she came here looking for you.”

“I don’t want to see her,” Rita replied, holding her hand to her eye. Her eyeliner had left tear streaks on her cheeks. Drama Queen. Or emo kid. What’s the difference?

“Got another one?” she asked, pointing at my cigarette.

So I offered her a Marlboro Lights. In the next ten minutes, this girl who I have never spoken to before began to vomit out the story of her life. She began by telling me how two days ago, she confronted her boyfriend at his house, because she found out from a ‘close’ friend (probably Chubby) that he’s been cheating on her. As revenge, she had sex with his brother. Sadly, she’d come to know that her boyfriend never really fooled around. But by then, it was too late, because, as of forty minutes ago, he smashed his brother’s nose and told her they were over. Broken heart and broken bones. Kurt, your legacy lives on.

But she didn’t stop there. She told me how when she was younger, she used to hate herself. Mostly because she always ended up with the wrong guys. Guys who would experiment with her heart when they got bored experimenting with her body. Guys who forced her to do things she knew were wrong. She said it all developed from some insecure part of her that developed from when she was younger still; at a time when she hated herself for not developing breasts while her friends did.

A whole adolescence of self-loathing.

“But Steve…” she looked away, her eyes welling with a new set of tears. “Steve was such a great guy. He was so nice to me.”

Now it was full blown weeping.

“I didn’t want to sleep with Carl. Carl was just a bastard!”

We were sitting next to each other on a sunbed by the pool. Her shoulders were shaking as she cried.

“Hey… C’mon. It’ll get better. C’mon.” That was the best I could do.

Rita, her head held low, began to lean on my side. I knew this position. You wrap your arms around the girl, hold her close to your chest, and if you’re willing to put in the extra effort, lower your lips to her ear and whisper something comforting.

“C’mon,” I said. “Done is done. It’ll get better.”

It probably won’t. Chances are, the rumors had already begun to spread and this girl was the centerpiece of the hottest gossip in Dubai. The guy will never want to see her or be seen with her; the brother would probably brag about his evil little deed; and she’d have to get over the sad little fact that it was quite clearly all her fault. And all the lies – the lie that started it all, the lies that would spread as a result, the lies she’d have to tell herself to get over the more bitter sentiment of regret.

The lies that people like me were telling her now.

“You’ll be alright.”

She felt warm in my arms. Almost feverish. Her face on my chest was creating a wet spot of tears on my already sweaty t-shirt. I felt awkward. I knew this girl was in some kind of mess, but her body was giving me ideas. I started to run my fingers in her hair.

She raised her face towards me. I expected that she had regained her composure and would tear away from our strangers’ embrace. But her eyes shone with tender longing, half closed in confused meekness.

I met her lips with mine. A liar’s kiss. I am the disposable solution to your problem. I am the emotional taxi that will take you were you want to be. I am the salt that flavors your heart with the tang of earth.

Her mouth tasted like cigarette and desperation. Her tears mixed with our saliva, creating a blend of sin that aroused an uncontrollable urge to do wrong. I was touching her, feeling her, cupping the yielding shape of her crotch. I breathed air only when I moved to lick her neck. Her moans served as my permission to park my hand inside her pants. Her pubic hair was wet with sweat and juice.

I pulled my face away and looked around. No one.

I quickly got up. She eyed me for a second, her lips brimming with questions, then turned her gaze downward.

I held out my hand. “Come on,” I gently urged.

She took my hand and stood up. I pulled her with me to the back of the house. There was a little cabin at the end of the yard. As I tried the door, I felt for any change in the way she held my hand. Would she loosen her grip? A change of heart? No. But the door was locked.

We quickly returned to the back of the house. Another door. This was open. I turned to look at her as we stepped in. But before I could register anything from her expression, her tongue was back in my mouth.

____________________________________________

A little over a year ago, I received an email from someone I hadn’t seen for a long while:

Hey,

How r u mike? Got ur email adres from Eric. Have u seen there daughter, btw? Looks exactly like Cindy. Cute thing. Nway, just wrote coz I remembered something the other day. That time we met. U know wht I mean. u took some clips on ur phone.

Jus wanted to know if u got rid of them. Coz I hope u did. I was fuct. You know that. Please, Mike. Just delete them.

Hope ur doing ok. Reema

Maria

2006-04-05T23:38:00.000-07:00

It was Terry’s last week in Dubai. We’d known each other since we were ten, and pretty much grew up together. We were the ultimates, Terry and I. From shoplifting at City Centre to dabbling with the Greek mafia, he and I were always getting into trouble – usually with me getting us into the fire, and Terry pulling the both of us out just before it went too far. And it mostly never did. In the end, we always came to school the next day with the most incredible stories, but nothing to show for our mischief. Except of course, that time we almost accidentally killed this kid from a rival school. But that’s a story for another day.

