hundred-and-six

23:07:28

I’m sleepless in Beirut.

The skies have finally opened and the bawls of heaven have washed away the dirty paperbrown laundry hanging over Beirut. It never rains here, never drizzles, never pitter patters, only pours. And when the buckets suddenly start tipping over my desert, the hibernating whims and desires come out to flirt and play with the raindrops.

It is a lush autumn garden. Scarlet and sensual, ripe and covetable, almost sinful, almost like a trip back in time to that chapter where Eve in a fig leaf showed Adam where the party was at – but instead of thanking her, he’s been bitching about it from that bite onwards. 

It is a lush autumn garden, crimson and passionate, sweet and perfumed, almost heavenly, almost like a trip back in time to those days where behind every tree there was an Adam stripped of his fig leaf, almost like the picture of the kingdom I’ve imagined for myself, like the picture on a postcard from the land I used to reign, signed by me, happy to be lost in that forest, in that jungle, dancing to beats of every single tree trunk drumming its fingers in waiting.

The pieces are falling into place and the celestial bodies are moving towards some prophetic configuration: either harmonic or catastrophic, I cannot tell, but I’m counting on Venus.

The night after Kavinsky and I laid down, our terms and expectations, we crossed paths at “Reasons to be pretty”. We saw him before the play started, going up the stairs. I was sure he wasn’t alone, but the lights went out and there was no telling where he had disappeared to. I was sure I didn’t want to bump into him looking like the drenched pile of hair and fabric that I was, caught by the biblical storm the moment we left Deprague. I was sure that it was going to be awkward because only yesterday he had given his word, “You will not see me with anyone.”

After hours of sitting in wet boots and jeans watching actors shout, argue and create drama over a most benign slip of tongue, I spotted him giving a standing ovation to what must have been a walk down memory lane post-divorce.

In the foyer, while turning to head towards the ladies room, Kavinsky’s face appeared so close, so suddenly that I received a punch of adrenaline straight in the stomach and let my legs carry me away, away, further away soon as the third kiss on the cheek was complete.

He called me half an hour later to excuse himself, “I’m sorry, I felt uncomfortable, she is just a friend.”

For the entire week that followed, his name would pop up every now and then, inquiring about my whereabouts, inviting me over, always last minute. Clearly, it was getting too comfortable on his part...

Martini was part of the group that chose to sit next to Yamamoto and I at the party where I first met Joos. They were older and a little dusty, not hitting too hard, just a group of boys at heart with belts cutting them in two, slight bulges. The other two were doctors, a gyno and a plastic, and Martini “sold Chiclets”. He was the first to make conversation, but it felt more like the buttering of a set up between the surgeon and I. We didn’t hang around too long; clearly their age was a red card to be held up by Yamamoto. I was tipsy and every song was my favourite; the perfect guise to drag me away from the elders and into Joos’ spinning wheel.

While I was being twirled, I spotted My Boss, or at the time, my future Boss. I knew it was him because I had done my research following our anonymous exchange. He was cute and I loitered around so that I could, one day, point out to him that we were within inches, imperfect strangers.

Foux was there too with his buff and tight posse, and we would come ear to ear every hour to discuss the comings and goings of the melting pot.

“That’s My Boss, he has no idea who I am! He’s cute, non? And, oh look there, the guy in brown, that’s Brick, I met him in London.”

Before we could call it a night, the towering Gyno took me out for one last dance to some remix of an oldie. I was turned and twisted so much, that the cumulative sum of the evening would have had an abacus go haywire were it not for the lack of expensive drink in my blood. When I went back to the table to collect my things, the trio stood up to exchange numbers and cards. It felt slightly theatrical, the table nearby watching our phone-lit faces mouth numbers and correct spellings, but I was glad to step unto the stage for a change.

The following day, Martini sent me a wordy maladroit message and I dismissed it. I recalled him having been handsome, but I also recalled previous lessons of drunken phone number exchanges and decided on passing the course.

