Bright Lines (6 page)

“Mister, I told you I wanted a brown bag, not one of them black plastic joints!” The girl shook her head; the plastic beads tied to the end of her cornrows rattled.

“No!” the man yelled from behind a plexiglass counter. He noticed Maya and lifted a tobacco-yellowed finger, wagging it like a schoolteacher. “One dollar,” he said.

“Give her a brown bag, first,” said Maya.

“Fine, fine,” said the man.

“Thank
you
, miss,” said the girl, as she walked out.

Maya picked up a large bag of spicy corn chips, a couple of rolls, and sliced ham.

“You eat ham?” asked Ella.

“My first babysitter was a Puerto Rican girl. I begged her to let me eat ham and cheese sandwiches and one day, she finally did,” said Maya, chuckling.

“I just started eating pepperoni last year and now I’m addicted,” said Charu.

“You gonna eat this? Ain’t you a Muslim?” asked the man.

“Yup,” said Maya, pulling out a twenty.

 * * * 

A bike ride from 111 Cambridge Place to Riis beach was a thirteen-mile adventure. Ella wasn’t one for beaches; she was never sure of what to wear. Bikinis, never. One-piece bathing suits were unforgiving and uncomfortable. She could have finished the ride in forty minutes, but between Charu’s bicycle (a Wicked Witch of the West–style cruiser; there was no speeding on that thing), and the monster camping backpack Charu had her carrying, Ella found herself at the end of their cycling line. The backpack was stuffed with a sheet Charu had patched together from old T-shirts, the ham and chips and soda, Ella’s boom box and soccer ball, sunscreen, and a change of clothing for when they came home that night. They rode behind Maya, who had made trips to this beach before. Her hijab sailed behind her like a kite, as if she might levitate. The three of them
coasted down Ocean Avenue, then turned onto Flatbush Avenue, until they crossed the rickety bridge into the state park. On the boardwalk they hopped off their bikes, and walked down to the beach. Maya stopped a few feet away from the wet sand. “Here’s good,” she said, spreading Charu’s patchwork sheet.

Ella hurled the backpack onto one corner of the sheet and used her soccer ball and boom box to hold down opposite corners. She took a seat by the boom box. The sound of waves crashing matched Ella’s mood and she took off her glasses to see the world enveloped in streaks of black and white. She stretched her legs and tipped the ball toward the water.

Charu yelled, “I’ll get it!” She caught the ball from a wave and threw it back to the shore. She jumped into the water and whooped with delight.

Maya gestured to the sheet. “Call me crazy, but I don’t mind staying right where we are.” She broke open the bag of chips, and they crunched together, watching the silver waves, as Charu’s bikini top slipped off.

Charu stood up in the water, searching for her top.

“She thinks it’s okay to be topless?” said Ella, smirking.

“Yeah. It’s the gay beach. No one cares at the gay beach.”

Ella looked around for more naked people—there was a group of men kicking a soccer ball. Four of them wore Speedos, and one renegade was completely naked. His dick looked like a shriveled hot dog. All of them were lean, muscular, and brown. Their bare chests glistened with sunscreen and sweat. Ella watched their thick calves as they kicked around the soccer ball. Their backs were as wide as the expanse of a harp. These men roused her. She wasn’t attracted to them, exactly. But she was drawn to the way they moved, their bodies.

Ella wished she could join them.

 * * * 

“Yo—you guys! The water isn’t even cold!” shouted Charu.

“Liar!” said Ella.

“As gorgeous as you are, we’re fine over here,” said Maya.

“C’mon!”

Maya stood up. She removed the dressmaker pins that kept her
hijab in place. She spread the fabric open on the beach blanket. She took off her clothes, revealing a sports bra and boy shorts. “Shall we?”

“I don’t know,” said Ella. “I told you I’m not a water person. I can’t swim. I didn’t bring clothes either.”

“So you’re earthbound. But I’ll bet after carrying that backpack, you gave yourself heatstroke. So get over it and let’s go.”

Maya started running toward the waves, as Charu ventured deeper to swim. Ella remembered her swimming class failure at the Metropolitan pool in Williamsburg back in fourth grade. Little Charu had learned with no inhibitions or fears in the water, but Ella had felt shy in front of the swimming instructor, a pretty high school student named Beatrice. Anytime Beatrice tried to encourage her to transform her dog paddle into a freestyle stroke, Ella froze from embarrassment. She was still afraid of the water. Maya waited for her, the water up to their shins.

“Come closer to me, guys; the waves are incredible!” called Charu.

