Unwind

                                                                    by Giselle Stern-Ward
 

You promise yourself that the next man that you seriously date could only be an all-American
red-head; but then you meet another Algerian.  His skin is darker than the first Algerian, so you can't
use the whole My-Mother-Is-Mexican-Aren't-I-Exotic card.  Nebil, the second Algerian, is the cook;
you are the waitress in a tiny organic vegan restaurant on the same side of Court Street as the
DiNapoli and Sons Funeral home in Brooklyn.  He's watched you curse and kick the refrigerator door
when some customer in the back is screaming that he is not going to pay $6.95 for a damn portabello
burger that is more bun than portabello. Nebil has watched you drop plates, confuse orders and steal
many slices of the vanilla cake with chocolate frosting when you thought that no one was looking.
To his benefit, you do not realize that Nebil is Algerian.  When your 100% natural crap cotton apron
ripped and all your tips went rolling under the greasy shelves and down the employee stairs, he was
the only one of the bunch who picked up your money and gave it back to you.  He's into you.  But
who Nebil thinks is your boyfriend is actually your gay roommate Sean.  You and Sean like to hold
hands when you are walking down Court Street.
 
One Saturday, you promise yourself that before the end of your shift, you will ask Nebil out
to a movie.  You find yourself ironing your black T-shirt at seven in the morning and arriving half an
hour early to work.  Someone tells you that Nebil took the day off, they don't know why.  OK.  The
employee phone list.  You whisper, this means nothing, this means nothing, this means nothing, then
you pick up the phone.  You ask for Nebil.  He says, yes, that's me.  Stammering, you tell him that
it's Adrianna, from the restaurant.  Oh hello, he says in a friendly voice, how are you?

Oh fine, you warble, and tug at your T-shirt.  I thought that you were going to be at work
today.  Are you all right?

A funeral, Nebil says.  I have to go to a funeral today.  A friend of mine, her father died.

After that, a bunch of us were going to go out with her and the rest of the family to help out. Why
do you ask?

Gripping the phone you picture his warm eyes (the color of just-brewed coffee) gazing upon
the very dead body of his friend's father.  Shit.

Well, you chirp, well, I realize that tonight is a bad night, but I was wondering, maybe
sometime in the future, we could go and see a movie or something.  You wince.  This was stupid,
fucking stupid.

Nebil says that tonight would actually be great, because it would be good for him to unwind
a little bit after the funeral and the dinner.  Actually, he doesn't say unwind.  He asks, what is the
word, when you need to relax, like a string that has been pulled too tight?  Unwind, you say.
 
On the F train towards Manhattan, Nebil asks if a blues club in the Village would be OK,
instead of a movie.  In Algeria, he says, in Algeria, there aren't any wonderful jazz clubs, not like here.
  Algeria.  The word bounces around you like coins falling out of your wallet.  Oh, you manage,
Algeria has a really interesting history.  Nebil nods, but says nothing.
 
At the West 4th Street station, Nebil tells you that when the restaurant where you both work
at used to be a take-out joint two blocks over, he used to be the dishwasher.  Then he was promoted
to muffin-maker.  You tell him that you always went to the take-out shop to buy two wheat-free
muffins and three carrot-corn muffins. He smiles wide and says that he had probably baked the
muffins that you ate.  And right then, you are feeling like the middle of a Georgia O'Keefe flower.
It is at the blues club that Nebil realizes that Sean is actually your gay roommate.  Watch his
reaction, you think, he's an Algerian Muslim.  He smiles and says, so you're single?  Yes, you say, and
so is my roommate.  What do you think about that?  Nebil laughs and tells you that Americans need
to unwind.
 
Nebil drinks his beer, asks you if you want one.  No, you say, your nutritionist does not
recommend it.  He smiles and says, that's cool, did you know that as a Muslim I am prohibited from
drinking alcohol?  So you look at the table with his pint glass half-full of a very dark beer.  Well,
Nebil sings in a low voice, I'm in a New York state of mind.  And you're thankful for the distraction,
because what you do not want to tell him is that you were once involved with a Muslim.  An Algerian
Muslim.  But it's as if he already knows that sometimes there are days that you do not give up your
subway seat when an elderly woman is standing directly in front of you.  He leans over the table and
asks, have you ever been involved with a Muslim before?

A woman in a white dress knocks into your table.  Nebil's beer sloshes around, but does not
spill.  A tall man behind her grabs her upper arm, steadying her.  She mumbles sorry through the hair
in front of her face.  The tall man drops a five dollar bill on the table, right by Nebil's beer, saying no
harm done, right?  You look at the woman.  Motion to a space next to you on the bench, but she
shakes her head.  A hole opens up in the crowd, and the tall man nudges her along to the other side
of the room.  You feel Nebil's eyes.