Months later, when we were carrying on Birthday Girl’s birthday celebration to Iris with Ohlalah, Yamamoto and Joos, I saw a familiar face across from me. I couldn’t pin point where I had seen him before - and there is nothing more annoying than blunt ends and tongue tips – so I picked my brains for a good fifteen minutes until I recognized the Surgeon. He seemed to be sitting alone, so I walked over to say hello.

But he wasn’t very talkative. I don’t think he even remembered me. Which turned out to be a blessing as half an hour later I saw him approach the table that we had all been, discreetly I hope, eyeing. There sat two very conspicuous ladies, who turned down every mongrel that couldn’t live up to their standard dollar, and it was clear that a dollar or two was needed to finance the treatment of inflamed lips, histamine-stricken boobs and pinched noses. How ironic, I thought, that the doctor find his patients during his darkest-hours.

Only when the skies opened up a week ago did Martini unexpectedly join the showers of sudden attention falling over me. The earth was all wet now and any extras could only whet it further. 

hundred-and-two

19:08:20

I’m sleepless in Beirut.

The following evening, I told Yamamoto that I had resumed contact with Kavinsky and that I had spent the previous evening with the girls and his friend.

She was skeptical and slightly taken aback.

“You know I was giving him attitude because of what he did to you. If I knew this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have been that rude. You’re my friend; what you do reflects on me.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Chou, you would have wanted to accept his invitations to dinners, boat trips and house parties?”

“No, but I would have handled it better.”

In the midst of our conversation Kavinsky messaged me asking me where I was and whether we wanted to join him and his friend at Lux.

“What should I tell him?”

“Yalla, let’s go see him. He doesn’t know I’m with you, does he?”

We paid our bill and drove down to the port. They were sitting at the bar, winding pasta into beehives with their forks.

It was an easy evening, discussions of the market and discussions of iPhone apps.

“Look, I have this app that can take your pulse. Here, place your finger over the camera…” his buddy entertained us.

Once more, Kavinsky was being obscure and distant.

“You know what I feel like? Watching a movie.”

“But it’s past eleven, no cinema will have a new session now!”

“We could all go to his place, it’s not far...”

We weren’t going to take the bait, innocent or not. Always tired, we, always tired. Kavinsky must be starting to doubt the strength of my immune system.

The following afternoon I saw him at the traffic light. I called him up to share the coincidence. I love coincidences; they make me smile.

“Sleepless, hello, ah, really? Where were you? Listen can I call you back?”

Ten minutes later I received a message saying he was dealing with some family issues. He was sorry.

And then I forgot about him, until weeks later when my phone announced his birthday. I wished him well, and he called me back.

“Where are you?”

“In Bekaa.”

“Coming back tonight?”

“Yes, but we might be back rather late.”

“Let’s do something. We can have a small party at my house, bring your friends.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

But then it hit me: I am no pimp and I am not one to accept all these late night invitations to private pool parties with girls and questionable outcomes.

“Hey, listen, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“It’s okay. Enjoy your day.”

And that was that I thought. The end of Kavinsky. The final chapter. The end of the chronicles. And I was fine with it. There was nothing in it for me. And nothing in it for him either.

The thing about coincidences is that they feed my belief that there is something of a plan for each one of us, a sort of template, a map of our pathways, possible crossings and detours and roundabouts. I do not think it is something as strict as fate or destiny, because we are indecisive and we choose and then we change our minds and we choose a hundred times over. I feel that it’s more of a map of possibilities; a magic map if you will, that is constantly evolving and is connected to the maps of other people. I have this other belief, that the universe sends you signs, and if it is generous it will send you back the ones you’ve missed or dismissed. When I saw Kavinsky’s name appear on my phone a month after his birthday, I was beginning to think that this was a deliberate knock on my door that I had to answer. A half yearlong knock must mean this future event wants to, almost needs to, occur. I couldn’t tell whether it was the knock of an unavoidable death sentence, or whether it was a missing piece of some puzzle that was being entrusted and so viciously thrust upon me.

“Hey, how are you? Long time. I miss you. What are you up to?”

“I’m heading north on some family business, how have you been?”

“Good, good, I’m with my friend, just came back from Europe. I’d like to see you. Pass by tonight.”

