by Sheba Karim
As we walked toward the city center, Ghaz said slyly, “So, the name on your ID, Myra Harper, do tell.”
“Myra is close-ish to Mariam.”
“And Harper?”
“Is Doug’s last name,” I admitted.
“What exactly happened between you two?” Umar demanded.
“Yeah,” Ghaz said. “You kept saying you’d tell us when we were all together. Well, we’re all together.”
“And what about the name on Umar’s ID?” I deflected. “Omar T. Generous? Why T. Generous?”
Umar blushed.
“Come on, tell us!” Ghaz insisted.
“It stands for Tabitha Generous. It’s my drag name; I combined the name of our first cat, Tabitha, with my last name; Karim means generous.”
“Tabitha Generous.” Ghaz nodded. “I like it.”
Umar pointed ahead. “You guys, Chinatown. Should we have dim sum?”
“We’re in Philly! We have to eat cheesesteaks,” Ghaz insisted.
“But I’m starvation nation,” he grumbled. “How much farther?”
With the exception of tennis, Umar’s idea of exercise was dancing in his room and traversing the mall weighed down by shopping bags. “Keep walking, Tabitha,” I said.
Some friends from Swat thought Sonny’s had the best cheese-steaks so that was where we went. It was in Old City, a historic neighborhood with quaint boutiques and restaurants and brick sidewalks planted with trees. When we arrived, the line was out the door.
“Gimme a phone,” Ghaz said. “I have to thank my friend Emory for telling us about the ID place.”
“You’re not supposed to tell anyone where you are!” Umar protested.
“I only asked if she knew a good fake ID place in Philly. I didn’t tell her I was in Philly. And now I’m going to ask her if she knows any good parties tonight.”
The notion of spending the night partying when we’d barely slept was not particularly appealing, but when Ghaz was on a mission, there was little point in protest. Besides, this road trip was for her. Still, I hoped she wouldn’t be go, go, go the entire time. When I’d visited her at NYU for the weekend, it had taken me almost a week to recover.
“I should warn you, Cheez Whiz makes me gassy,” Umar said as we finally sat down to eat.
“At least you’ll fart happy.” Ghaz clapped her hands. “Fart happy! That’s a great slogan. Eat cheesesteaks. Fart happy. Have anal. Fart happy.”
“We’re eating,” I objected.
“We’re eating,” Umar corrected me, gesturing at my side order of cheese fries. “Are you sure that’s going to be enough?”
“It’ll do,” I said.
“Was Doug a vegetarian, too?” Ghaz asked.
“Pescatarian.”
“Is it true that vegetarian semen tastes better?” she inquired.
“Can we not discuss bodily fluids at lunch?” I said.
“Okay, okay. But can you at least tell us what happened?”
“Yeah,” Umar agreed. “Was he your boyfriend? Were you in love with him?”
It was true I’d been putting off this conversation because I still carried so much shame over what I’d done. But Ghaz and Umar had been patient, and I owed them the truth. “Yes, and yes. We became friends in the fall, and we started dating spring semester, for almost two months.”
Ten weeks and four days, to be exact, from first kiss to last.
“And? Was he a good guy?” Ghaz questioned.
“He was awesome. He was smart, and kind, and silly, and funny, and so easy to be around. I felt so comfortable with him that I even went into one of my meditative states in his presence.”
“You mean your vampire trance,” Umar corrected me.
“Don’t vampires sleep standing up?” I said
“The vampires in Twilight don’t need to sleep at all,” Ghaz said. “But getting back to the story—if everything was so great, what happened?”
“That was the problem!” I said. “Everything was great, and I was starting to fall in love with him, and one day I got totally overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. I freaked out so badly that I left my dorm and ran into Crum Woods in my pajamas, and I sat on a rock and looked up at the moon and all I could think was, I can’t do this, it’s too much, I can’t do this. And then I ghosted on him. I stopped answering his calls, his texts, his emails. I avoided him on campus. If I saw him, I’d walk the other way. After a few weeks, he gave up, and that was that.”