Squeezing the hell out of a lemon into your seltzer, you mumble that you were once involved
with an Algerian Muslim.

Nebil says slowly, it does not seem like the experience was a good one.

It was a lesson, you say, crumpling a paper napkin in your hand.  You pretend to eat it.  Nebil
is silent.  You make like you are going to throw the paper ball at Nebil.  He does not flinch. Christ.
You unroll the napkin, smoothing it out to it's original form.

You turn away from Nebil and watch the band.  Suddenly, you stand up and say, I've got to
go home.  Now? asks Nebil.  He takes your hand, but you shake it away.  Please, you say, I need to
be by myself right now.  Nebil stands up.  Let me at least walk you to the subway, he says.  No! you
shout, then no, softer this time.  Nebil takes the five dollar bill off the table.  At least take this, he
says. OK, you say, thanks.  When you step outside, into the night that smells like over-ripe oranges,
you see that you have a crumpled napkin in your hand.

On the F train back towards Brooklyn, you close the newspaper that you were trying to read.
  Another Algerian.  Who were you fucking kidding?   The train stops between stations.  We have an
obstruction ahead, says the male conductor.  He says, hopefully, we'll be moving shortly.   You close
your eyes.  No, one Algerian was enough.

  When you had met Rachid, the first Algerian, he had introduced himself to you as Richard,
giving it that French pronunciation of Ree-shard.  And he had said that he was from Belgium.  You
and your two British friends, Claire and Lucy had gone dancing that night at Webster Hall, it being
Claire and Lucy's last night in the States.  Adrianna, they had said, pronouncing your name like you
were a Russian princess, let's go out dancing and get some sad blokes to buy us drinks.  So when you
had first seen Rachid, you didn't actually see him, but a vodka and grapefruit.  And yes, you were
dating Charles at the time.  Charles had asked you to marry him; you had said that you needed time
to think.  Rachid was damn good-looking.  You had wondered what he had seen in you that night,
when you had felt so fat next to Claire and Lucy, just barely closing the top button of your black jeans
that had not been washed in weeks, and that blue and black plaid shirt with the top button missing.
  When you had been dancing with Rachid, it had hit you that Charles's skin always smelled like a
damp washcloth that had never really dried out properly.  Before going home on the F at 14th Street,
you had laughed and thrown out Rachid's number, telling Claire and Lucy that for all the talk, not a
single sad bloke had brought anyone a drink.
 
But Rachid kept calling.  On a day in December, with the air so cold that you felt that it could
disguise you, you had agreed to meet him.  It was while you were layering on some lip balm that you
had casually mentioned to Rachid that you were dating another man. Charles, you had said.  His name
is Charles.  You had noticed that Rachid's ears were so red because he had refused to wear a hat.
Taking your hands, Rachid had placed them over his ears.  Tais-toi, he had said softly in French.
Shut up.
 
Christmas of that year, you had woken up to an empty apartment.  Your roommate Sean had
gone to his family in Long Island, having decided that Christmas was actually Coming-Out-To-The-
Family-Day.  Charles was waiting for you in his house in New Jersey with the gleaming grand piano,
his two parents that had reminded you of Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy, and the stunning silence
that only comes from luxurious homes and hotel rooms.
If you knew anything, you knew that you did not want to go to New Jersey.  You had called
Charles, and put in just enough  silences, the size of half-dollars, to make him believe that you were
truly suffering from another migraine.  You had hung up the phone and giggled.
 
For the price of a token, you had taken the G train across town and had arrived in Rachid's
apartment in Astoria.  There, among the mint tea, unfamiliar sweets and the Arabic that sounded like
coughing, you had said Joyeux Noel, and sat down to watch TV. Most of Rachid's family had been
visiting from Algeria.  The week before, one of Rachid's older brothers had made it clear that the
closest that Rachid had ever gotten to Belgium was when he had entered a contest sponsored by a
Belgian cookie company.  Rachid had learned his French in Algeria.

Rachid had reached over two of his younger brothers, and there had been an urgency in his
voice when he said that he needed to speak with you.

You and he had stepped over all of the mattresses on the floor because it had been almost all
of the family that was visiting.  The door to the one bedroom of the apartment did not close well; it
was the first time that you had noticed the door.  Nights of rough love-making came back to you.
  Right then, when Rachid had asked you to marry him, all you knew was that Rachid's baby brother
Tarek was peeking through the crack in the door.  You know Rachid, you had said, you know that
I told you that Charles had asked me to marry him.  I know, Rachid had said, but I know that you
would rather help me then be with him.  Fucking macho bullshit, you had muttered, and Rachid had
gripped your arms, screaming, all you want it Charlie's money!  But you can help me to stay in New
York!  You can help me to stay with you!