“Say hi to him. I can’t, I’m travelling tomorrow myself.”

“When will you be back?”

“In a little more than a week.”

He was good at that, remembering when to call, promising to call and keeping his word. So far, this was the only constant quality to him apart from his habit of starting conversation with “where are you?”.

He called me a few days after my return, he was in Gemmayze, I was going home.

“Tabb call me Friday and we’ll see.”

He called me on Thursday. And then he called me on Friday.

“Listen Kavinsky, I am working hard these days and leave work exhausted, can we please just do something on the weekend, during the day?”

“I’m proud of you! …I have people visiting me, and they are here till next week, so this weekend I cannot promise anything. How about tonight? Dinner? Early? Can you do 19h?”

“Errrhm…I leave work around 19h and then I need to go home, shower, rest a bit.”

“What time do you want? 21h? I’ll cook dinner.”

“Fine, but I need to tell you something. Please, no funny business. Take it easy on me.”

“Don’t complicate things, I’m attracted to you, you’re attracted to me, we’re not getting married. Just come, and I’ll take it easy.”

This insisting, this constant knocking tuck tuck tuck tuck tuck tuck tuck, maybe meant that somebody wanted to come in, badly, for whatever reason. But before I would even consider answering it, I had to listen to my self, closely.

ninety-two

12:01:21

I’m slightly fazed and confused in Beirut.

Last night proved memorable; or so says my text message to Flutterby:

“We is high, drunk and in a convertible. If I die, I’m an idiot. But I love you all!” followed by an audio note in which my friends demand me who I am writing to over some bad dance music, “What?!”, I yell back “I am reporting my possible death.”

Now that I’m alive and unscathed, I feel that I may have exag…actually no, that drive was pretty scary! I sat at the back, as their arms waved in the air and their bodies danced to a song I didn’t know, I couldn’t see how close to collision we could come, and the wind in my hair was wildly playful, and the avoiding of potholes excited and frisky.

Sitting in the back, rather immobilized by the ominous cockpit and the Madonna-sponsored OMG party – words that I kept repeating over and over again as I prayed for the consistency in Foux’s usually reliable driving skills – I tried coaxing my mind into letting go that one extra neuron. But I was handicapped - the grass had indeed been greener for the front half of the car.

As I filmed their antics for future sober-day viewing at the red light, Yamamoto turned around with her ever-lecturing finger, “You’re not better than us!” and continued waving her arms in the air.

It was only until we approached her home that Foux’s idea to stop in the middle of a residential street with speakers in epileptic blare had her stretch her arm and discretely decrease the volume bit by bit. Diplomatic party-pooping party-loving Yamamoto – her gesture made me smile.

As she was leaving the car, Foux asked her to say it. I had no idea what was going on.

“I can’t say it”, tried to break free Yamamoto from the chains of their inside joke.

“Koussi mwal3a,” I heard Foux’s tongue and flaming lips splutter “Say it Yamamoto, say it!”

I was now in the front passenger seat and Foux turned to me, “Chou? B0?”

“Yalla, B0!” I said half-convinced. And in a cloud of dust, exhaust and titanium we zoomed through Beirut to sour smelly Qarantina.

“Don’t worry about anything! We’ll just walk in like divas!”

It had been our years old vintage dream to go there together, and finally the fantasy came true: our figures made their wobbly way down the stairs into 80s kitsch.

Foux was the perfect lead. He took me firmly by the hand and into the middle of the club, spun me, threw me, caught me (or didn’t!), held me, swayed me and after one shared drink of vodka-orange, he leaned in and…

“I don’t mean to brag, but I have been told that I’m really good,” he had once said.

Hands up, defense down, he was amazing. Despite our friendship and in spite of everything that would’ve normally deemed this irrational and irregular behavior, it felt surreally appropriate for our fantasy night out.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I moved to let the tapper through. Tap, tap again. I turned around and saw an all-too familiar face at an all-too wrong timing. My mind spelled w-h-a-a-a-t-?

No this was not happening, no I had not mistakenly subscribed to awkward weekly, my mind was still on the a-a-a- part when he said, “Hey.”

