The Outcast Hours

by Mahvesh Murad

  Regardless of how the performance is affecting Hassan, he will not condone this kind of behavior, or the impression it will leave on all of these young people watching and leering. How did their parents let them come to this? Do they even know where their children are?

  A jab on his right side shakes Hassan out of his jumbled thoughts. Omar nudges him as violently as possible, trying to snap him out of whatever daydream he has the luxury to indulge in.

  “Dim the lights, Hassan,” Omar hisses. “You missed your cue. Just the yellow lights now. Quickly!”

  This happens at every event and Omar is sick of it.

  This time he is seriously considering telling their manager. This cannot go on. Hassan is always distracted by the girls at the parties, or the female performers, or the bride’s friends at weddings, running around and shaking their hips in short dresses.

  He was wrong to get Hassan a job at the sound and light company he’s been with for 10 years now. He always knew it was a bad idea, but his mother had pestered him for months to find Hassan a job. Their mothers were close friends and had lived in the same building since they were both young newlyweds. They got pregnant in the same month and gave birth two weeks apart. Omar was just two weeks older than Hassan, but was forever carrying his load.

  Had this been anyone else, Omar would immediately tell their manager that Hassan is more preoccupied with the guests at these events than he is with the job. And the job is to control the labyrinth of light equipment and wires and nodes and knobs: making them brighter or dimmer, flicker or sparkle, according to the music or the performance, while Omar makes sure the maze of sound speakers and microphones and audio files worked—on cue and without delay. Then they pack up and take all the equipment back to the office.

  It is a subtle art. Its subtlety is not in the actual management of all of these elements: it is doing so while remaining completely invisible. While blending into the background and not making eye contact with any of the guests at these events—especially the women.

  After so long in the business, Omar has grown accustomed to the way these women act, the way they dress, the makeup they wear, and—most importantly—the way they move, all of which grow bolder with the passing of each year. The girls get younger. Their dresses get shorter. They balance on towering heels, cocktails in hand, shaking and jumping up and down for everyone to see.

  Over time, the rules he had been raised to believe in gave way bit by bit, until he reached this place—where he knows better than to view these scenes with a critical eye. Sometimes he worries that his views are becoming more liberal, an empty word he cannot put a solid frame around or fully understand, but keeps hearing from television presenters on talk shows warning viewers of a changing society.

  At one point—he has trouble remembering when—Omar decided it was more comfortable to not give these things much thought. He still finds these women attractive, of course, and has intimate daydreams featuring a few of the ones he sees all around town, but he knows better by now than to humor these thoughts with anything more than a passing smile.

  Omar smiles at Ranwa—and she smiles back. She is already tipsy at that point in the night and takes advantage of his smile to put her drink on the table next to his mixer, even though she knows that is not allowed. Hassan growls at her then and was about to tell her to move the tall glass with ice, lemon and a little drink still left over, away from all the wires. But Omar glares at him and if Hassan knows anything, it is when to shut up around Omar. It is part of this weird relationship they have: Hassan always feels like he owes Omar something and Omar always likes carrying that hefty sense of power.

  Omar thinks Ranwa winks at him before she swings around to dance to the next song that came on. It was that subtle sense of deal-making that transverses gender and class and social structures. Omar has grown accustomed to it, but it was exactly that kind of invisible negotiation that Hassan will never grasp.

  Omar knows her name from people shouting it over the music all the time. She’s popular enough that everyone who walks into these parties has to say hello, in the most exaggerated fashion possible, as if she was hosting them in her own home.

  She comes to parties like it was her job, but he knew it wasn’t. He always checks the pictures from these parties on Instagram and eventually he found her profile. He knows she’s in advertising and drives one of those fancy cars. He knows where she goes for breakfast the morning after every weekend party, and he knows her best friend’s favorite ice cream flavor because they go to the same gelato shop in the fancy part of town every Wednesday night.

  Although their exchange lasts less than two seconds, it helps get Omar through another dreary week. He knows he would see Ranwa at next Friday’s party. She is as much a fixture at these events as he is, for different reasons and playing a different role, but it is the one context in which they both fit comfortably, and that gives him a kind of mental and physical energy that nothing in his real normal life ever does.

  Omar will never admit this to anyone, but he once waited around the gelato store for hours, until Ranwa and her friend showed up. He knows this was a dangerous desire to accommodate, but he swore he would do it just this once. He needed to see what she was like on a normal day; outside of that dark room, where he always made sure the strobe lights danced around her as she moved.

  He walked right past her. She was laughing and speaking to her friend in her signature, animated way. She looked right into his eyes, and straight through him. Without missing a beat, she carried on with her story, and her gestures, and the flipping of her straightened hair that was colored to look like caramel glazed marble. It was as if they’d never seen each other before.

