Monday, June 18, 2007

The Truth?

The story I tell my family is that we met salsa dancing. I tell them we emailed all summer before our first date, during which I cooked for her—coconut rice and peas with fried plantain and steamed broccoli. But then I envision my grandmother’s knowing grin as she recognizes the romantic qualities of a man cooking for a woman. So I quickly direct their attention to her beauty, “She is a poet, a biologist, Ghanaian.” And they smile. Everyone, on some level, can appreciate a conservative front, even if it is only skin deep.

But it’s not entirely false either, just a rose-hue to color the grays of the pessimistic eye. You see the truth is I met her in Soma, a hip-hop club, while hunting with my wingman and unnamed player extraordinaire. Nor do I tell them that even in the darkness, her hips in her short skirt were as smooth as wheel-thrown pottery. Nor do I mention the fact that she wouldn’t give me her number and that that was the real reason for our email correspondence. But they do know that I care for her, maybe they even know that I love her, despite the fact that that information I most certainly omit. What’s curious though is that more than likely they wouldn’t care where or how I met her. Sure they enjoy hearing of our fairy tale encounter, the romantic dates, the charming courtship, and the innocent intentions. But what is probably most accurate is that I am afraid that the possibility of their judgment would bruise me.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Call me 'Old Man'

As I sit at the edge of the U Penn pool, earning my free membership, I try to keep my mind alert, despite a still body and fixed gaze. I find more creative ways to combat the monotony of watching the scantily clad do laps. I recount the swimmers, unnecessarily dividing them into number of men and women, and devising overcomplicated systems of remembering the steadily growing amounts. I text a beloved friend, and receive a reply. I plan the rest of my day, my week, month, year...in each case setting incremental goals to make the insurmountable seem manageable.
But today, amidst the meditative supervision, a rather unexpected event occurs. A stranger swimming in lane one summons me, pronouncing my name with an arresting familiarity.
"Yes sir?"
"Could you please support me as I exit the pool?" he respectfully requests in accented English. I can't place it though. Southeastern Europe? Middle Eastern?
I meet him at the steps and hold his large, wrinkled hand for the duration of his climb. When he is securely on the deck, he smooths his white wiry hair, dramatic against his tanned skin. He is short, maybe 5'5". And as I look down at him, I notice the square ends of his claw-like toenails, and worry that this old man lives alone. I stand near to him as he hobbles down the pool.
"Thank you Amir. I'm going to use the sauna for five minutes."
"Oh ok."
"So please help me again then. When I sit it is difficult to get up."
"Oh ok," I repeat. The inflection in my voice conveys my understanding. "So in five minutes then."
"Yes please. Don't forget. If you forget..." He finishes the sentence by cutting the air before him horizontally with his hand. The sauna warning springs to mind, recommending at 160 degrees to take a break every 10 minutes, and use no longer than 30 minutes.
It is 12:54 when I return to my guarding post. By 12:59 I have checked my watch 15 times. I find the old man on his back, eyes closed.
"Hello?" I whisper.
"Yes, support my back please," he says while extending his hand, which I take quickly.
With great effort, he sits upright and then rests. I am beginning to sweat, but dare not leave. Finally, outside in the refreshingly humid 84 degrees, I escort him to the exit.
"I used to do everything you know," he says matter-of-factly. "Soccer, basketball, tennis, track, but now all I can do is swim."
"Oh yeah? I play those sports."
"Yes, well thank you again Amir."
"Your welcome. What is your name?"
"You can call me 'Old Man', but my name is Rauf."
"Really? my middle name is Rauf. Rauf meaning the Compassionate?"
"Indeed!" And he hobbles away, smiling.