The first thing I remember being said to me...
"See all this? It's all... all gonna go away sooner than later."
He spoke in a rather pronounced Palestinian accent. I believe it was from the northern parts (the biblical Samaria) but I could be wrong.
I barely remember anything of what I saw that day, because I was too overwhelmed. This was my very first up close and personal with America, and it wasn't particularly gentle, but at once also fascinating.
I was being hot-potatoed from one Palestinain to another before reaching the guy who was going to give me the job.
My british friend K. [none other than BL's fastandbulbous] asked me something that could be paraphrased into "what the hell are you doing there??"
I said I really don't know. My parents asked my uncle to ask his friend to get me a summer job. Said friend owns a chain of gas stations and, as is customary in Palestinian culture, there is a sort of "honour bank" between people in which favours are acknowledged and returned appropriately. Giving me - essentially a total stranger - a job was this guy's show of gratitude for my uncle. Of course, the guy who picked me up from the airport (a total stranger to both myself and my uncle) happens to owe restaurant guy a favour; and restaurant guy who served me lunch (again, total stranger) happens to owe my uncle's friend a favour. So is the guy who offered me a couch to crash on that day.
I had smuggled with me a bunch of intoxicants. A nasal-spray with a bunch of Ketamine dissolved in it, a prescribed bottle of diazepam, a condom-wrapped bundle that had within it a dime-bag of crystal meth, a glob of PCP paste, a couple of ecstasy tabs. Yes, this was the very first time (and last, may I add) I ever smuggled drugs by hiding them within my body. But you see that was a time when my drug-use was at its worst...
I remember one day, many days later, I had consumed some of that PCP... my body tingled, my thoughts rushed, and time started going backwards. I decided it was a good idea to go outside at 1pm and go for a long walk in the scorching sun. I felt somewhat invincible, you see.
I remember, after maybe half an hour walking, I noticed something shining in one of the several canals that ran perpendicularly to the main road. I decided to walk down the muddy slope and discovered a broken silver bead-necklace. My fantasy took flight, and I tried to imagine where this necklace came from. You see, these canals radiate from the U-shaped bend of the great Mississippi river, and on the northern side of the U sits the historic part of the city where bead-necklaces abound and are a special symbol of the city's cullture.
Yes, I did eventually get there. Public transport is not very efficient - or cheap for that matter - in these parts. Everything is designed with the automobile in mind. One needs to cross great distances that span the parking lots of plazas catering to wal-mart and all manner of corporate gigantism. These plazas are, at least on the "west bank" (the southern side of the U) surrounded by what could very well be described as "shantytowns". Such poverty is definitely not something someone would expect to see in the world's richest country.
The majority of the West Bank's inhabitants are black. And it seems the majority of convenience stores are owned, not by Asians as one would logically assume, but rather by Middle-Easterners - namely Palestinians. And that is where my job comes in: I was a "floor manager" (read: a general-purpose doitall boy) in one of those gas-stations that doubled as a convenience store - itself doubling as a fast-food parlour (which is run entirely by illegally-employed Mehicanas, just like myself). It also employed a handful of white American ladies who had very long stories of which they shared very little.
It took a long time, but I eventually started making friends with these ladies. Coming out definitely helped, although in retrospect I may have been insane doing so. And in a way, I was, given all the drugs I was on.
Speaking of which, I noticed that almost every customer - of whatever colour - emanated a curious smell that can be described as burning wool. Very much later, on a random sunny day, my neighbour - an old black veteran who now worked part-time as a daycare worker in an orphanage by day, and part-time prostitute at night - was delighted to learn that I partied, took me into her little home, made sure all the curtains were shut tightly, and handed me a glass tube with white stuff placed on a mesh at the end.
It was then that I knew what that smell was.
[Will continue tomorrow. I hope!]
"See all this? It's all... all gonna go away sooner than later."
He spoke in a rather pronounced Palestinian accent. I believe it was from the northern parts (the biblical Samaria) but I could be wrong.
I barely remember anything of what I saw that day, because I was too overwhelmed. This was my very first up close and personal with America, and it wasn't particularly gentle, but at once also fascinating.
I was being hot-potatoed from one Palestinain to another before reaching the guy who was going to give me the job.
My british friend K. [none other than BL's fastandbulbous] asked me something that could be paraphrased into "what the hell are you doing there??"
I said I really don't know. My parents asked my uncle to ask his friend to get me a summer job. Said friend owns a chain of gas stations and, as is customary in Palestinian culture, there is a sort of "honour bank" between people in which favours are acknowledged and returned appropriately. Giving me - essentially a total stranger - a job was this guy's show of gratitude for my uncle. Of course, the guy who picked me up from the airport (a total stranger to both myself and my uncle) happens to owe restaurant guy a favour; and restaurant guy who served me lunch (again, total stranger) happens to owe my uncle's friend a favour. So is the guy who offered me a couch to crash on that day.
I had smuggled with me a bunch of intoxicants. A nasal-spray with a bunch of Ketamine dissolved in it, a prescribed bottle of diazepam, a condom-wrapped bundle that had within it a dime-bag of crystal meth, a glob of PCP paste, a couple of ecstasy tabs. Yes, this was the very first time (and last, may I add) I ever smuggled drugs by hiding them within my body. But you see that was a time when my drug-use was at its worst...
I remember one day, many days later, I had consumed some of that PCP... my body tingled, my thoughts rushed, and time started going backwards. I decided it was a good idea to go outside at 1pm and go for a long walk in the scorching sun. I felt somewhat invincible, you see.
I remember, after maybe half an hour walking, I noticed something shining in one of the several canals that ran perpendicularly to the main road. I decided to walk down the muddy slope and discovered a broken silver bead-necklace. My fantasy took flight, and I tried to imagine where this necklace came from. You see, these canals radiate from the U-shaped bend of the great Mississippi river, and on the northern side of the U sits the historic part of the city where bead-necklaces abound and are a special symbol of the city's cullture.
Yes, I did eventually get there. Public transport is not very efficient - or cheap for that matter - in these parts. Everything is designed with the automobile in mind. One needs to cross great distances that span the parking lots of plazas catering to wal-mart and all manner of corporate gigantism. These plazas are, at least on the "west bank" (the southern side of the U) surrounded by what could very well be described as "shantytowns". Such poverty is definitely not something someone would expect to see in the world's richest country.
The majority of the West Bank's inhabitants are black. And it seems the majority of convenience stores are owned, not by Asians as one would logically assume, but rather by Middle-Easterners - namely Palestinians. And that is where my job comes in: I was a "floor manager" (read: a general-purpose doitall boy) in one of those gas-stations that doubled as a convenience store - itself doubling as a fast-food parlour (which is run entirely by illegally-employed Mehicanas, just like myself). It also employed a handful of white American ladies who had very long stories of which they shared very little.
It took a long time, but I eventually started making friends with these ladies. Coming out definitely helped, although in retrospect I may have been insane doing so. And in a way, I was, given all the drugs I was on.
Speaking of which, I noticed that almost every customer - of whatever colour - emanated a curious smell that can be described as burning wool. Very much later, on a random sunny day, my neighbour - an old black veteran who now worked part-time as a daycare worker in an orphanage by day, and part-time prostitute at night - was delighted to learn that I partied, took me into her little home, made sure all the curtains were shut tightly, and handed me a glass tube with white stuff placed on a mesh at the end.
It was then that I knew what that smell was.
[Will continue tomorrow. I hope!]
