by JD Dutra
“Hey what the hell are you doin’? Can’t you aim that thing into the toilet?”
“Sorry sir, I had too much to drink, apologies,” said Nazeer, as he hosed a dark orange stream onto the wall, painting it from side to side. The color of his urine was so dark and unnatural and he wondered if there was blood in it. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his curly hair and once he saw the deep orange flow in brighter light, his heart accelerated with fear. His urine had been strangely dark over the last few days, but this was a new, frightening tone, and it smelled like decay. The white tiles on the wall now had an orange film on them, and his urine began to pool at the bottom, spreading to other stalls.
“Damn you sicko, when I get up from this toilet I’m going to kick your door down and mop your piss with your face. Stop pissing on the floor!”
Nazeer ignored the irritated voice this time and once he was done he zipped his shorts up and pressed his wet hands onto the toilet paper rolls. He looked around the restroom sink and spat on his hands, rubbing the slick saliva around his palms then touched every single faucet before he left as the other fair attendees watched curiously. They failed to notice the man who walked out of the first stall, his pale colored pants wet and dark all down one leg.
The Iraqi’s mouth felt dry so he went to the drinking fountain right outside the restrooms, the cold water touched his lips and he drank from it with pleasure. Water was so hard to come by in his country, and for it to be flowing free of charge, cold and available whenever he wanted, was something which had to be appreciated. His father would’ve marveled at it, but the people from this place drank fully and thought nothing of it. They never seem to understand the cost of having this unnoticeable pleasure available to them. They waged war in his homeland so that potable water was an afterthought for their own citizens.
Like the Romans did long ago.
He drank a few mouthfuls of water and then swooshed some around his mouth, luxuriating in the feel of it on his tongue. Then he carefully poured the cloudy warm water from his mouth into the water fountain’s spout, dipping his fingertips in his own saliva as it pooled over the drain; he lightly coated the push button of the water fountain with it. When he finally let go and stepped away from it, two fathers who had children in strollers stopped their mindless chatter to take a drink.
Nazeer smiled and reached into his pocket, he had about eight thousand dollars in cash and just a day or two to spend it. He started to walk towards the largest attraction in the fair, the Ferris wheel, and he stood in line for a few moments, listening to people’s conversations. They talked about sports, celebrities, going to school. It was all so different from the topics his own people talked about when they got together. They talked about places that were safe from bombings, which sect was holding this or that area, and food. They dreamed about pizza, chocolate and ice cream with candy pieces in it, the food they only ever saw on the small and antique TVs when there was no fighting going on. Nazeer’s mouth watered and he decided to look for a place to eat from the top of the wheel.
“Come on in, Sir,” said a young and attractive African American girl to Nazeer, as she held the door to the Ferris wheel cabin open.
“Thank you very much, you are very kind,” he said in a smooth voice, letting his eyes linger on her young beauty. She turned to an older Hispanic man, who had a young boy in his arms and motioned for them to step into Nazeer’s cabin.
“Let’s go Abuelito!” Said the plump child, excited to be entering the cabin.
“I am so sorry, I rather go alone.” Said Nazeer to the young attendant.
“You have to go in at least pairs to balance out the weight in the cabin, Sir. I’m sorry.” Said the young staff member with a polite smile.
“It’s alright my friend, we don’t bite ok?” Said the old man, as he brushed his thick and somewhat wild gray mustache with his fingers. The attendant helped him and his grandson get secured in their seats.
Nazeer smiled at both of them, but when the Ferris wheel jerked forward to line up the cabin behind them for another set of passengers, he almost jumped out of his seat and gripped the gates firmly, trying to control the sudden flash of fear.
The child laughed and his grandpa followed suit.
“Is this your first time on the Ferris my friend?” The old man asked Nazeer.
“Yes, I’ve never been in one before,” he said, laughing nervously.
“This little guy and I come every year, it’s our tradition huh buddy?”
“Yes, Abuelito, I love it!” Said the boy, who was clapping his hands and gazing into the distance with a bright smile on his small face.
“Where are you from, what kind of accent is that?”
“Saudi Arabia… My father is here handling some oil business, I came along as support,” said Nazeer, smiling behind his sunglasses.
The old man’s dark eyes glazed over for a moment and his nostrils flared as if he’d picked up a peculiar scent in the air. He narrowed his eyes slightly, turning his face aside to look thoughtfully at the distance.
“That’s great, we like the Saudis, as long as you guys keep that oil flowing okay?” The old man said, grinning.
“Yes,” Nazeer said with an awkward smile.
As the wheel started its first cycle, the night was falling and the beauty of the Phoenix skyline was breathtaking. So many lights, cars, beautiful homes and tall buildings made of glass that reflected the sunset. Nazeer stared in wonder, almost like a child himself. He removed his sunglasses, to buy himself a few more minute of sunlight.
“Ai, Madre de Dios! Are you okay, Sir?” Asked the old man, who look surprised by something on Nazeer’s face.
“Yes… Why?”
“There’s some yellow stuff in your eyes. You got allergies or something?”