And I say…

…all the wrong things, because I am unprepared for this scenario. My train of thought had sent all its carriages in a wide-eyed frantic search for easy let downs, curtsy retreats and possible reconciliations, but all it could make out was a lonely steaming engine caught between two advancing cargo loads. Here we go…

“What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you. I wish you had told me you were coming. This is awkward.”

There was no more smoky mist hanging in the air to conceal disappointment, frustration or any other facial contortion that should not normally appear to Bon Jovi screaming “it’s my life, it is now or never” to the jolly crowd that for a moment thought it would live forever. Tomorrow would come, and tomorrow would still be awkward with a quivering a-a-a-. The situation was crystal clear and surprisingly well lit.

Caught in between what first looked like an exchange of words, then an argument, then a friendly retreat on Foux’s part, I was hoping somebody would take a hint.

I had first met Joos on a dance floor back in April. It was only four months later that we bumped into one another again. Yamamoto was a friend in common and he seemed like a pretty cool character to add to the mix. He was fun and he was funny and I was glad he wasn’t fluent in awkward, so the bumping into became a scheduled event and it looked like Joos was staying on the menu. I was open to the possibility that somehow, somewhere I would meet a guy who would not read into my sociability and no-fuss attitude as an invitation to find a hidden agenda behind good chemistry. Most people told me I was delusional, “and especially in Lebanon!”

Maybe I took “He’s just not that into you” book too seriously and maybe I wrongly expected of others to be versed in its rather basic philosophy, but if I were into you, you would know. But as Key explained to me “girls here are passive” and anything short of bitchy can easily be interpreted as a green light. So I say…poor Joos! I would hate to be in his maladroit shoes! What a chore it must be to be a man in the dating game – no wonder there are PUAs and AFCs and forums that teach men how to upgrade their status from beta to alpha. And as much as I feel bad for the men who must measure every single one of our moves against some self-professed love guru’s calibrations, I feel just as sad for the women who are taught from day one that they must wait for the knight in shining armor to slay the dragon and rescue them from their tower. The dragon might as well be the future in-laws, the tower built with the bricks of patriarchy, and the knight just a poor consequence of the two with a bad case of the Madonna-whore complex – which Virgin Gaga wouldn’t grow her hair to escape this nuthouse? The answer is – very few.

Poor Joos and poor me – screwed by two ends of the same system.

But all this empathy and self-pity comes later. I tug Foux by his arm and tell him that I want to leave. “But we are having fun!” he whines!

Eventually, he goes up for a last smoke, while I ineffectively try to butter the Joos dilemma with worthless peanuts.

“Who is that guy? Is he your ex-boyfriend?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s complicated.” I exacerbated the situation.

“Is he even straight?!”

I had had enough. What the hell was this? Jerry Springer? The “makhasne” switch in my head was flicked. You brought this upon yourself Joos, and I didn’t need or want to make it clearer to you any longer.

“I don’t need to explain myself. I have to go, the car is here.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes!”

“With him?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going back with him!”

“Why?!”

“Because I came with him!”

The glamour of dialogue under influence didn’t stop there. In the car, Foux just kept repeating, “I’m so fucked.”

I was glad to get away from the hellpad, our arms were up in the air, the wind blowing them clean…

In the parking lot, in the car, under the gaze of the uniformed McDonald’s drive-thru boy, we dug into a happy meal, and kissed between the bites of sin-filled heaven.

“We are not going to…!”, announced Foux, clearly entertaining the opposite possibility, in light of his two week old adventure with his ex.

We didn’t, but instead we stopped the car in the middle of nowhere and danced self-indulgently beneath a street lamp. When the song was over, we hopped back into the car, and as I turned to fasten my seatbelt, the cops were already by Foux’s side, their window down, not saying a word, two pairs of eyes looking at us. We tried to squeeze every ounce of sobriety and innocence unto our facials expressions. An intense stare later, they motioned for us to drive in front of them.

“Drive. Sloooowly.” I squealed.

“We’re so fucked.”

eighty-four

03:36:06

I’m sleepless in Beirut.