“Oh, burn,” Umar said.
“That’s not like you,” Ghaz observed.
“I know! But I also knew if I talked to him about it, he’d ask me for a reason. And I didn’t have a good reason, at least not any that made sense. I knew he’d ask me to reconsider, and that I probably would, so I thought it was better not to talk to him at all.”
“Bechara Doug Harper,” Ghaz said. “What a way to break a heart.”
Having lost my appetite, I slid my cheese fries over to Umar.
“But it’s obvious why you did it,” she continued. “You have a subconscious fear of commitment because your father abandoned you. Falling in love made you vulnerable to being hurt, so you ran.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed.
“Hey,” Ghaz said, picking up my phone. “You have an email from Sanjeev Sharma.”
“Holy shit,” I said, sitting up.
“Who’s Sanjeev Sharma?” she asked.
“My chacha.”
“Your father’s brother?” Umar said. “You’re in touch?”
“I emailed him. I wasn’t sure if he’d respond. Will one of you read it?” I requested. “I’m too nervous.”
“Okay . . .” Ghaz cleared her throat. “’Dear Mariam, How nice to hear from you. I hope you are in good health and spirit. I must tell you I am not in contact with your father. But you are most welcome to come and meet us if you are passing near Ashburn. Please to allow us a twenty-four hours’ notice. Have a nice day, sincerely, Sanjeev Sharma.’”
“Where’s Ashburn?” Umar asked.
“Virginia,” I said.
“And this is the first time you’ve reached out to him?” Ghaz said.
I nodded.
“Why now?” Umar inquired.
“Ever since the thing with Doug, I’ve been thinking a lot about my father. I mean, I did the exact same thing my father did to us. Half my genes come from him, and aside from a photo and the fact he left us, I have no idea what he’s like. My mom doesn’t talk about him, so I thought maybe my chacha would.”
“Wow,” Umar said.
Next to me, Ghaz was smiling, and I realized it was directed toward a California surfer dude guy in line who was making eyes at her. She did, however, have the ability to flirt and listen at the same time. “So you’re going to ask your chacha what your father’s like?”
“I guess so. Is that crazy?”
“Nah.”
“Your chacha says he’s not in touch with him, but he might have his contact information,” Umar said. “What then? Would you contact your father?”
“Haven’t thought that far.”
“You don’t need to. Baby steps!” Ghaz said, planting a kiss on my shoulder.
“Are you going to tell your mother?” Umar asked.
“I have to. At some point.”
“Wow. So I guess our next stop is Ashburn, Virginia,” he said.
I shook my head. “I’m totally opening a can of worms, aren’t I? What if I find out something terrible? Maybe I shouldn’t do this.”
“You obviously want to,” Ghaz replied. “And we’ll be with you, all the way.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “The road trip, my chacha writing back, it all does seem pretty serendipitous.”
“Oh, for sure, the definition of serendipity,” Ghaz assured me. “I’m glad you’re doing this.”
“And I’m glad,” Umar said, “that at least someone’s got daddy issues worse than mine.”
Thirteen
DOUG AND I LOOK
ED nothing alike. He was a freckled redhead, so pale that if you pressed your finger into his skin, it left a mark that faded slowly. When we first started hooking up, I was so fascinated by our contrasting bodies that I’d stay up staring at our legs juxtaposed. Dark, light. Hint of black stubble, brush of reddish-gold fur.
But, like me, Doug no longer had a father. His died when Doug was seven, so he had memories of him. Nice memories. And photos, and cards, and videos, and stories he’d heard from his mother, and relatives he was close to on his dad’s side. He had a sense of what he’d lost.
All I had was a book, a photo, and a black hole. Now I was about to stare into the jaws of a great, gaping unknown and hope whatever emerged didn’t cause permanent damage.
We’d returned to the roach motel to nap, but I couldn’t sleep. As I was about to leave for a walk, Umar whispered, “Hey—where you going?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Can I come with?”
