Time passes and the bar continues to fill up, as if young people had resisted the temptation to go out on the night of the explosion but ended up caving in.
In Beirut, time would be a bitter drink without alcohol to sweeten its taste.
Tonight, music is playing low, as if the bar, in support of Hamra Street, decided to offer itself as a meeting place for those mourning the explosive capital. We were among them.
But at around 1:30 a.m., the bar owner realizes people are slamming drinks, so the music gets louder and people’s voices along with it. Conversations are heard over others and words are flying left and right like random shots.
The bar is packed; people are squeezing themselves in and exchanging “bonsoirs” up close and at a distance. They’re energetic and friendly. Most of the people who come to this bar are gay, which reduces the chances of bar fights and doubles the commitment to fun. The waiter runs around with his arm extended in the air, carrying a small circular black tray with glasses containing mostly clear and gold liquid, vodka and whiskey. People are serious about getting drunk tonight. Hardly any juice or artificial flavors are added to the alcohol. The attack is clear. The wound is being purified with alcohol.
Now, it’s time for the main sedative, and so, it’s time to go home.
I land heavily on my bed, not sliding into it like the belles on television. And when I wake up in the morning, I notice that I left behind an imprint on the surface, one that a sack of potatoes would leave—not a gentle young lady. As for the pillow, it refuses to look at me. It’s mad at me. I look at it and try to flatten it, but, never. Its cover is wrinkled, its filling is lumpy. It’s had a rough night and I’m having a sore morning.
A headache, as usual, is how I pay for the night before.
I can tell the day’s shot. I pretend to mourn the lost day but, internally, I don’t really mind. I wink at my inner self; with this announcement, I hereby release myself from the responsibility of accomplishing anything today.
I will sit at my comfortable dining table and eat whatever junk food I want, because today, I’m officially hung over. Alcohol has left its mark on me and on my body.
I’m sick.
My cell phone rings.
And before I check who’s calling, I decide not to pick up.
But still, I should check who’s calling me. It’s Zeezee.
I’ll answer.
“Hello.”
“Oy.”
“A bloody death, Zeezee.”
“A great evil.”
“I feel defeated.”
“I feel empty.”
“I’m in pain.”
“I’m dying.”
“My kingdom for medicine.”
“Something has to be done. I can’t go through the day like this, I’ll die.”
“I woke up two hundred hours ago, did you just wake up?”
“Yeah,” she answers guiltily because I always make her feel bad about waking up at two in the afternoon after we go out.
I say nothing to sink the guilt in more.
She stays quiet, waiting for me to stop my guilt trip, and, if I don’t, she’ll probably hang up and move on with her life without me or my blame in it. So I break the silence, not because I’m a good soul and want to ease her pain since she’s already suffering from her hangover, but because I don’t want her to leave me by myself in this factory of boredom. I also want her to set up a get-together. And so, I will not ask what time it is, as if no such concept exists, and I will go back to the last sentence she said—what was it that she said? Oh, that she’s dying.
“I’ve already died. My spirit is talking to you from the other side. And by the way, the weather here is wonderful!”
“Where?”
“In the afterlife.”
“Oh. Your sense of humor in the afternoon.”
“Fine, got it.”
“Okay, now what?”
“It’s Saturday, going out is our right.”
“True. I agree.”
“Where to?”
“To the countryside.”
“Like where?”
“Up on the mountains.”
“In Sannin?”
“Why not, Zeezee?”
“Who’s going to drive us there?”
“I will.”
“Ha ha ha.”
“I can borrow Shwikar’s car if she’s working on the weekend as usual. But, come on, what work? The girl draws for a living! So maybe I can . . .”
“No.”
“Ha. I was testing you. I know you guys would rather get stuck inside a grave than in a car with me. Alright then, Miss Picky, who’s going to drive us now?”
“I’ll ask Georgios.”
“I’ll wait for your text.”
“Bye.”
I place the phone next to me on the long, wide sofa and go back to watching Télé Liban. I love that channel; it rarely ever talks about the current news and instead dives into the past. At night, I love to watch its old black-and-white talk shows in French back from when it was the only television channel in Lebanon, and back when French female news broadcasters were a natural phenomenon on Lebanese television. The broadcasters would host famous people like poet Said Akl, party leader Kamal Jumblatt, and Sheikh Sobhi al-Saleh, and ask them trivial questions that they would answer with deep thoughts—out of context, but deeply philosophical. They would ask vague questions on an intellectual television program where time played no role.
There’s silence. I am too scared to watch a current interview on Lebanese television. I don’t know who told today’s broadcasters that a key element in any conversation is violence and embarrassing the guest as much as possible, even if the guest is not a politician and has no decision-making power. I become a witness to a verbal takedown whose victim is an expert on art or culture or sports or whatever. The role of the guest doesn’t matter; what matters is attacking them. The civil war might be the source of this violence, or maybe it’s the fact that a bomb might go off at any minute. Or maybe it’s the total disappearance of self-control. Or the utter absence of civilized behavior by politicians in my country. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever it is, I