From the right corner of my eye, a male figure claims twice the space needed, flailing his limbs inarticulately, bellowing above the general hum of the place.

Attention-seekers, I’ll deliberately ignore you. If you’re a suicidal glass cup, you won’t get beyond the skin of my eardrum. If you’re a neon tracksuit, you won’t contaminate my retina. If you’re dancing like a failed audition, my neck will stiffen in the opposite direction. Keep your issues to your journal and your signals for the helpline.

I’m not heartless nor cruel. If you want to talk about it, I’ll seat you on my lap. Sorrow laced with outburst, troubles cast in plastic, tears made up with glitter; the truth is, you aren’t ready to.

He’s dancing against a woman, seeing how low he can go. Yamamoto and I are in deep conversation, wading through spiritual swamps, while the Messiah on the right clearly wants to descend from his divine kingdom unto our table. He even stops and stares, but we hope for once we’d resemble old lesbian spinsters.

“You don’t dance? You are very serious.”

“Yes we are.”

I finally look up. He looks like an I-lived-abroad-all-my-life-but-now-I’m-back-to-see-what-the-fuss-is-all-about type. Not having that conversation tonight, no thanks.

Minutes later, his head blocks the light again.

“Why are you so serious?”

Well, because for the past two hours I was immersed in a future of impending loss and confusion, discussing fight or flight, standing on the verge of a famished black hole.

“We are having a conversation.”

“I see. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Too late for that. Roll our eyes, psssht, pfffff. But then he’s back.

“Where are you from?”

“Here. You?”

“I recently moved to live by the sea, but now I’m renting an apartment here in Beirut. I love to dance! You want to dance?”

“No thank you.”

I look at my friend and daymn that girl has got the iris-kill-you vibe nailed to the eyelash. Immediately, I soften.

“What are you guys celebrating?”, I ask. Out of courtesy? Out of dire need to balance this moment? Most likely to avoid aggressive confrontation.

“We’re just out. I love dancing. We’re going to Behind the Green door in a few moments, you want to come?”

“Oh it’s very late, we’ll be going home soon.”

“Come on! Have some fun! We’ll dance! By the way, I’m not drunk, I know you think I am, but I’m drinking water. I promise.”

“Aha. You are very hyper for a water drinker.”

“Yes, and I pee a lot. It’s a big problem.”

Mhm. This interaction is going down the drain…

“What do you girls do?”

“Very serious things. You?”

“I have my own business.”

It was said with a confidence half a syllable short of arrogance, but then again, it could have been my jealous ears lusting for that kind of freedom in my own life.

“Shall we order the bill?”, leaned forward my unimpressed friend.

I handed the waiter my card, upon which Kavinsky exclaimed,

“You’re with X bank? Respect. I like you.”

What the hell dude, mellow down on the affiliations, I thought.

“Listen, I’m having a party at my house next week. You should come. You’ll love my home. It’s beautiful.”

To be honest with you, myself included, I only asked for more details in the hope of bumping into the cute guy, he had introduced me to moments earlier, at the said party. And that I could see the "beautiful" for myself.

At the time I was ashamed to admit it, for fear of appearing shallow or opportunistic, but why would somebody cast golden hooks if not to attract chrysophiles? 

Was he ignorant? I think not. But I was. I was ignorant not to ignore him. For the second time in my life I allowed myself to be intrigued by shiny things.

Intrigued by shiny! It was the very same intrigue reserved for tinted window panes. You're sort of curious, but helpless. Thus, even though you know he/she knows you can't see them, you stare back long and hard nonetheless, toy with their minds with a smile, or even a wink. Whatever it takes.

Kavinsky knew that there was no reason for me to accept his invitation other than for what he so blatantly represented, and I knew that he knew, so the plan was to stare back hard and pretend that there was nothing shiny blinding me.

I thought that after Clooney I'd know how to play this game, but to my surprise, this chocolate egg came not only with an unfamiliar toy but with bitter aftertaste.

I should've known, I should've known just as I know about suicidal glass cups, neon tracksuits and murders on the dance floor.