Nazeer reached up and touched the corner of his eyes, there was something there and he hadn’t realized until he touched it. When he did his eyes stung with pain as he rubbed off a viscous yellow paste, like old rancid hummus, onto his fingertips. He stared at it for a moment, realizing there was enough to roll it up into a small marble.
“Damn!” Said the old man, sinking back into his seat as far as he could go.
“Yes, it’s allergies. The dust does that to my eyes… It’s a family thing, I am so sorry,” replied Nazeer as he flicked the sticky yellow ball down from the top of the Ferris wheel.
The old man tried to follow it, to see where it landed. He couldn’t see exactly, but it looked like it fell near the people waiting in line. As he turned back towards Nazeer again, the Iraqi was wiping his fingertips clean on the seat. The old man muttered something in Spanish under his breath, before speaking again to Nazeer.
“You gotta swing by a drug store when you get outta here, get one of those eye washing solutions, okay?” He said, putting an arm around his grandson.
Nazeer nodded.
“Look, Abuelito! I can see where you work!” The child screamed and pointed out the cabin down into the city.
“Yes my boy, there it is! Same place it was last year!” The old man said with a grin.
“Where is it?” Asked Nazeer, curious.
“Those tents right over there.”
“The green ones? I see them. What are they? I didn’t think westerners appreciated good tents.”
“Some westerners don’t, especially the ones who are incarcerated there. That’s the Tent City Jail. I’ve been working in corrections for the last 33 years,” said the old man, scratching at a spot near an old army tattoo, unrecognizable in the wrinkly skin of his forearm.
“Very interesting. A jail with tents.”
“Yeah, it’s a sad place, okay, oh I gotta tell ya, I feel bad for people in there.”
“I can imagine. Not having freedom and having other people tell you how you should live must be terrible,” said Nazeer, but the sarcasm was lost of the old man.
“Yes, it’s terrible for me and I just work there, so imagine life for those poor rats. But what can you do,
it’s their own fault. Government makes the law, we just gotta obey it and everything is fine.”
“There is always peace, but only if you obey,” said Nazeer, admiring the beauty of the city at night.
“Yes” said the old man, enjoying the same view of Phoenix.
They continued to chat about trivial things and when the subject turned to food the old man suggested Nazeer try one of the giant turkey legs wrapped in bacon. Not wanting to raise any suspicion, Nazeer lied and said he loved bacon and all other types of dish with pork.
When the Ferris wheel finally stopped and it was their turn to get out, the old man patted Nazeer gently on the shoulder and wished him luck. The little boy extended his arm, wanting to shake Nazeer’s hand, but his grandpa just nudged him along, leaving the Iraqi’s hand hanging halfway in the air.
Nazeer made his way over to where all the food was being sold and ended up at the ‘Everything Fried’ kiosk, where he got a selection of the American cuisine that would have made his cousins at home envious. He carried a tray with fried Oreos, fried Twinkies, fried macaroni and cheese and a big fizzy drink in a personal bucket to wash it all down. They called the bucket ‘large size’ and he chuckled at it, thinking it would suffice for his entire family.
He was done within five minutes of sitting down and as he looked up from his plastic tray he noticed people staring at him. Again he touched his face to remove more of the yellow mucous from the corners of his eyes. There wasn’t as much as before, but it had built up faster than he thought it would. He cleaned his finger on the table and stood up, leaving his tray behind.
He walked around mindlessly for several hours, buying trinkets he’d only leave behind, experiencing a number of different rides, spitting on the ground and striking up conversations with random people. He even got himself a new pair of sunglasses with bright yellow lenses and from behind them, he watched people interact with each other, noticing the beauty of the women of different races, mentally selecting several brides of each race for once he passed into the afterlife to receive his reward.
On his way out, he stopped and watched the multitudes passing through the gates in and out of the fair, enjoying the cloud of cool vapor washing over them. He found it a curious way to keep the heat at bay and he decided to look into the water misters a little closer. The cool spray falling on the patrons fascinated the children as they walked through a large corridor where perhaps 30 people could walk side by side under rows upon rows of tiny faucets.
Making sure no one was paying him any attention, he followed the water lines and realized they led to a secluded place behind a maintenance station. Once he got behind the building he was alone and his eyes tracked along all the hoses which connected to a large water tank, of perhaps 500 gallons. He climbed up onto the top of the tank, removed the lid, and unzipped his shorts.
He closed his eyes and felt the burning stream pour into the tank and he thought about spitting in it too, but his mouth felt too dry with the heat. Besides, something he ate wasn’t sitting well him, he could feel a rusty iron taste in his mouth, it felt like blood.
He gazed into the water for a few moments, realizing that eventually his urine would thin out and be sprayed out onto the masses, then overtime the hoses would clean themselves. An idea crossed his mind and he looked around. He grabbed the thin wire someone used to keep the tank lid somewhat attached to the water tank and broke off a small section of it, maybe three or four inches.
Jackpot.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folding knife he bought earlier, unfolded it and placed his left hand down into the water, resting it against one of the walls of the tank. It felt slimy and full of algae as his other hand followed it, knife in hand. He hesitated for only a few seconds and then closed his eyes as he felt the sharp edge of the knife press against the second knuckle of his small finger. He pushed harder and then the joint suddenly gave way and the blade sank down into his flesh, separating cartilage, skin and bone. Cool water poured into his wound, feeling like the sting of a thousand needles.