Tarek had run away from the door.  You had pulled at the pocket of Rachid's blue long-
sleeved cotton shirt; you had just given it to him as a Christmas present.  It tore away with a rrrrip!
  Stuffing it into your pocket, you had slammed the door so that it finally did shut properly, and
stepped into the front room to have another cup of mint tea.

The first week of January, you were supposed to have gone with Charles to Chicago to meet
his brother, wife and nephew.  At the 86th Street station of the downtown 1/9, you had told Charles
that you could not go with him to Chicago.  He had pulled you out of the station to a Wendy's.
Brought you a coke.  Picked up your knit hat when it had fallen on the floor.  Yes, you had blurted
out, there was someone else.  No, Charles, you do not know him.  Charles had said nothing for the
whole time that you drank your coke.  It was the Super Size.  You had fought the urge to make a
funny face.  Charles finally just took your hand and said, I only want you to find some peace.  To be
happy.  It was summer before you saw Charles again.  He had not asked for his stuff back.  He had
nothing of yours.

Rachid had told you that his Visitor's Visa had run out.  You had to make a decision.  It had
been cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, and the two of you were standing in front
of your apartment.  Sean had turned the corner and walked towards the two of you.  He had been
civil to Rachid, knowing how Rachid didn't like that fact that he was gay, but he had said nothing to
you.  This month of February you had not paid the rent, because Charles used to help you out.  All
you had to do was to start crying about the state of your family, your family breaking apart, until they
were like the oversalty inedible pieces at the bottom of the tortilla chips bag.  Then Charles had
always cracked open the checkbook, and had told you not to worry.  And suggested that maybe
therapy was a good idea for you, that you might find it helpful. Yes, you had always said, folding the
check in half, and then in half again, yes, I'll think about it.

You and Rachid had watched Sean go inside, take off his coat, and come to the front room
to close the blinds.

Shit, you had thought, Valentine's Day was next week.

So you had told Rachid that you would marry him.  On a Valentine's Day cruise around the
Hudson.  A photo, meal and free roses for the women were included in the forty dollars per couple.
Rachid had given you a cubic zirconia pendant that hung from a thin gold-plated chain.

When you had shown the necklace and told Rachid's family the news, they had said, that's
nice, and had not turned off the TV.  Rachid's older brothers had been out dancing, and did not hear
the news until the next morning.  A quick hug with you, and then they had hit the mattresses again,
pulling the stained sheets over their heads.

You and Rachid had arranged to meet the day before Valentine's Day to go downtown to
apply for a marriage license.  Since Rachid worked at the Good Morning Deli, right off the 1/9, you
had arranged to meet there.

That night, you had found Sean eating in the kitchen.  You had told him about going to get
your marriage license the next day, just to break the silence.  Sean had cleared his plate quickly, and
started to sponge down the table.  Looking at you evenly, he had said, I don't care any more
Adrianna.  I give up.  Do whatever the fuck you want.  Throwing the sponge in the sink, he had left
the kitchen.  You had taken the sponge, opened the front door, and thrown it against the frost-
covered lamppost.

The next morning, you had not gotten out of the bed when your alarm went off.  Rachid had
kept calling and calling.  First gentle messages in hesitant English, then spiky messages in French, and
finally, the hacking Arabic.

You had sat on your front stoop, pulling at a small hole in your pink sweatpants.  Old Annie
from upstairs had come down to walk her dog Jack.  When you shifted to one side to let her pass,
she just barely muttered thanks.  It was then that you had decided to take the F train to Coney Island.
 
When you had come home, sand in your snowboots, there was an apple on a nail that had
been hammered into the rotting wood of your front door.  While you were struggling with the cold
lock, Rachid suddenly had appeared by your side.  He didn't have a winter coat on; he had only been
wearing a beautiful grey suit, the color of your Grandfather's beard, when you used to climb into his
arms and pretend to be a gnome.  You had faltered and smiled at Rachid.  Rachid had taken the apple
off of the door.  I know that you like them, he had said cautiously.

A silence as long as a church aisle had fallen over the two of you.  Then you had announced
it: Rachid, I can not marry you today.

I'm through with you! Rachid had screamed.  But because of his accent, it had sounded like
he had shouted I'm true with you!

You had stood, still as a dish in a sink, waiting.

In my country, he had screamed, in my country, when you give your word, it means
something!