“I think we’re good here!” Maya replied, cupping her hands around her mouth. Charu shrugged and dove under a wave.

“Let’s just sit here,” said Maya.

“In the waves?”

“Right at the edge of them.”

Maya lay belly down on the crashing point. Her fingers raked the sand, holding her in place. Ella copied her and felt a large wave crash on her backside. She tried to sit but was taken down by another crashing wave. After a few more attempts, she propped herself up. Maya rolled onto her back. Ella watched Maya’s skin tinged golden in the sunlight. Her top was covered in sand, nipples hardened and getting browner as her top soaked through. She had an Arabic tattoo etched on her left rib.

“What’s your tattoo say?”

“‘The hour has come near / the moon is split in two / they see a miracle / they turn away and say / it is passing magic.’ Lines from
Surah al-Qamar
.”

“I thought Muslims weren’t allowed to get tattoos.”

“Can’t think of anything more godly than tattooing God’s words on myself,” said Maya. “But you’re right. Too late.”

“Then why cover your hair?”

“To distract my father’s attention, at first. Now it’s habit. What about you? Charu told me you came to New York when you were just a kid?”

“Yeah. So I never developed the hydrophilia of my river and ocean people. Left Bangladesh too early,” said Ella. “I was five. A couple years after my parents died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I remember a bit here and there. It’s hard to miss them. I want to.”

“Sometimes your folks are gone when they’re right there,” said Maya. “My folks are Moroccan and Egyptian. My mom’s folks didn’t want her marrying a Moroccan. They worried he would be too secular. Sure as hell didn’t have to worry about that.”

“Have you always lived upstairs from Anwar’s store?”

“We used to live out by Coney Island when I was real small. Moved to Atlantic around first grade. My father got a job as a line cook at Chez Marcel, until he decided he’d had enough of the booze and sluts. His words, not mine. He generally thinks he’s better than everyone else. And that’s when A Holy Bookstore was born,” said Maya. “My mema has been sick forever. She just got diagnosed with lupus last month.”

“But she’s there, with you, alive. Do you have to take care of her?”

“Not really.” Maya sat up. A large wave crashed on their backs. “The water’s not so bad now, is it? Blanket time?”

 * * * 

Ella made sandwiches, while Maya pulled
Kunstformen der Natur
, a stick of charcoal, and a sketch pad out of her backpack. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I’m still borrowing your book for some drawings I’m working on.”

“I don’t mind,” Ella said. She had a similar relationship with the book. She’d kept it until it was several months overdue. The library fine had gone up to ninety dollars, the maximum amount before they made students buy the book. She ended up paying twenty-five to keep it. One hundred art nouveau lithographs, designed by biologist and artist Ernst Haeckel, intricately rendered new species handpicked for feature in his book. Ella was drawn to the strange
illustrations of medusae. Each jellyfish took on the likeness of hair or fine jewelry; the trilobites appeared as masked knights fitted for battle. It was a matter of arrangement, yes, in that each plate was assembled in such a way that you were drawn to the symmetry. There was no reference to the environment where these creatures lived. Their innate form spoke for itself. Whether it was in the pattern, grooves, tentacles, needles, leaves, or antlers—there was an undeniable beauty, no matter how grotesque.

Maya stopped drawing and set down her sketch pad, lying back on the sheet. She gestured for Ella to join her. A couple of rogue gulls zoomed down toward them, and Maya yelped. They missed her head by a foot, busy scavenging other vacationers’ leftovers.

Ella saw the orange sunset through her closed eyelids. She opened her eyes and watched the sun turn blood orange, then neon green. As dusk crept in, the ocean shifted between a violent inkwell and a bubble bath, back and forth, back and forth. When Maya stepped aside for maghrib namaz, using a beach towel as a prayer rug, Ella put her glasses back on. She held her breath during Maya’s prostrations, thankful for this respite from her solitude.

Charu sauntered back to them. She pulled aside her bikini strap and pointed to her marked tan. “Shit, I got crispy!”

Maya laughed. “Think your mom will notice?”

“She gets paid to notice. Guys, I’m sta-a-arving.”

“Let’s—get a slice or something?” asked Ella.

 * * * 

That day marked the beginning of their cycling excursions all over the city. The three of them spent the heart of the summer together. On days Maya had off from work: teatime and concerts in Prospect Park, watching the sunset along the East River in Williamsburg, eating dim sum at Jing Fong in Chinatown, wandering through exhibits at Brooklyn Museum. They were outsiders, the three of them, uniquely aware of themselves against the world.