Terry’s dad found a job in the US – the family’s big break – and the fucker was finally leaving the Middle East. I was devastated. I had just learned how to play guitar and Terry was already trying to play drums. We were supposed to form a band. The biggest band in the world. We called ourselves Urban Ceremonies. What did it mean? Oh, nothing. It just made us sound like we knew what we were doing when we stared down at our instruments and proceeded to make the most disgusting racket in the universe.

I found out about his dad’s new job at the end of third-year high school. We were both fifteen, Terry being just a few months older. He always tried to act like the mature one. But that day, when he opened the door to his house, he looked as innocent and lost as when he first moved to our neighborhood five years before.

“Terry, man,” I said.

“Michael, man,” he replied. This was how we greeted each other, but there was something somber in his tone. As if he just woke up.

It was, I think, during the 12th round of Mortal Kombat II (I was leading 8-4, Terry just wasn’t playing properly) when he finally opened up.

“Mike, my family’s going to the US.”

“Oh, ok,” I said, focusing on the screen as I attempted to pull off a Fatality. “Tell them to get us some Guns N Roses posters.”

“No man. My dad found a better job. We’re all moving there next month.”

My Liu Kang became motionless. I never cited Terry as my best friend. When I had to fill in those stupid high school scrap books, I always wrote Jesus or Buddha when asked ‘Who’s your best bud?” But it was then that I realized there was a reason for that. Terry wasn’t really just some friend. He was like the quiet older brother I never had, the kind who followed you into a fight to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Best friend? No, man. Would your best friend forgive you for sleeping with his girlfriend? Of course not. Only brothers do that.

And that’s what Terry was.

“When are you going?’ I asked.

“A month from now, I think.”

Terry got up and walked to smoke a cigarette in the kitchen. In my grief, I forgot just how good of a break this was for Terry and his family. US, man! He’d finally get to leave this hell hole and go somewhere and be someone. His family would have a real life. Not some artificial day-to-day routine of working / eating / shopping / sleeping / working. Because in the end, that’s all you’ll really do in Dubai.

I followed Terry to the kitchen to tell him I was happy for him.

But when I saw him looking out the window, taking in the dull sights of the one place he’s known all his life, I decided to say nothing.

________________________________________________________

It happened two days before their flight.

The plan was simple enough. Steal five hundred dirhams from Terry’s mom, find a bar that wasn’t too tight on underage kids and drink until we’re blind. In between, we’d reminisce the days gone by, laugh about all our exploits, makes all sorts of poetic toasts, then go home and get a shouting from the parents. Nothing special.

It was 8pm when we arrived at Nihal Hotel. We took the lift to the fourth floor, and when the doors opened, were immediately greeted by the loud live music of the 80s cover band. I knew the bouncer at the door. Unfortunately, the circumstances of our last meeting was rather, well, unpleasant.

“Is’ you,” said the buffed-up 6’7’’ African.

“Bruno, man,” I replied.

“Mistah Miranda says you kinna come in.”

Terry backed a step away. You would have too. The guy looked like he could demolish a building. But I remained calm. I fancied I looked like a Chinese hustler who knew he’d get his way in the end.

“Bruno, I’m sorry about last month.”

“We almost los’ ah license because of you.’

“Look, my friend Terry here is leaving Dubai. For good.” Bruno turned to Terry. “This is his last night out with his best friend. We just want to have a few drinks. We’ll be quiet, alright?”

Bruno had been staring at Terry intently. Suddenly, recognition dawned on his face.

“Is Rex yo’ father?” he said.

“Yeah?” Terry half-asked, half-answered.

“How’s yo’ dad?”

“Okay, I guess.’

There was an awkward silence.

“Bruno?” I finally asked.

“Oh, ahke, ahke,” chanted Bruno. He meant ‘okay, okay.’

He stepped aside to let us through, and we promptly walked forward. Bruno started to say something behind us but Terry stalked off so fast I had no choice but to quickly follow.

A hundred faces turned to look at us as we came in. There were a few couples sat at the tables, each of the men with an arm around their women. Single men sat at the bar, around them milled a few blonde temptresses. The dance floor was packed. At the moment we entered, a girl laughing like a lunatic, exited the dance floor to join her friends at the pool table. The sight presented itself as a congregation of silhouettes, of half faces and big teeth, of smudged lipsticks and weary eyes, of plans to fuck and ways to get paid. It felt like the wrong place to be. Which, to two curious 15-year olds, was exactly where you wanted to be.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Terry replied. “Why wouldn’t the bouncer let you in?”

“Answer me first.”

“Forget it,” Terry mumbled, before heading straight to the tables in the far corner, safe from the eyes of any undercover CID. I followed with more questions in tow.

The darkness has a way of making strangers even stranger. And it was in the arms of shadows that the most alluring of strangers awaited our arrival. A woman of many talents. A siren with a thousand charms.

