I’m like a house with two televisions. I transition from age to age, and from one way of adapting to life to another. Sometimes I get stuck in transition, so some things of the past remain while others of the present begin to fade, and what is hiding behind today reveals itself. So I am currently following two systems of living.
In my younger years, as in my twenties, I fought life and tried to prove my existence so it wouldn’t be able to erase me. But now, at the age I’m in, which I’m not going to specify because I’m living it, life doesn’t feel like it’s trying to erase me. It feels like it can now contain me, but I have to convince myself of that and act accordingly and not by force.
I am not certain of this new emotion, but I can feel it. It has many downsides to it, like grouchiness, and darkness, and despair, but it also calls for me to behave like I have the right to exist, even if only in my little life. I imagine this new emotion like a spirit sneaking into my inner world, inviting me to take control, and not stealing myself and fleeing the scene. This ghost is encouraging me to become complete. And this story will help me convince myself of that. I have to write it.
But, how does it end?
I slide the key into the keyhole of the front door. I go in, quickly turn the hallway light on, look around the place, head toward the living room, and toss my purse onto the couch and toss myself down next to it. I look around. I get up, take out a beer from the fridge, empty half of it in a glass and head to my desk.
My body and mind are exhausted because of the vodka I drank. We celebrated the cancellation of my flight and now I can’t stop thinking and fall asleep.
I’m only going to write one chapter drunk; then I’ll call it a night. And in the morning, I’ll write a second chapter with a hangover and some coffee.
I don’t know if that’s a mistake. But I like to write about life in Beirut, a life of drunkenness and headaches, for those wanting to experience them both.
My phone rings. I crawl from behind my desk to my cozy living room, feeling endlessly heavy, grab my phone off my couch, read the name calling and answer:
“Hi, Zeezee.”
“I have to go to the airport.”
“Why?”
“My sister Teetee’s flying in from Paris today.”
“A regular visit?”
“No, an occasion.”
“Good news, I hope.”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Woohoo! You’re going to be an aunt! Aunt Zeezee. Ha.”
“I know. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it when she told me over the phone. I think it will sink in when I see her. All I can think of right now is my hangover. And because she’s flying into Beirut with a bambino in her belly, the whole family is driving down to the airport to welcome her back. Goddamn you, your travel plans, your novel, your drinks and everything about you . . .”
“Merci. Did she start thinking of names?”
“Yeah. And she knows exactly what she’s going to call him or her.”
“That fast?”
“If it’s a boy, Jad, if it’s a girl, then Jood.”
“It was that easy? How original!”
“And you, missy? What are your favorite baby names?”
“If a boy, Ahmad, if a girl, Sahar.”
“Nice. Ahmad, a religious name that reflects your beliefs and devoutness, and Sahar, an awesome name too, for an Egyptian belly dancer.”
“Ha ha. The religious belly dancer, sister of the devout Arab brother.”
“Ha ha. What are your plans today?”
“Eating. Grazing and lazing.”
“Okay. Call you tonight.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.”
I brew a cup of American coffee, pour a lot of brown sugar in it, and carry it in my right hand along with a glass of ice as I head to my desk.
There’s a blessing in hard work.
. . .
I’ve been at it for two days now.
I didn’t cancel my vacation days from work even though I haven’t traveled anywhere.
I spent two days of my vacation at home. Writing. Drinking. Smoking. Eating. Then writing again.
Day three passes.
It’s day four now and it happens to be my friends’ day off, so Zeezee calls me at one in the afternoon.
“How’s your novel coming along?”
“I’ve almost finished it.”
“So fast?”
“I’m a fast writer, and I’m also using excerpts that I had already written when I first decided to do this.”
“And it’s going well?”
“I think so. Do you want to read what I’ve written so far? Be careful though, I’m talking about ninety pages of A4 paper.”
“Whoa! Of course I want to read it. Should I come over now?”
“Yeah, now.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
She reads and I think. How can I write the ending while the events are still taking place in real life? I have to find a stopping point.
I’m not going to write about my friends and me in my next novel—it’s going to be pure fiction. I’ll probably think of some ideas by then, and they might be good ones, too. I smile and head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of young rosé wine.
“What about me?”
“You’re reading the novel, you need to focus.”
“But your novel makes me want to drink. I’ve reached the part about the Pacifico party.”
“Ha ha. My story must be working, then. It must be good.”
“Your story? What are we? Extras?”
“Of course you are. Extras in my story, as usual.”
We laugh. We drink. She reads.
I interrupt her.
“How’s Teetee?”
“Oh Gooooood! The bambino kicked me yesterday.”
“Jood—or Jad—must be a smart baby.”
“Yo mama’s smart!”
“Merci.”
“Okay, can I finish reading the story?”
“One final question.”
“What?”
“There’s a sentence in my head that I can’t figure out where to place in the text.