M
id-July rains made for many a quiet afternoon on Atlantic Avenue. It was a Friday, and many of the shops closed early for prayers. Anwar had not yet had a single customer at the apothecary. Outside, a car skidded to a halt. The squeal of its tires broke the steady melancholy of rainfall, and he heard the wind chime tinkling on the door. He looked up. Nobody was there. He was expecting an after-hours customer, his friend Bic Gnarls, owner of the barbershop Bic’s Razor, on Fulton Street. Whenever Bic came by the shop, he stayed for a spell. Anwar could never guess his age—he could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five, though he suspected Bic was closer to the latter, for the gravel in his voice revealed years of smoke. His hair resembled a high hedge, squared on top, and he sported a single hoop in his ear. He had a fondness for windbreakers. Bic was a loyal customer to Rashaud Persaud, the Guyanese hawker who had a table down the block from the apothecary but made most of his cash by dealing weed. Bic swore by Rashaud, claiming a lack of potency in other dealers’ strains.

Anwar fiddled around on the computer while he waited for Bic. The Internet connection was so slow. He cranked up the radio to fill the empty space. Everything in life was so—slow. He barely saw the girls. Was this the onset of an empty nest? They were always out and about on their bicycles—a healthy pastime, sure, but he worried about accidents. When they weren’t outside, Charu stayed in her room. He heard intermittent sounds of sewing or crying. Both concerned him. And Ella’s return had been unspectacular and
disappointing. College days should be the most carefree of days, though war had marred his own time at university. He did not know how to reach Ella, how to communicate his love to her. She was lost in the garden, up at all hours of the night. Perhaps Anwar should join her. After all, they had built it together. And Hashi—she had thrown herself into the innumerable summer weddings. His wife’s first words to him this morning:
Aman Bhai has to leave as soon as possible.
His brother’s subtle complaints, late-night television addiction, picky eating habits, and general carping wore Hashi’s nerves, and she wanted him out.

Anwar understood her aggravation. But to tell his brother to leave would be a hassle best avoided. So he did the next best thing:

I am a thief
, he thought, gazing at the stolen credit card that lay on the counter.

On the back of the card, in unsightly chicken scratch, he’d written: Aman Saleem. His brother’s mail, rerouted to their home, consisted of credit card applications and divorce matters. Anwar had scribbled his brother’s signature, mailed in the application, and begun his online perusing of his Web favorites: Café THC and Mary Jane’s Joint and Topless in Tokyo. Bless this method of discovery, one type-click, which was changing everything; in the online stores countless varieties existed.

Anwar ordered northern lights seeds from Mary Jane’s Joint. They would deliver to his new P.O. box in discreet packaging—bubba kush, purple haze, bubba haze, purple kush, blueberry bud, god bud, northern lights, Durban poison, skunk red hair, turtle power, island lady, snow white, wonder woman, white widow, happy outdoors, early sativa, early indica, early girl, early bird special . . .

He paid for his purchase using his new credit card.

Money had been on his mind, and so had space. Personal space. Sure, he had the studio, but he wanted some real privacy. Purchasing the occasional pornographic film (perhaps
film
was a stretch) was too tricky in his girl-ridden home. He had also toyed with growing his own crop of marijuana. There were so many varieties he’d never accessed.
Those lucky Californians
, thought Anwar. Charu’s upcoming NYU tuition was a gut-wrenching thirty thousand, even with financial aid; Ella had gotten lucky with Ivy League cred at a state school’s public price.

The door chimed, and Bic Gnarls entered. “Hey, man.”

“Hi, Bic,” said Anwar, hastily pocketing Aman’s credit card.

“You got the stuff, brother?” asked Bic.

“Yes, of course.” Anwar locked the front door and pulled down the blinds. He gestured for Bic to sit on one of the small wicker stools that matched his set at home. Anwar kept these stools for such moments. From an empty shampoo bottle, he pulled out a Ziploc bag packed with a quarter of Rashaud’s freshly harvested kush. Its aroma flooded their nostrils.

“I meant the coconut body soufflé, but hey now,” said Bic, laughing. He produced a magnifying glass from his pocket and pulled a nugget of kush from the bag. “This some potent shit. Where’s Rashaud at?”

“Good shit,” said Anwar. “I don’t know, but he should be here any moment.”

There was a tinkling of the door chime, someone trying to get in. Anwar stuffed the Ziploc bag back into the shampoo bottle and peeked through the blinds. Rashaud Persaud stood soaking in the rain, smoking a cigarette. He wore a black plastic trash bag as a makeshift rain parka, with a hole cut out for his head to slip through.