His body trembled and he clenched his jaw, seeking to dissipate the scream that was building inside him. He pulled his throbbing hand out of the tank and his small finger was dangling down near his palm, held by a thin strip of skin, as blood poured freely into the water tank. He put the knife down on the lid of the tank and wrapped the wire around the stub of his finger, twisting it tight enough to almost stop the blood flow that had been pouring from his hand. He reached for his mangled finger and ripped it off his hand, not feeling any pain as the skin broke.
His breathing was slow and controlled as he rinsed his hands inside the tank. He cut a small strip of his shirt, placed it over the bloody stub, a slow crimson stain began to flower on the colored fabric. He tossed his chopped finger into the water mister tank, and watched it float carelessly in the dark water. He put his knife away and was placing the lid back onto the tank when he had an idea. He decided to leave behind a little gift for the man he would see in just a day or two.
When he was done, Nazeer walked away from the tank with one hand in his pocket, curious as to how it would feel to walk under the misters on his way out of the Fairgrounds.
Chapter 21
Vatican City, Italy.
Friday, October 23, 2020.
10:00 P.M.
Several levels beneath the surface, in an ancient granite chamber built in the time of the Crusades and forgotten to the modern world, a once beautiful woman lay on a stone slab. She was illuminated by the light of ancient olive oil torches and beeswax candles, manufactured following an archaic recipe formulated centuries before her birth, their perfume helped mask the scent of her body. Her servants had dressed her in magnificent robes of silk and fine cotton, bleached pure white with sulfur and cimolian earth. They had covered her cloak in jewelry of bright colors and tied her auburn hair with a golden band and chain. Before they left her, her servants laid an amulet around her dissected neck to help ward off evil spirits in the afterlife.
Now she lay in peace as, in the distance, the sound of approaching heavy footsteps began to echo around the solid stone walls.
“Master, I present to you, your wife,” said the priest flawlessly in the forgotten ancient language of Coptic. The thin dark man was wearing a ceremonial tunic and headdress that were symbols of his status and favor with the first gods and his people.
Kalak-Mul placed his large muscular hands onto her chest, where her gloved hands had been carefully folded. His large eyes gazed at the once alluring features of her face and he showed no emotion. He gently grasped her hand, holding the gloved fingers that were now as thin and as hard as twigs.
“Gratitude for preparing her,” he answered in the same tongue, his stern voice was like a low rumbling thunder. “She looks beautiful and will charm the others during the Opening of the Mouth ceremony.”
“She was a stunning beauty with a wisdom not seen in generations Master, and still is. Your father was lucky to have her as an advisor.”
“I knew this day would come, Priest, but still after 600 years, I can’t believe it is here.”
Kalak-Mul leaned over his wife’s body and kissed her lightly on her forehead, his massive elongated skull hid her face from the priest’s eyes completely. The priest had never seen his master’s skull from this angle before. It was shaved smooth, scarred and it looked so thick and heavy, it made his own elongated skull look almost as small and frail as a common man’s.
When Kalak-Mul rose, he ran a large tongue over his lips. Her skin tasted salty, confirming that it had been properly washed with oils, incense and resins. He looked around the room and saw the clay urns in the shape of their gods that held her liver, lungs, stomach and intestines. He knew that the most important organ, her heart, had been put back into her chest that was the center and source of her wisdom needed for the afterlife.
“Time is but a thought, Master, soon she’ll be resurrected and live forever, awaiting you. Do you wish to see your father n
ow? He has been accurately prepared as well, he looks magnificent and —”
“I do not. If you are asked, I command you to tell them we did visit and spent proper time with him.”
The old man looked away, his body language not hiding his surprise.
“By your will, Master.”
“You are a dutiful servant, Priest Kayvek. All the people left in this world will be delighted to worship under your command.”
“It will be my greatest honor to command them to worship you Master. To live under you at this time, when a living God will walk the earth again under the sun to rule, when our people take our rightful place in the world once again… I’ve waited all my life for this moment.” The vigor in the priest’s voice went well beyond his many years. After a brief silence, he added, “It makes the sudden death of your father almost bearable.”
Kalak-Mul’s dark eyes moved slowly from his wife towards the old man and he gazed deeply into the priest’s eyes, wondering if his words searched for any clues regarding the rumors that were whispered when he was not present. The old man’s eyes quickly shifted down to look at the menat necklace on Kalak-Mul’s massive and powerful chest, it is as if he was analyzing its crescent shape and beaded chains for the first time.
“They have a saying in the mortal world priest, ‘The Gods work in mysterious ways’… Only the Gods know why they called for my father during the pinnacle of his life. He wished so very much to rule over mankind; I will honor his memory when I rule in his place.”
“I have no doubt, Master, but as you know, some in the Council of Thirteen disagree.”
“They do not have a choice now,” said Kalak-Mul, his voice was as cold as the granite walls around them. He turned to his wife one last time, contemplating what he had known all along.
What I loved the most had to be sacrificed, so that nothing holds dominion over a living God.
