Sometimes it feels that things have
changed when they really haven't. It’s still the same smoky foreground down at
the shore; you were just away from its pungent, sewage-ridden aroma for a good
while. On the other side of the island, the faithful continued to wail over a
long-lost martyr, but you stopped believing in the old legends and tales.
Meanwhile, reality lay in the form of trafficked sex workers loitering the
length of Exhibitions Avenue and its many shady motels, where the women have
only become younger and pricier, peddling from patrons boasting hefty amounts
of disposable income; the would-be johns usually hail from Saudi Arabia, where
deprivation is rampant and money flows incessantly.
To Dishdasha, the only half-decent spots in that stretch of road were the
National Bookshop, where she spent a good deal of her younger years perusing a
multitude of titles—many of which were prohibited in her home nation—and the
Kudu breakfast joint where she enjoyed pancakes and scrambled eggs without
having to endure the sight of a thick wall segregating her from single-male
citizens. Alas, that branch ceased to exist in recent years, and along with it,
the memories.
That evening, she puffed clouds of smoke outside of the Hard Rock Cafe, a
once-popular bastion of booze-hounding and New-Year’s-Eve parties. The customer
base waned substantially, and was now limited to the few souls making the
pilgrimage to nurse a drink and reminisce about perceived better days; an ode
to a dying franchise.
Dishdasha was due back inside, though
she preferred it out there in the street. The cocktail of particularly familiar
scents and sounds transported her to another dimension. Too goddamn cold to
stay out here any longer, anyway, she thought
After a few minutes of
quiet musing, she extinguished what remained of the death-stick under the might
of her boot, promising herself for the hundredth time that month it would be
her last cigarette. It was her hundredth lie, a drop in an inner-pool of past
transgressions. Her black trench coat was complemented by a wide collar
protecting the back of her neck from frigid, humid December winds as she made
her way back to the bar-restaurant.
All eyes were on her once more as she strolled between the tables en route to
the bar counter. It’s not every day that the usual customers get to see someone
donning a fedora without a single hint of irony, which set her apart from the
tools in Ralph Lauren and Burberry polos who shared the same mistaken belief
that money buys taste. The constant determined look she wore undressed the lot
of them instantly, reducing them to infantile, pre-birth states.
Dishdasha re-took her seat, and the old-timey barkeep sporting a Clark Gable
mustache rubbed a clear mug with a white cloth of dubious cleanliness, and the
light emanating from a hovering spotlight reflected on his balding scalp. This,
in addition to a well-timed, noir-themed event complete with a piano-jazz band,
set up a nostalgic mood. She was living out Casablanca in Manama, personifying
the best parts of Humphrey Bogart and Carmen Sandiego.
“Some more whiskey?” Barkeep inquired as he readied a new bottle. She responded
by lightly pushing her glass toward his general direction. He obliged by
topping it off with not-so-freshly distilled Jameson, drowning the remnants of
half-melted ice on the bottom.
“I can smell your latest attempt to quit smoking,” Barkeep snarked.
“I’m positive it’ll work someday,” she said before taking a soft sip. “Not that
it matters. I might die tonight before the Marlboros can have a shot at doing
me in.”
“I haven’t seen you in some years, and I thought I never would,” he said. “I
figured it was going be either the smokes or the ‘adventures’ you put yourself
through.”
To be continued. Maybe...