“Of course.”
He got up, washed his face in the sink next to his bed, put on a white polo shirt, slim-fit navy pants, a white scarf with a pale pink paisley pattern, and cherry-red sunglasses. “Are these too red?” he asked as we stepped into the elevator.
“I don’t know. Are you trying to be mistaken for a fire truck?”
“You’re so cute when you’re trying to be funny. Let’s take a selfie.” He took many, deleting all but one.
“I look pretty good in this one, don’t I?” he said, as if he didn’t know how handsome he was.
“Please. You could be a Bollywood star. You and Ghaz both.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
I smiled. I rarely turned heads like my friends, or my mother and Shoaib for that matter, but I had a nice enough face, and a body toned from high school swim team. Unlike 99 percent of girls my age, I wasn’t too hung up on my looks, though I did wonder if I’d be as curious about my father if we didn’t bear such a strong physical resemblance.
“Where should we go?” I asked. “Do you want to walk to the gay neighborhood?”
“Sure.”
Umar took more photos at the intersection of Thirteenth and Locust, where instead of white stripes the crosswalks were huge, painted gay pride rainbows, and then we walked down Quince Street, one of my favorites. Philly had a lot of these small, serene side streets, lined with trees and narrow, centuries-old row houses steeped with a sense of history. After another series of selfies, we headed over to the picturesque row houses of Camac Street. When we passed by a gay bar, I asked, “Should we try our fake IDs here?”
“No,” he said.
Ghaz would have pushed it. I didn’t. We kept walking, observing a group of three fit young guys, one white, two black, stand outside 12th Street Gym, sipping on smoothies. One of the guys had rainbow shoelaces in his sneakers, another was shirtless, his ripped abs beaded with sweat. They were laughing loudly over a story the third one was telling them.
“Do you wish you had that?” I asked. “I mean, friendships with gay guys?”
“Um, sort of. But I’m never going to be like that,” Umar said.
“Be like what?”
“You know, standing on the sidewalk without a shirt on, showing off my six-pack abs, sipping on a protein shake.”
“You’re thinking of it the wrong way. Maybe you don’t have to fit in with them, maybe you have to make space for yourself.”
“But how do you do that?”
“I don’t know. Figure out what it is you want, and the person you want to be, and go from there?”
He made a face. “That sounds exhausting. The only thing I know right now is that I want to be with a Muslim because I need to be with a guy who washes his ass after shit comes out.”
“What about a white guy with a bidet?” I suggested.
“You really are getting funny!” Umar exclaimed, clapping my back.
“God, you two act like I was the Grim Reaper before I met you.”
“You mean the Grim Sleeper, like when you go into your vampire trance.”
“Ha-ha. Should we go check on Ghaz? We forgot to leave a phone for her.”
“I’m impressed she hasn’t insisted on getting her own phone yet. This is the girl who gets annoyed if her Instagram photo only gets one hundred likes.”
“Hey, Umar?” I broached as we headed back. “Do you think it’s okay I’m making us go meet my uncle? This is supposed to be a road trip for her, and I feel like I’m making it about me.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not like she has any agenda, except having fun,” he assured me.
“Well, whatever she wants to do tonight, we should do it.”
“What if it’s illegal?” he said.
“Especially if it’s illegal.”
“Dude, I can’t end up in jail.”
“I was kidding.”
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, okay. I’m down to go crazy town.”
A fashionable older gentleman in a stylish pinstriped suit and carrying an embossed leather man purse nodded at Umar as he walked past. “Nice scarf,” he told him.
Judging by Umar’s expression of utter delight, this road trip was already worth it.
Fourteen
WHEN WE RETURNED to our dingy room both beds were empty.
“Where is she?” Umar said.
“Down yonder.”
I turned on the lamp. Ghaz was on the floor between the bed and the wall, lying in Shavasana.
“Why are you doing yoga over there?” Umar asked.
