Teddy Wayne - Kapitoil

I rerouted through Times Square, as I had not been there in several weeks. While I waited at a corner, a man nearby with an advertisement on a board surrounding his body said, “Naked girls! No cover! $10 lap dance specials all night!” A mother was adjacent to me with her young daughter, and she covered her daughters’ ears by pretending to hug her.

I wanted to call Zahira when I came home, but it was too late in Doha. On Monday morning I called as I ate my labneh and pita, but my father answered. “Is Zahira at university now?” I asked him.

“It’s pleasant to hear from you as well,” he said.

I asked him how his business was progressing.

“Not well,” he said. “That’s why I’m home early. No one entered the shop today. I told Qasim I will have to let him go.”

“But he has worked for you for four years,” I said. “And without him, you will have to spend extra hours stocking and cleaning the store.”

“I cannot afford his salary. If I must work harder, then that is what I will do.”

“You should update your computer inventory system,” I said. His computer is obsolete and not connected to the Internet. “For instance, you do not currently use it to search for different suppliers, which could help you find lower prices and—”

“I am satisfied with my current arrangement,” he said.

It was frustrating, because I had several ideas for how a new computer could benefit his business, but I knew he wouldn’t listen. So I discarded the idea and told him he should advertise his shop in the newspapers, as I’ve advised him to do for years, because his shop does provide a valuable and unique service of searching for items that are difficult to locate. “You must spend money to make money,” I said.

“Advertising inflates prices without enhancing the product,” he said.

“Yes, but with greater profits from advertising, the manufacturer or supplier can then work on enhancing the product.” It’s an argument we’ve had frequently and we always state the same ideas, and I was able to discuss it while I tied up my full kitchen trash bag to deposit in the hallway incinerator.

“A new department store recently opened nearby,” he said. “Nearly everything I have they also have, plus additional products. And now there is an advertisement on our street for it that depicts a white female coloring her lips.”

Outside my window were many advertisements depicting females doing much more than that. “That is the means by which consumers respond,” I said. “It’s normal.”

“It’s immoral. And if we permit foreign companies to advertise like that here, soon Qatari companies will advertise similarly.”

“Showing females’ bodies is not necessarily immoral,” I said. I was about to tell him about the Cezanne paintings, but he interrupted.

“Is that what you think after one month as an American banker?” His voice was sharp like a right angle on the words “American banker.” “Have you completely adopted American values?”

I didn’t know why he had to note that I was an American banker , as I was a banker before, and he never previously criticized me for my profession. “I have not completely adopted American values. But after spending time here and seeing more of the world than merely Doha, I see that not all of them are harmful.”

“If you think that, then you are already brainwashed,” he said.

If there is one thing I dislike, it’s someone telling me that I am not in control of my own thoughts. “I would rather be brainwashed than not have a brain at all,” I said. “You are jealous because you don’t have the skills to succeed in a field like mine.”

After a period of muteness, he said, “I will tell Zahira to call you,” and disconnected.

The piece of paper on which Fawaz had written his address and telephone number was on my kitchen table. His address in Queens was in Arabic letters. I found an opening in the kitchen trash bag and put the paper inside, and in the hallway I threw it down the incinerator and shut the small door with force and went to work.

While I was in a restroom partition in the afternoon, I heard Jefferson and Dan use the urinals. Under the door I saw their feet at opposite ends of the row. Dan said, “My friend Tim’s coming in this weekend. Want to go to Gentlemen Only with us?”

“Yeah,” Jefferson said. “This time I’m getting the champagne room.”

“Didn’t you hear? There’s no sex in the champagne room,” Dan said.

They sang those words multiple times, and then Jefferson said, “Fuck that, if I’m shelling out 200 bucks, I’m getting a hand job,” and Dan said, “I hear that,” and they both left without depressing the flush handles or washing their hands.

I didn’t see Rebecca the next two days, which relieved me, as I still didn’t know what to say. Then I finally innovated something. The brain frequently works in the background on another problem when it is solving something else.

Sender: Karim Issar

Recipient: Rebecca A. Goldman

Date: Tue, 2 Nov 1999 21:14:38

Subject: I am a…

…tool.

I waited for her to reply, and when she didn’t I grew panicked that she no longer wanted to be my friend at all. But on Wednesday morning she wrote:

You don’t owe me any apology/explanation. If you want to, though, you can come to a party my roommate and I are throwing on Friday. Details below.

I told her I would attend, but she didn’t write back then or the remainder of the week, and I didn’t see her in the coffee room.

Zahira emailed that she didn’t have time to call me but that she had received a 97 on another biology exam. She didn’t mention anything about our father.

sylvan = related to forests

tableau = picture

Rebecca’s building didn’t have an elevator. A female with short very blonde hair like a boy’s with plastic clips in it answered the door. She held a drink and wore a black dress that was the class of dress on old movie stars.

“Hellooo,” she said as if she were singing a note. I didn’t hear anyone else inside.

I tried to look into the room, but I didn’t see anyone. “Is this the apartment of Rebecca Goldman?”

“It is. You’re Karim, I take it?”

The solitary way she could know my name was if Rebecca had talked to her about me, which would be positive, but only if she gave me kudos. “Is this the night of the party?” I asked.

“It is indeed the night of the party. You’re a little early, hot stuff.”

In fact I wasn’t early, because the invitation stated the party started at 10:00 p.m. and it was 10:04 p.m., but I didn’t correct her. She told me her name was Jessica, and waved for me to follow her inside and danced as she walked to the sounds of a fast song that I didn’t recognize, then yelled for Rebecca.

Rebecca entered in jeans and an informal shirt, which I had never seen her wear before.

“This is for your guests,” I said, and offered her a container of ma’amoul I had baked and juice I had poured into a two-liter bottle of Coke. “And for you, of course.”

“Thank you.” She put the container on the table with the other food and held the juice. “I hope Jessica didn’t scare you off.”

“No, she is not scary,” I said.

“Can I fix you a drink?” Jessica asked. “I make a mean mojito.”

Before I could respond, Rebecca said, “Hey, don’t start stealing away my guests.” She directed me to give my coat to Jessica and to come into the kitchen, where there were several bottles of liquor and also nonalcoholic beverages. She handed me a red plastic cup. “Have whatever you like. Or your juice.” I had told her about the juice previously at work and urged her to have it because it is high in antioxidants. She tried it once and said she disliked the flavor. I told her most things people dislike are in fact healthy for them.