Sunday, February 7, 2016

You'll Have to Pick Out the Truth




I could frame a series of evenings by the vehicles that will carry me to and fro.

Last night it was a Mercedes driven by a large French Egyptian poet. A woman. Her name was Soraya. She was driving a car for extra money, although it had already been five days, and the car company she worked for was dishonest and corrupt. She was waiting out a lawsuit, wreaked by unsavory characters in her business as realtor. She had a relative who was a billionaire. Yes, a billionaire, she said, and this relative dressed her dogs in designer sweaters even as homeless people camped out on Fountain Avenue, just down the street from the hospital where her husband, a cardiologist turned administrator, had made his billions. Can you imagine that, she said. Sweaters for dogs. I am writing a poem about this thing. My theory is that animal lovers are entirely selfish, narcissists, really.  She has an uncle with Alzheimer's, she told me, when I told her that I wrote about disability, about my daughter. The disabled are not counted, she said. He is a person. I talk to him with my eyes. I murmured, no getting in the edges. Wise. We talked about French poetry, how she thought in French, had never written in English. I told her to give it a go. I don't remember the context, but she said, You'll have to pick out the truth. She dropped me off at a bar on the west side, a dive bar where I was to meet a stranger and listen to music.

A young man named Ahok picked me up from the bar at 11:30 pm. I climbed into his luxury Prius. I've never ridden in such a big, nice Prius, I offered in the way of conversation. The dashboard glowed. My voice was hoarse from talking over music in the dive bar with the stranger. I had drunk two glasses of Cabernet, not Merlot. It's a regular size one, Ahok told me. It looks big because of the leather seats. I sank back into them, refrained from discouraging the use of the freeway, said instead, Well, you're driving me home from my first encounter with a stranger in almost 25 years. He shook his head. He wore cologne and a gold chain bracelet. Have you ever done that? I asked. Meet a stranger at a bar? He said he didn't believe in that. It wasn't right. I sank back, sunk, deeper into the leather seats that made his car look bigger than it was. I tried not to presume, assume. I imagined a burka, a garment dropping from the sky, covering my body, my flesh, a slit for my eyes, my beautiful eyes.

17 comments:

  1. Such brilliant writing and wow and keep it going I'm hungry for it.
    xor

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  2. Lovely Elizabeth. Venture further, more vehicles please!

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  3. Powerful and haunting, Elizabeth. Wow.

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  4. Woman! The poet in you has arisen with such force! Gorgeous!

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  5. Sounds like your rides were richer than your assignation?

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  6. Juicy! Whatever the truth, keep it going!

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  7. Looking forward to the next lines.

    Best,
    Bonnie

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  8. I love this, but wonder did it really happen to you or is a story!? Your life is so exotic in the big shitty... It's really wonderful. I look forward to your blog everyday!

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  9. Because you assume he would want you to be covered? I often have Saudi men in my ESL classes and i assume the same. I try not to but then i see their female counterparts covered, although not their faces. It drives me nuts.
    I don't know how not to be upset about it.

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    1. At the same time - as a commenter below noted and as I realize that you know - most Muslim women are not completely covered. I often have to remind myself that it is only because I was not born into that mindset do I not think that it is right. That feels like a privilege somehow.

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  10. What a fabulous tale you've woven, the beginning of a saga. I want to know more.

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  11. What beautiful poetry to make out of a date.

    I don't want to stand up for the way Muslims treat women, but not all Muslims believe in burkhas. Teh world of internet dating is not a beautiful one; I am all for freedom (and casual sex, and all, of course) but modern Western romance can be a hard sell when looked at in the cold light of day.

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  12. A riveting read. But please follow up with a piece about the stranger in the bar.

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  13. Glad to see you slip sliding into writing another one of your distinctive short pieces. Keep going! x0 N2

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  14. Well, even though I had dire warnings before entering your site I threw caution to the wind and ignored the virus warning. Still not sure what it is all about. Anyway, glad i did. I love your writing. I am hoping for another chapter!

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