I'm sorry, you had whispered, I'm sorry.

He had cursed in Arabic, and kicked the garbage can.  You had struggled with lock again.
  He had grabbed the keys out of your hands.

Enough! you had screamed, and then you had just stood there screaming, not pausing for a
breath.  Old Annie upstairs had peeked out of her window.

So help me God, you had shouted, if you do not give me back those keys, I will march
directly to the payphone right down the block and get your sorry ass departed so fast that you will
never want to learn another word of English again!
Rachid had laughed.

Pulling the nail from the door, you sunk it into Rachid's left hand.  Your keys had dropped
into the frozen dirt that was now dotted with blood.  Rachid had thrown your garbage can into the
middle of the street, and ran to his car.

You had gotten the door open, and had walked slowly inside.  Sean had come flying out of
his room, asking, what's going on?  Sean, you had said, the sweat of your face mixing with your tears,
please let's go see a movie.  And Sean had said yes.

Rachid's mother had called the next day.  You had understood enough to know that Rachid
was going to be fine.  But the rest of the conversation dangled like a broken toothpick. You could
not speak Arabic.  She could not speak French.

When you had called a week later, no one had answered the phone.  It had taken a few days
for you to realize that everyone had left.
 
You and Sean had changed your number and had it unlisted.  You had called the old phone
number, from the payphone on the corner, lulled by the woman's recorded voice, who said, we're
sorry.

The F train jerks into a station, and your eyes are jolted open.  We're sorry for any inconvenience that
we might have caused, says the male conductor.  This stop is Carroll Street.

Please watch your step.  You open your eyes and run off the train.  You are one stop away from
where you should get off, but you decide that you want to walk the rest of the way home.  While
going up the exit stairs, you hear the low rumble of an approaching train.  You decide that you want
to take that train back into Manhattan.  Apologize to Nebil.  Running across the street towards the
Manhattan-bound entrance, you ignore a man on a bike who whistles at you while he flies by.
Grabbing on the handrail, you jump three to four stairs at a time.  The train is pulling into the station.
   You swipe your metrocard at the turnstile.  The balance shows zero.  But you dig up the five dollar
bill.  The token clerk is asleep.  You bang on the plexiglass, shouting, Hey! I want to get this train!
  The token clerk opens his eyes, turns down the radio.   The doors to the train close. You smash
your fist against the plexiglass.  You can feel the token clerk's eyes on you as you stomp up the stairs.
  Walking down Court Street, you think about getting some Chinese food.  But the lights in the store
are too bright for you to face right now.  You hit upon Sal's Pizzeria, and go in.  The air conditioning
slows down your breathing.  Two regular slices and a coke, you whisper.  The man behind the
counter can not hear you, so you try to speak a little louder.  Your thigh muscles tense up and your
feet turn in.  Two regular slices and a coke, you say, even softer than before.

Look, lady! says the exasperated counterman, just take the  slices.  On the house.  You
remind me of my late wife Christina, he says, may she rest in peace.
Thanks, you say, keeping your eyes down on the white bag with the grease stain.  You take
the bag and step out into the bruised night.

Nebil is sitting on your front stoop of your apartment.  Hi, says Nebil, I was wondering when
you would come home.  A car service friend of mine gave me a ride over here.  Jack the dog starts
barking from Old Annie's window.  Come inside, you say to Nebil, that dog will never stop barking.
 
Nebil looks at all the pictures in the living room.  He comments on your good taste.  You tell
him that this is all Sean's stuff, not yours.  Nebil points to the knickknacks on the shelves.  Are these
all Sean's too? he asks.  Yes, you say, all of them.   Good, says Nebil, so when I give you a little gift
to put on the shelf, you'll know which one is from me.

Nebil, you say, about me leaving tonight...

Don't worry he says.  Taking your hand, he smiles and says that the next blues band that
played was pretty bad.

You let him pull you closer, so that you can bury your face in the front of his white shirt.  It
smells like the air in the blues club.  You are so tired.  Thanks Rachid, you say quietly.     Rachid?
says Nebil.  Who's Rachid?  He pulls back slightly.

He's uh, the other Algerian Muslim that I dated, you say awkwardly.  You imagine
thumbtacks of every color being pushed into your tongue.

Oh, says Nebil politely, brushing his hands against his jeans, then bending over to tie his
shoelace.

Look, you say quickly, it was only a week or two.  He was   not a good man.
Nebil swoops up suddenly, taking your hands and pressing them over your heart.  Maybe so
he says, but I can see that you are not through with him.

You can't help but laugh and flop onto the sofa.  Nebil sounds like he's saying that you are not  true with him.

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