I leave my Writing for Science class at 12:15 pm. I walk out of Harris Hall and out into the mid-March sun. I begin my lunchtime walk to Remas Deli on Amsterdam Avenue. I quickly arrive on Amsterdam Avenue, a Toyota Prius is parked to my right. I see Policemen standing in line with students at one of the many Halal food trucks littered about the campus. I hear, to the left of me, a Hispanic woman with her two children, a boy and a girl, frantically talking on the phone in a melodic mixture of Spanish and English.
I walk across the street, sit down on a stoop, and begin rolling a cigarette. Absorbed in my task, I don’t notice a Vietnamese man quietly assume a position next to me. He asks in broken English, “Can I roll cigarette, please?” I promptly finish rolling my cigarette and hand him the rolling machine and pouch of tobacco. He refuses the rolling machine, and seems insulted. “I teach you how to roll,” he proudly says, his eyes beaming. I find this friendly man’s proposition hard to refuse. upon my acceptance he sets about teaching me the art of rolling a cigarette. His geniality is infectious, and I can’t help feeling a certain comradery with this jolly and strangely insistent, middle-aged man.
The man begins instructing me, but struggles to find the right words for each step in the procedure. He becomes frustrated, tormented even, and the situation takes a dark turn. In him I see a slightly defeated man, tortured by demons unbeknownst to me. I absent-mindedly listen to his disjointed instructions until he finishes. He looks at me and the proud glow returns to his weathered face. I politely thank him, stand up, and continue my walk.
Right before I arrive at Remas Deli, I pass by a damply-lit Chinese Restaurant. Hordes of students have collected inside, and a delivery man emerges from the mass of people. His pale, thin arms are lined with delivery bags. Each bag has Thank you and below an unconvincing smiley-face, Have a good day, printed on it. The man walks quickly, masterfully balancing the bags with a grim determination as he dons a dilapidated bike. His indifferent, focused look contrasts sharply with the jovial and well-meaning message that lines his two arms.
I finally arrive at my destination, Remas Deli. I enter the small, inviting store and a familiar smell reaches my nose, that of chopped ground beef frying on a griddle. It is invigorating.
Behind the counter stand two welcoming Yemeni men. One of these men, Al, stands eager to greet me. “Hello my friend,” he says under a thick Arabic accent as he reaches out his hand, fist clenched. I bump it, I wouldn’t have it any other way. “How many girlfriends you have now?” he asks inquisitively to which I cheerily respond, “None.”
This question is recurring, and although it may be seen by some as offensive, I see it differently. The question is Al’s big joke, his making sense of the flurry of conflicting American ideas that assault him everyday. I can’t tell if he is sarcastic or not, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way the question represents the same thing.
I ask for my sandwich, a Chopped-Cheese, and Al resumes his place at the griddle. He throws the hamburger patty on the griddle, and after a while he starts chopping at the beef patty with his spatula. The movements are frenzied, staccato in nature, and violent. Al enters a zone, the dark rings under his eyes become even darker, he is somewhere else…
I open my eyes, hear the sub-bass throbbing underneath me, and am reminded almost immediately that I am not back in Yemen. Outside of the window there are two dogs fighting and two men trying to separate them. My apartment is small, tiny in fact, and my amenities are few. I remember that there is some saltah in the fridge and I throw some khat in my mouth before I go to reheat it. As the saltah heats up, the smell of fenugreek and lamb drenches my kitchen. I am hit hard by this odor, it reminds me of Yemen, and that I am nine months away from my return. It reminds me that I am here, on 117th Street, and not back in Sana’a. It reminds me of my future wife, and the money for the mahr, I must earn.
I pass a man begging for money on 120th Street. His coat is torn in multiple places, and it reads Adidas in faded-white letters on the front. His glasses are crooked and his mouth is puckered. He looks out into space as if he were blind, and mutters, ”Can ya’ spare a dollar?” in a withered, raspy voice. He reminds me of a man in my old neighborhood in Sana’a, the Shu’aub District. The man’s name was Harbi, and as a child I would examine the man as I walked past him after school. I would say to myself, “I don’t want to end up like this man, I want to escape this man,” and then I would look briefly into his eyes. His stare was forlorn, and his face was mangled. He bled sadness, and I sense that the man next to me on 120th Street bleeds sadness as well.
On 127th Street I pass a mosque, Muhammad’s Mosque Number Seven. A friend of mine, Phillip, stands outside. He greets me, “Hello my brother! Will you be in the Mosque tomorrow morning?” I stop and respond, “Maybe, I don’t know yet.” I was never the most devout Muslim but Phillip is nice and part of me wants to take him up on his offer. I don’t know.
I finally arrive at work, Remas Deli. Ali, my coworker, gives me a nod and tells me As-salamu alakykum or, “Peace be upon you,” as I walk in. Above the cash register I see Yemeni currency, rial, bearing messages such as bit-tawfiq or, “Good Luck!” I stand and stare for a moment before Ali interrupts me, “You’ll be home soon enough, don’t worry too much.” He is right, I will be home soon enough, I shouldn’t worry. He continues, “Only nine months,” only nine months…
