“YALLAH," MY BOSS SHOUTS, swinging open the kitchen door and placing a few orders with the cooks. “You’re too slow, Amir. Faster. Wash those dishes faster. Yallah.” I plunge my hands deep into the hot water. I hate washing dishes. It makes me think of home. Not that I ever did this mundane task when I lived there. My mother took care of that. Took care of all those domesticated things. I guess you can say we weren’t a progressive Lebanese family, but is there such a thing? Maybe. But not my family. This foamy dishwater, for some strange reason, reminds me of the sea, and how I’d dive off a cliff and swim with all the strength my arms could muster, the white waves pushing against me.
As I wash the dishes, one by one, lathering soapsuds, polishing each plate as if it were a shiny pearl in the Mediterranean Sea, I close my eyes and see men wearing Speedos, chests and legs covered with hair. We’re Lebanese after all. I look down at my open-collared shirt and see a bush. I’ve thought about waxing my chest but it sounds too painful and I don’t mind the hair. It gives me character. Character. My boss shoots a look of disapproval at me, shaking his head, as he returns to the eating area. With the swinging door wide open, I look past him and watch the characters flitting in and out of this restaurant. Most of the patrons are Middle Eastern middle-aged men with round bellies and loud, abrupt voices.
I got this job about five years ago. The first job I had since I moved to Canada. The only job. It’s not that I haven’t tried to find something more meaningful; it’s just that it’s been difficult. Sighing, I look down and rub the rag across the dish in my left hand and try to remember a time since I’ve arrived here in which I found life meaningful. But I can’t think of any such moments. Now as I wash the dishes, I think dishwashing suits me. Five fucking years. Five years of soapsuds and sweaty armpits. Old cooks who’ve been here longer than me, who grunt out orders but won’t say ‘good morning’ or ‘good night’. This is meaningless work but it’s enough to pay for my room, shared bathroom and kitchen. And I guess it’s better than the alternative.
I slam a dish hard into the water, almost hoping it’ll break so I’ll get fired. Anger pulsates through my body until I’m shaking. I scrub harder and faster, glance across at the wall clock and realize that my shift is almost over. Dry hands and cold temperatures await me but I’d rather be outside in the frigid cold than in here with the steam of the water rising like a hot spring. When I lived in Lebanon, I’d sometimes take a bus to the small towns on the outskirts of Beirut and find a cave where I’d sneak in and listen to the spring water pour between ragged rocks. Bending down, I’d cup some water in my hands and drink it like that; it cooled my dry mouth. I suddenly laugh out loud. Me and water! Water. Water always seems to surround me. My destiny since birth, since conception I suppose. Wading, pushing, kicking in my mother’s uterus. I still remember Mama telling me how I kept her up most nights, jabbing her womb, pushing against her diaphragm, her bladder. You were a troubled child, she said scornfully, even before you entered this crazy world. I take one last look at the clock and lift my hands out of the scorching water, wipe them on a rag and put on my coat.
“Quitting time!” I shout at the cooks but they don’t look up. “Good night bastards," I whisper under my breath before pushing open the back door and walking through the parking lot. Graffiti is splattered on the stucco. Some Arabic words. For one second, the black, thick strokes almost make me feel that I’m still in Beirut dodging bullets and broken glass. Suddenly the restaurant door opens and one of the old cooks calls out my name. I turn around.
“Yeah, did I forget to wash a dish?” I ask abruptly.
Salem walks towards me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t forget to come over to my place around seven. My wife has been slaving away in the kitchen.”
“Oh, yeah," I say softly. “I’ll be there. Don’t you cook at home?” I ask, looking into Salem’s deep-set eyes. He’s in his mid-fifties, round belly, but tall and broad-shouldered. I imagine he must’ve been quite handsome when he was younger with his full lips and long eyelashes. Now his broad shoulders droop and his long lashes are secondary to the dark circles under his eyes.
He laughs, squeezing my shoulders hard. “No, no. That’s woman’s work. My wife does all the cooking at home.”
“The cleaning, dishwashing and laundry too, I bet.”
“Of course! So, I’ll see you around seven?”
I nod and watch Salem enter the kitchen again, the smell of shish kabobs and fried kibbee balls wafting through the early evening air.
The vendor shaves off the seasoned meat from the rotisserie, the large knife in his hand moves quickly over the slab of chicken. Then he places these shaved pieces on pita bread, covers the meat with vegetables, squirts some garlic sauce and wraps it together before handing it to me. I thank the man, who goes on to serve the next person in line. I devour the chicken shawarma. I know I should be saving my appetite for later but I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. The restaurant sometimes lets me eat there for free but I always feel like a second-class citizen hidden in the kitchen, away from the regular customers. Even when I’d offer to pay, my boss would tell me to stay in the kitchen, that the tables are reserved for patrons. But I want to pay, that makes me a customer, I’d bark back. This only got me more dish duty. I guess Mama was right. I am trouble.
On the way home, I finish the last bite of the sandwich, garlic sauce drips down my chin, which I wipe with a crumpled napkin, and then I toss it and the wrapper into my neighbour’s trash can. When I unlock the front door, Denise greets me with a kiss. Denise is the other tenant in the house. We’ve been seeing each other for about five months. When I first met her, she said she loved Middle Eastern men. She grabs my hand and pulls me upstairs. I don’t even have time to remove my boots. She pushes me on the bed and undoes my pants. The springs of my old mattress creak with each movement. With my coat still on, she moves on top of me so fast that I groan and come in a matter of minutes. “Thanks, my Arabian prince!” she teases, blowing me a farewell kiss, already at the door. When she found out that my name means ‘prince’, she started calling me ‘Arabian prince’. My Arabian prince. But I’m not a prince. Far from it, I think.
I lift my head up and moan, “You shouldn’t love me. I’m trouble.”
She rushes back in and gives me another kiss on the mouth. I am ready to go again but she only looks down at my engorged cock and whispers, “Who said you’re trouble?”
“My mother.”
“Well, she’s wrong. You’re handsome. Look at those big, brown eyes and curly hair. An Arabian prince!” She glances at my penis again and sighs, “Sorry, but I have to go to work. Maybe we can have a play date later on.”
“I’ll be home late. I promised one of the old cooks that I’d go to his place for dinner.” I laugh and peer down, “Don’t worry. My hand will take care of this.” I gyrate my hips.
“Naughty. On second thought, your Mom is right. You’re trouble.”
I grab a pillow and throw it in her direction. But she’s already out the bedroom door. “Have fun tonight. I’ll see you later.” I listen to her gentle footsteps fade away. Then I get up and walk to the bathroom. I glance at my face, rubbing the stubble on my chin before I strip off my clothes and slip into the shower.
When I return to my room, my flesh is still warm from the hot water and I’m almost tempted to crawl under the covers of my bed and sleep, just for a few minutes, but I know if I do this, I’ll fall into a deep sleep and won’t wake up in time for Salem’s dinner party, so I focus on getting dressed, slipping on a pair of navy dress pants and a grey sweater. My body is sluggish as I put on my coat and tie a scarf around my neck. I walk slowly down the hallway but then quicken my pace and take the front steps down two at a time.