We approached what looked like an empty table only to find someone sitting there. We began to turn around, to perhaps head to the bar instead, but then heard a voice so unmistakable in its promise that we had to heed its call.

“Come sit,” it said.

We looked at our host.

It was too dark to make out the fine details, but what I saw was enough. Long jet black hair, sacred and straight like a geisha’s, lips of foreboding red, and a generous chest sitting proud over crossed arms. And eyes. I’ll never forget those deep pools of mystery, big and round and full of intent.

Terry sat on her right, I on her left.

She regarded us with a smile and asked for our names. Terry responded shyly. Then she turned to me.

“Michael,” I said. “Like the angel.”

She giggled. It was a wondrous sound, like chapel bells on Sunday morning.

“And what’s your name?” Terry asked her.

She smiled at Terry, took a sip from her cocktail, then looked at me.

“Maria,” she replied. “Like the virgin.”

______________________________________________________

We ordered a round of drinks. We played our trademark act – Terry being the quiet mature type, me the inquisitive charmer who smiled a lot and talked shit. She seemed to like our company. She patted my thigh a couple of times, and at one point played with Terry’s hair. But our greatest ego booster was when a huge Eastern European approached our table and said something garbled to Maria, who then replied with a curt ‘no’ before holding on to my arm and kissing my cheek. The man scoffed and went away.

“He wants me to go home with him,” Maria explained.

“You didn’t want to?” I asked.

“I want to go home with you,” she replied, turning to Terry to include him.

We’ve heard stories about this kind of thing. But we knew nothing about the specifics. Where do we take her, for one, and how long will we have her. Most importantly, how much.

Fortunately, our hostess understood our inexperience, and took efforts to offer us a smooth transaction.

“You have a house?” she asked.

“Yes… no… it’s my parent’s house,” Terry replied.

“I have a place, if you want,” Maria offered.

“And, er, the, you’ll, you know, you’ll do everything?”

“Excuse me?”

“What he means,” I interrupted, “is, will you give us a ‘full service’?”

Maria chuckled. Like a teacher being asked a silly question by a feeble student.

“Everything you want,” she says.

Hearing her say that ignited my soul. This was it. This had to happen. I was ready to go. And from the way the bastard kept nodding his head, I could tell Terry was too.

It was an old flat in Deira. There were five other girls who shared the apartment with her. Maria explained that they were what would otherwise be called freelancers. They had no ‘boss’. The risks that necessitated a pimp – harassment, bad payment, the cops, etc. – were offset by the girls’ simple decision to stick with a few but highly affluent clients. There were girls who worked for quantity. Maria and her friends chose quality. But not everyone could do so. Among other considerations, the girl must match Dubai’s criteria for beauty, an element of which includes not just a pretty face and long legs, but also charm and glamour. A glimpse at Maria’s friends confirmed as much.

We saw two of them as we entered, one reading a magazine on the couch, the other coming out of the bathroom with a pink towel wrapped around her. The girl on the couch resembled Catherine Zeta Jones before Michael Douglas got her pregnant. The other looked like an angry stepsister. The kind you’d want to eat out just to hear her beg.

The girls looked at us and frowned. One of them said something to Maria, after which they started to argue with each other. They spoke a Slavic form of language which made their argument sound all the more heated. Terry looked at me with a worried face. This to him was real spot of bother. Over the years, Terry has learned to keep away from trouble by recognizing it before it happens. I, on the other hand, have learned that some troubles are worth getting into.

“I’m sorry,” I butted in. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” the couch girl replied. “You cannot stay here.”

Later, I would understand that one of the rules of their job was ‘No take home’. Apparently, only the lesser girls took clients to their flat. This lot maintained their up-scale standards by trying to lead normal lives outside of their work, making their time in the arms of strangers a more exclusive purchase reserved only for those who could afford it.

“Okay, we’ll just leave,” Terry mumbled.

Then Maria said something to her friends. She said it slowly, almost too soft to hear. Then she took Terry’s hand and led him to a bedroom.

I stood there for a moment and looked at the two girls. They spoke among themselves then turned their backs on me to watch the TV. Years later, I would fantasize about walking over to stand in front of the girls, unzipping my trousers before their surprised faces. The brunette would then look at the other girl and giggle before taking me in her mouth. It would never have happened. Besides, they looked more interested in NPYD Blue than in the clueless teenager who stood staring behind them.

My cue to exit. I went to look for the other two.

[To be continued]

Hey Hey Hey

2006-03-15T02:08:00.000-08:00

I once knew a girl who had nothing. She lived in a big villa in Jumeirah, her dad was employed by one of the top local companies in the UAE, and her garage housed two sports cars and a luxury salon. With her Oriental good looks, she was popular in high school, and she always walked the hallways surrounded by a flock of equally attractive girlfriends. She didn’t do particularly well in her studies, but the teachers adored her enough to make sure she got by.