  Omar was not the least bit slighted. He’d gotten what he came for, a brief glimpse into Ranwa’s real life: outside of the club where she so carefully acted her part, and outside of her meticulously crafted profile page. He was under no irrational pretense that she would communicate with him in this world, it was too out of context. This was not the space they could both inhabit and interact. But he also knew that next Friday, at around 2:30 am, when she could barely balance on her heels and she needed to put her drink down somewhere, Ranwa would come to his invisible corner and playfully put her glass down next to his mixer. Maybe she would even wink at him again.

  Hassan relaxes now that the play is over, but Omar shoves wires into bags and pushes the equipment around angrily as they pack up to leave.

  “Hey, relax Omar, it’s not the end of the world. So we missed one light switch cue, no one even noticed. Not even this woman, what’s her name?” Hassan tries to remember the name of the performer, but he barely read the event flyer and genuinely does not care what her story is.

  He is sick of Omar acting like an angry father every time someone makes a mistake. Who does he think he is, just because he got him one job?

  It was like Omar to act like he’s better than everyone around him and like he has everything figured out. He was especially antsy and frustrated at their gigs, and even more so when the gig was one of these socialite parties. It was as if he cared about these people and this whole society life more than he did about his real friends and family. He’s even started dressing differently. The neighbors talk about him behind his back, so that his poor mother keeps having to make excuses for his behavior.

  Omar stops rolling the cable and looks at Hassan. “It’s not the end of the world right now, no. But keep messing up, keep making me look bad, and we’ll both be out of a job.”

  Losing this job and having to do something trivial, like driving a taxi or working the kitchen in a restaurant like he did before, is traumatizing. Just the thought of it makes Omar’s heart race. He couldn’t afford to lose this job, for financial reasons obviously — he still has to take care of his mother and three younger siblings — but more so because it was difficult to build up trust with companies that worked these gigs. It has taken him years to do so. What would his life look like without having access to t
hese weekly parties? Where else would he see Ranwa? Where else could she smile and wink at him?

  Ranwa was not at the party last night, and she hasn’t updated her profile in three days. He is worried; a tiny bit hurt, as if she’d stood him up. This morning he woke up, knowing they had to be at this gig and that another week was about to start, and he just couldn’t bear it. He knows better than to think this way, but her absence has already spoiled his whole week and he just wants to fast forward to next Friday.

  Omar is completely dependent on seeing her regularly. He yells at Hassan when he makes mistakes and jabs him as violently, always reminding him to remain invisible, to stare less, to stop scowling. But for Omar, it was different. Omar knows when to be the invisible light technician, and when he can be the guy standing by a table, where Ranwa can rest her drink.

  He will never admit the fact that, over time, he hopes to blur the lines even more. It will take a lot of work, and that subtle negotiation he has learned over the years, but if there is any way to widen that grey space where both their lives meet, he was sure he’d find a way to make it happen.

  Hassan takes advantage of Omar being lost in thought to pay him back for that violent poke in his side earlier. He elbows Omar, not so gently, and yells, “Get moving, Omar. We have to go home, and don’t forget we need to pick up your mother’s medicine.”

  Ranwa wakes up with a smashing headache on Friday. The night before took an awkward turn, and now she feels like she has to break up with her boyfriend of three months. He’d become a nice enough companion, but she could no longer stand having him hang around her all the time. She knows if she had genuine feelings for him then she wouldn’t start every day feeling so distracted from him, and end every night in some kind of sugar-coated fight.

  She’d love to stay in bed and binge on something, but it is Friday and that came with expectations all around. First from her family, then from her friends. The day was split into two equal parts with two different vibes and noise levels—although her mother could be quite loud when she needed to be.

  She hears the banging on the door and knows it would only get louder if she stayed in bed.

  “Breakfast is on the table and it’s almost time for prayer. Your father is waiting,” her mother yells.

  Ranwa detangles herself from the layers of covers. It was always so much colder on the outskirts of Cairo than it was in the city. She hated having to move here and leave their home in the more central suburbs of the capital. But they flocked here years ago like the rest of the city’s well-to-dos because, well, who knew what would become of the capital once the popular classes took over? Here, inside the walls of this gated community, with its fake grass and dog poop everywhere, everyone feigned an air of predictable safety. (Until, that is, one of their own is murdered in a posh villa, making it clear that the young, untrained security guards at the gates don’t give a shit if the people inside live or die. Or, less tragic, but equally unsettling, when the unexpected winter rains came and the neighborhood flooded, displaying the poor infrastructure and drowning out the millions of pounds poured into the persistent urban sprawl.)

  “Ranwa!”

  She goes downstairs, kisses her parents kindly on their cheeks, and sits down to their ritualistic Friday breakfast. After, she joins her mother while her father goes to prayer. It is their weekly chance to catch up and she adores it, although she would never let it show.

  She actually wishes she could stay in the rest of the day—enjoy the quiet and her family. But her phone starts beeping in preparation for another night out. Her mother notices, as she always does.

  “Will you be out late again today?”

  “It only feels late to you, Mom, because you stay in the whole night. It wouldn’t feel late if you went out and came home like normal people,” she snaps back.

  “I’m not sure 4 am feels late, darling, it’s actually the next day.” Her mother always says something to the same effect, and so it has lost all meaning.