“This is the part of the carpet with the least stains.” Ghaz sat up and bowed her head, pressing her palms together before her heart. “Nah-maas-tey,” she said in an American accent, to make us laugh.
“I went to take a piss and there was an actual roach in the shower!” she informed us. “I killed it with Umar’s shoe.”
“Why my shoe?” Umar cried. “Why not one of your shoes?”
“Would you have rather I saved the roach for you to kill?”
“No,” he conceded, and stretched out on the carpet, resting his head in Ghaz’s lap. She started to give him a scalp massage, her knuckles bobbing in and out of his thicket of hair. Umar closed his eyes, released a dreamy exhale.
It was nice we could have this kind of comfort level with a guy. Umar had no interest in women beyond friendship. Once we offered him the hypothetical choice of sticking his finger into a pile of feces or a vagina, and he actually paused for a moment before answering. He’d seen Ghaz’s loveliest of bosoms and was neither intrigued nor interested. He appreciated female beauty, but he had no sexual interest in female bodies. Around him, we could be hairy and loose and unkempt.
“You’re getting flakes again,” Ghaz told Umar.
“I need to shower.”
“You better do it today, because we have a party to go to tonight.”
The lamp flickered and went out.
“Oh, for Chrissake,” I said, pulling back the curtain to let in some of the hallway’s fluorescent light.
“What party?” Umar asked.
“So my friend Emory is away for the weekend, but she said her older brother goes to Penn and is having a party at his off-campus house tonight.”
“It’s not a frat party, is it?” I’d only applied to schools where Greek life played a minimal role. I didn’t want to have to suck up to a bunch of cliquey girls to get into some sorority in order to have a social life; it sounded like four more years of high school.
“I don’t think so. Her brother’s a theater arts major— I bet it’ll be a blast. And get this—the theme is Knights and Queens!”
“Like Arthur and Guinevere?” Umar said.
A naughty smile lit up Ghaz’s face. “Sort of. It’s a cross-dressing party. And is it not uncanny that only today were we introduced to a certain someone, who up to now had been in hiding?”
“Who?” Umar asked.
Understanding what she meant, I hooted.
“What?” he said, and then stretched his
scarf over his face. “Noooo!”
Ghaz yanked it back. “You say no, but what does Tabitha say?”
“Yes!” I said.
“No way, witches,” he protested.
“Come on,” Ghaz pleaded. “Please please please.”
“Umar,” I said sternly, “you promised to be down for crazy town.”
He groaned. “I am not shaving my legs.”
“You don’t have to,” Ghaz said. “I brought my Epilady.”
“Hell no!” Umar cried, pulling his knees to his chest.
“You know,” I told him, “you’re lucky that you have the privilege not to shave. If I walked around with my legs even half as hairy as they really are, people would be, like, ‘gross.’”
“That’s because it is gross,” he said.
“At least shave your legs, Umar. That doesn’t hurt. Come on, hairy-legged queens are the worst,” Ghaz said. “What would RuPaul say?”
“I shudder to think. But I’m still not shaving. It’ll be too much of a production.”
“God, Tabitha is already being difficult,” she said. “But you have to do your pits. I’ve got a sparkly tank top I want you to try.”
“I’ll do my pits. But no high heels.”
“No heels?” Ghaz pouted.
“I’m still traumatized from my last experience,” Umar said.
“Which was?” I asked.
“When I was little, I liked to go into my parents’ closet and try on my mom’s heels. I was walking in them and somehow I fell and hurt my ankle, and it was my dad who heard me cry out in pain. His face when he saw me, lying there with my mother’s fake leopard skin stilettos half on my feet and one of my mother’s dupattas around my head. It was the same expression he had when he came to a parents’ day at kindergarten and someone offered him a slice of pizza with pepperoni.”
Ghaz clucked her tongue in sympathy.
“We always ate pork growing up,” I said. “Well, not when Naani was living with us.”
Ghaz shook her head. “Your upbringing astounds me. Okay, so what did your dad say when he saw you like that?”