“Anwah, I thought I’d try and catch ya before ya left,” said Rashaud, stomping his sneakers on the doormat. He sucked his cigarette down to the filter and flicked it onto the sidewalk, before stepping inside. “Been mighty slow out there today.” He nodded at Bic. “Hey now, Bic, nice seein’ ya.”

“Nice raincoat,” said Anwar.

Rashaud nodded and looked down, embarrassed. “Mine got stolen.”

“At your table in the rain?” asked Anwar, incredulous. “What petty person—”

“Naw, naw. Over the weekend. At a . . . party,” said Rashaud. He sat next to Bic on the other little stool. They looked like grown men throwing a tea party.

“Sorry about the coat,” said Bic.

“Remember what you call this, Anwah?” Rashaud asked mischievously, pulling out a plastic-wrapped cigar.

“What’ve you got there, son?” asked Bic.

“Ah, yes, a blunt,” said Anwar. “I still do not know how to wrap one.”

Rashaud said, “Mr. Anwah, may I?”

“Gentlemen, we are now officially closed,” said Anwar.

As Rashaud stripped the tobacco from the skin onto the countertop, Bic and Anwar watched, like children waiting for the first slice of a birthday cake. He crumbled the nugget of kush with his fingers and mixed the purple-green leaves with a sprinkle of tobacco, then ran his tongue on the reassembled cigar to seal the contents. He licked the casing lovingly.

“That’s right,” murmured Bic.

“You first,” said Rashaud to Anwar.

“No, no, please,” said Anwar, gesturing to Bic.

Bic slipped a lighter out of his pocket and sparked a flame, running it over the body of the cigar. He held the fire over the tip. He chuckled and said, “Funny enough, though, this ain’t a Bic. I upgraded to Zippo.”

“Bic’s your real name?” asked Rashaud.

“No, it’s Earl. I got Bic for running an operation selling lighters, razors, and pens at a dollar apiece. Shame, but I used to buy them wholesale by the carton from this Korean guy in Flushing. The name stuck because of my skills with a razor. I’d never use a Bic on a man’s face, though.” He laughed and took a long drag. “Got some business that might help you out some, Anwar. Told an actor about your little shop. He should be coming by tomorrow.”

“Oh my goodness. Who?” asked Anwar.

Bic pulled out a Polaroid. “You know this guy?”

Anwar recognized the actor, shorter than Bic, with dashing Hollywood looks. But he couldn’t place the name.

Rashaud leaned in closer, and blurted, “Blair Underwood?”

“Heard I got the best shave in Brooklyn.”

“Nice job, Bic,” said Anwar.

“So I recommended your jojoba shampoo,” said Bic. “He’s got an oily-ass scalp.”

“So you standin’ next to Mister Underwood . . .” said Rashaud, tapping his fingers along the glass counter. His nails made a rapping sound, like a secretary’s on a keyboard. Anwar noticed that his
pinky fingers were painted in shiny red polish, and curiously long. “Blair Underwood was in
Deep Impact
with Mister Morgan Freeman who was in that movie
Seven
—oh tha’ shit was scary as hell, you know, ’specially the part when the wife’s head is in the box—he was in that with Mister Brad Pitt,” said Rashaud, ticking off the actors on his fingers, “who was the lawyer in
Sleepers
with Mister Kevin Bacon.”

Said Bic, “Maybe being taped on my surveillance camera footage with Underwood—”

“Proves that we are all connected to Mister Bacon?” suggested Anwar.

They laughed, and Bic laughed deep from his belly, so hard he began coughing.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Rashaud froze, mid-pass.

“Who is it?” called Anwar.

“It’s Malik, sir.”

Anwar’s mouth was cottony and dry. What did the boy want at this hour? Wasn’t he supposed to be at work?

“I told my nephew to meet me here,” said Bic.

“Malik is your nephew?” asked Anwar.

“His mom is my girlfriend from high school. Well, she was in high school,” said Bic.

Anwar felt his tongue heavy in his mouth, struck by a strange sensation, reminiscent of his first days in the infantry, when he’d not had any friends until he met Rezwan. Friendships lacking the basic exchange of intimacies were commonplace until some tragedy struck—the death of a comrade, a miscarriage, a divorce—then men opened up. He was disturbed by his total ignorance of the connection between his daughter’s boyfriend and his most loyal customer.

“He knows about . . . about this?” said Anwar, holding up the last nub of brown paper, which burned his fingers.