  By early evening she was choosing an outfit and thinking of the conversation she needs to have with Assem, to let him know this will be their last weekend as a couple.

  The weather is cold, but the club would get hot after a bit of dancing, plus she had this new dress that she needed to wear and post about before the party. It is short, a little shorter than she usually wore and much shorter than her parents would like. But, as she would tell them, “It only feels short to you because you don’t see what the other girls wear now.”

  She stuffs herself in the tight blue dress and snaps strappy heels on over stockings that barely protect from a light breeze. She’s already texted Assem to turn the heater on in the car before he picked her up, so it would be warm when she got in. She is a planner.

  Before they leave, Assem comes inside to take some pictures. It takes more than 30 tries before he got the right one of her casually climbing down the stairs. She thinks how much of a hassle it would be to teach her next boyfriend all the little tricks.

  Omar scrolls through his Instagram frantically. He has been following her long enough to know that she’d post something about what she’s wearing on her way to the party. That is, if she is coming this week.

  He has to be at the club early to set up all equipment and make sure it is working. Hassan was slowing him down this morning, and he was anxious enough as it was, so he left earlier than usual and took the whole metro ride alone.

  Omar had been there for an endless number of hours, long before the team of organizers and artists and musicians transformed this plain square room into a legitimate party venue; a place to be envied by everyone who couldn’t get past the kids handling the guest list at the door.

  Eventually, she pops up on his feed, and he takes a deep breath. She is on her way.

  Omar has no plan except to see her, even for a moment. His mind plays out scenarios where she had to acknowledge, briefly, his existence. He needs this reassurance. He needs her to tell him, as subtly as she has to, that they both exist in the same space. That he exists at all.

  Three hours pass and the club starts filling up. He knows that she’d be allowed in, no matter how late she arrives, or how packed the party becomes. Her being there is a validation for the event and the venue. And it will be a validation for him.

  The room swirls around her when she walks in. Hugs and kisses fly all around her as she floats through the crowd. Ranwa takes her drink from Assem’s reliable hands, and starts sipping, dancing on her high heels to the thumping, repetitive electronic beats.

  Tonight, Omar doesn’t make himself look away. He even bobs his head along to the music with the rest of the crowd. They don’t notice anyway, and he easily ignores Hassan’s judgmental glares.

  The crowd gets louder and drunker, matching the vibe of the music as it speeds up.

  Omar can see Ranwa dancing, and bickering with Assem at the same time. She is obviously annoyed, but keeps a showy smile on her face. She turns around and catches Omar’s eye; he tries to keep from blinking.

  She makes her way out of Assem’s grasp and teeters across the dance floor to his station. He has kept the right side of the table clear, in anticipation of one of her empty drinks, but he notices that this one isn’t empty yet.

  She smiles as she gets closer to his table, and begins the silent negotiation. Ranwa stands next to him, and, without saying a word, she puts her glass on his table. He gives her a slight nod, it is all he could manage. His throat is so dry he considered taking a sip from her drink but knows that would never fly. He wants to at least ask, “are you ok?”, “do you need help?”, but nothing comes out.

  Ranwa preoccupies herself, getting her lipstick and small mirror out of her tiny bag. She needs a break, but she can’t be seen standing at the corner of the room doing nothing, talking to no one. As she reapplies her plum lipstick, Omar can see Assem tracing her out of the crowd and heading towards her.

  “Why are you just standing here?” he asks loud enough to be heard over the musi
c.

  “Nothing, I’ll be right over.”

  “No, don’t be weird. Get your drink and let’s go back.”

  “Assem, I said I’d be right there. Just give me a second.”

  In less than a breath of time, Assem puts his right arm around her waist. With his left hand, already juggling his own drink, he tries to grab her glass from the table. He fails, and one slips, crashing down on Omar’s lighting mixer.

  In one clouded moment, Omar can hear Hassan shouting as he scrambles to get the lights working again. He can see Ranwa looking back at him as she makes her way through the crowd, offering only a meek smile as she goes. He can see Assem kissing her neck, as she puts her arm around his waist and begins dancing again.

  Their boss didn’t give second chances when it came to botched equipment. There were strict rules, and, as he had so often reminded Hassan, they were there for a reason. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t allow liquids around the equipment. Don’t ever be distracted by the women at these parties.

  Omar could see himself driving a taxi for the foreseeable future, but, worst of all, he knew that this was the last time he was going to see her.

  The Dental Gig

  S. L. Grey

  Sometimes, when Frankie’s jamming in a three-hour nap between jobs in the laundry room, she senses her children watching her. They appear in the blackout blindness of whatever time it is and stare at her as if she’s a strange exhibit that might bite. When she feels them there, Frankie gropes at the periphery of her slumber, trying to haul herself up and awake, trying to shake the heaviness off herself, and speak to them. But, always, she slips back down and must only content herself with dreams, flickering between the golden leaves in balmy autumn breezes. The only time Frankie’s body is really awake is when she’s working, far away from everyone and anything she loves.