But she thought nothing of her house, or the cars that were parked downstairs. She loved her dad, but he was the kind who easily found faults in everyone, including his own children. She knew she was pretty, but she never thought herself beautiful, and always frowned at the contemptuous reflection she saw in the mirror. She disliked the girls she hung out with, but stayed their friend for lack of anyone better.

She had nothing going for her. But then she met me.

Entranced by her marble skin and long black geisha hair, I thought her to be the best thing I ever had. In exchange for her affection, I would listen to all the mundane things she’d been wanting to share with someone for a long time, and even went as far as fulfilling her petty and amusing requests. Like eat more vegetables, and change my brand of shoes, and stop having a cigarette as soon as I wake up in the morning. And why not? In return, I had someone to pour on my teenage lust, and the guys commended my having caught one of the school’s most liked girls.

But it got worse.

Devoid of any other passion in her life, I became her only source of gratification. The one person to whom she really mattered. By then, my having foolishly indulged her previous whims led her to believe she could turn me into the soul mate she’d always dreamt of. Someone who shared her philosophy of life, who aspired to the same things she did, and lived a life that accommodated her taste – and worse – was approved by her overbearing parents.

After a tormenting two-month relationship, I finally had enough.

I went to her house and told her it was over. I said I liked being with her, but I hated being hers. Of course she cried. And I expected it. But I couldn’t do more (or less), so had to leave her weeping on the living room couch.

Her dad came in the door just as I was leaving. He saw his daughter crying, then turned to me, and walked on, carrying a smug expression that said ‘I knew he was no good’.

‘Hey Hey Hey’ is about being happy with who you are. It’s about not wanting to change, for the good of others or even yourself. After all, we’re all bastards, but for most of us, there’s no one else we’d rather be.

October

2006-03-14T07:29:00.000-08:00

Why do we take pictures? Why do we keep them in our wallets, collecting lint, earning enough creases to make them ancient, reminding us just how old we really are. Why are we obsessed with the past? Because we made the wrong choices? That given the same situation, we would have done something different?

Perhaps. But probably not. I think keeping pictures is our way of dealing with the cruelty of time. We keep pictures because sometimes, something good happens, and we can never take it with us. We keep old photographs because the best things in life are the ones that end too soon. Like the first day after the end of the school year. Or the resounding applause at your first performance. Or the first morning you woke up in the arms of someone you love.

For me, October would always mean a lot. My girlfriend and I were born in the same month. October usually meant loud parties, nights spent wandering outside, hand in hand with someone I adored, drunk in the intoxicating breeze of a young winter. But last year, something changed, and October would now forever be remembered as the time we stood together at an empty airport terminal. Each not wanting to, but eventually forced, to say goodbye.

“October (Say Goodbye)” will feature in Sandwash’s 2nd album.

Magelie

2006-03-14T06:55:00.000-08:00

There's always a girl who'se out of your league. Someone who hangs out with a different crowd, walks with a different air, belongs in a different world. Her beauty is majestic, but like the flashiest concept car in an auto exhibition, you can stare all you like, so long as you're content with the fact that you can't have her.

But for every Helen, there's a Paris. Someone daring - or stupid - enough not to care.

I met Magelie in college. A Swiss girl with hair like sunshine, and a smile to shame the cherubs. Of course everybody wanted her, but only a few dared ask her out. Her suitors all had offerings typical of Dubai... a family name, a private yacht, a car produced in limited numbers, designer wear - and the gym phisique to match.

I had no chance. My bragging rights only went as far as my bedroom stamina (which was prudent to keep secret) and my other skill: blending coffee.

No, I don't make cups of morning wake-me-ups... mine was best likened to a cup of divine nectar. What once began as a five-times-a-day ritual soon developed into an alchemy of flavor.

One day, waiting for class to begin, I approached Magelie (all the while, knowing this was the worst thing I ever tried) with two styrofoam cups of coffee. She sat by the stairs of the building, reading William Styron.

"Hey," I said. She looked up at regarded me with a confused smile. The kind you see on a stewardess' face when you accidentally stumble into the 1st class section. I felt like turning back immediately. But I'd already gone too far. "Whatcha reading?"

"Sophie's Choice," she replied, a trace of moonlight in her accent.

"Oh. That's gonna keep you from having children."

"Really, why?"

"Well, I could tell you, but first... here," I offered her a cup. "The best bullshit always sounds better with a cup of coffee."

She giggled. It felt like a favor from God. She said, "That's nice. But I don't drink coffee."

"Oh, well this one's not from the machine, if that's what you mean. I made it myself."

"Really..."

"C'mon. One sip. If you don't like it, I'll put it away."

She hesitated for a second. Then she took the cup.

And she sipped.

"Magelie". One of 10 tracks on Sandwash's upcoming 2nd album.