“Malik’s cool,” said Rashaud. “He gets his stuff from me.”

“He’s a kid,” said Anwar. “Why would you—”

He was interrupted by another knock on the door. “Mr. Anwar? Is my uncle there?”

“Yes, yes, my boy, one moment.” Anwar unlocked the door.
Malik stood leaning on his skateboard. His glasses had little droplets of rain on them.

“It’s nice to see you, sir.”

“Come in, son. I suppose the secret is no longer.”

“I w-w-won’t say anything to Charu, sir.” Malik crossed his fingers on his chest. He shook Bic’s hand, and Bic pulled him into a tight embrace. Malik turned to Rashaud and shook his hand, then another embrace.

“Ah, it’s all right,” said Anwar. “How is it being a respectable employee?”

“You and your brother sure are different,” said Malik.

“Everyone says as much,” replied Anwar. “Anytime you would like, come for dinner, my boy. I am sure Charu would like to see you.”

Malik looked down at the floor. “Sure.”

“Or, whatever, please visit, anytime.
Su casa es mi casa
.”

“Other way around,” said Bic.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Malik turned to Rashaud and said, “So, how’s business, Rashaud?”

“Same shit—sell a record here, a trinket there. Shall we spark another?” Rashaud held another Dutch cigar, teetering on his fingers like a seesaw, this way and that, waiting for Anwar’s response.

“Yes, let’s.” Anwar sighed, glancing at Malik, who kept his gaze on the shelves and away from him.

As Rashaud rolled another smoke, Anwar grew quiet. Malik told Bic about a band he had just formed. Anwar couldn’t quite hear them. The boy’s arrival had broken the synergy and flooded him with a hazy paranoia. Would the boy tell Charu? Or worse yet, had Malik invited Charu to partake? Anwar rocked himself with guilt, his daughter’s innocence lost. Medicating oneself against life’s troubles birthed a new bundle of troubles. He kept business strictly word-of-mouth and Bic had opened his mouth, unbeknownst to Anwar, to a boy he trusted his daughter with. The radio broke his thoughts and he cocked his head to the side, listening closer. “What is this song?”

“‘Mo Money Mo Problems,’” said Malik. “It’s an old Biggie Smalls track.”

“By ‘old’ he means more than five years ago,” said Bic.

“Should be
no
money, mo’ problems,” said Anwar, giggling. “Or no honey, no problems.”

“That’s right,” said Bic, taking a toke, then passing it to Anwar. Bic coughed long and hard, beating at his chest, and Anwar felt his own chest constrict watching him hacking and wheezing like an old man. Bic spat into his handkerchief.

Anwar heard a loud crash coming from the apartment upstairs. It was Sallah S., the girl Maya’s father, having one of his tantrums. “Sorry, my friends. It’s my neighbor. He has some . . . anger management issues.”

“Damn.” Bic shook his head. “Too many fools with a loose fuse like that. He needs to chill the fuck out.”

“Tell me ’bout it,” said Rashaud. “Just lef’ my house, matter of fact. Mama’s gone mad. She scream just like dat man, if not worse.”

“Where will you be staying now?” asked Anwar, concerned for his friend. Rashaud made decent money with his street side hustles, but was it enough to support his own apartment?

“I’ll live in my grow house, I guess. Don’t know yet.”

“You Trini? You sound it,” said Malik, blowing a thick sheet of smoke from his nose like a dragon. It was remarkable how naturally it came to the boy.

“Mama come from the Indies, born in Essequibo Guyana; Venezuelans been pilferin’ the lands since God knows. My father, he Muslim and Indian, got himself two wives, and one day Mama found this out getting her nails done in a Georgetown beauty parlor. Miracle of miracles, the other woman, Irma, was getting an acrylic set, while Mama kept hers natural. Thas just how she is. I was a boy of six. Never to this day do I forget her face, all consumed with hatred for my father, for foolin’ her in front of all those women in the parlor. She had a brother livin’ in Flatbush, and he brought us to live with him. But Mama, she never been the same after all that; she been sinkin’ and she been drinkin’. And when she drink she beat the one man she know who love her with his whole heart. Can’t hit her back—she more wiry than me, and she my mother, so I wouldn’t do that. Suppose I’m just another man she can’t ever have,” said Rashaud. “In Guyana, they say: One people, one nation, one destiny. But everything I know is split . . . in two. . . .”

“Take a puff, son, please.” Anwar patted Rashaud’s shoulder.

Rashaud chuckled, sounding as hollow as a laugh track. Anwar handed him the cigar.