Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  "Hey, I have to go," Tamara says.

  "But I didn't tell you about what happened to me last night."

  "Oh, Asma, I really gotta go. Write it in a letter. My toenails are dry and I gotta get to my fingernails now..."

  She makes a kissy sound on the phone before the line goes dead -- I'm not sure if I ran out of money or if she hung up on me. It's as if I were caught with my pants down around my ankles. I wanted to tell her something important, to get something off my chest, but I couldn't. I also didn't write about my problem in my letter because I'm paranoid about Uncle. What if he saw the letters lying around and decided to read them, the same way he reads Nasreen's mail?

  I'll call Tamara in a few days and maybe then we'll have a normal conversation. I also owe Misty a call, although I'm not eager to talk to her. I love my friends, but there are things about them that irk me. They seem too busy to listen to me, and they're full of putdowns they insist are nothing more than playful teasing -- Because we love you, they say. And Tamara thinks I'm a goody-goody. New York is pulling me out of that goody-goody shell, bringing out a side of me I didn't know existed.

  Chapter Nine

  I've never liked newspapers. I only look through them when teachers ask me to do a current events assignment, but now I'm looking through a stack of them. I bought several newspapers to look through the ads sections. Nasreen is helping me. We're looking for moneymaking opportunities. I'm glad to be with her. Compared to my friends, she listens, is nonjudgmental, and seems supportive of me. Maybe it's because we're in a bind, but I've always enjoyed her company, and this summer we're becoming closer.

  Her regular black-and-white TV -- not the one hidden in the closet, since she never takes that one out from her hiding place -- is playing in the background as we sit on the floor together. Since she's peering down at the newspaper, her eyes look like two black holes in her face. I myself am wearing frosted blue-and-purple eye shadow and a pink shirt and shorts. I'm all about color and positivity. Maybe she needs to add some bright colors to her wardrobe to spruce up her outlook and future.

  "Have you found anything?" she asks.

  "Not really," I reply.

  I found a few summer jobs for nannies, but I can't disappear for days to take care of anyone's kids. I also found waitressing and cashier jobs. Maybe I can call them and see if it's during the daytime. Uncle won't miss me during the day since he's at work, but if it's nighttime I can forget it. I eye the business exec and medical jobs. Dollar signs swim in my head, but of course I'm not qualified for those positions.

  It's early in the afternoon, so soaps are playing. I glance up and down to look at The Young and the Restless. The opening theme of piano and violins sounds depressing to me now, when that usually signals an hour of mindless, yet entertaining, melodrama. I'm not dying to know what's going on with Victor, Nikki, and the Abbots. I need money.

  After circling a few ads that catch my attention, I put the paper down and give my eyes a rest. I'm tired of reading the tiny print. It hasn't even been an hour, but it feels like it's been much longer. Commercials come on, and I switch the channel, but every channel is playing them. I stop switching when a radio DJ tells me I need to listen to his evening show for a chance to win Madonna tickets. Wouldn't that be cool? If only I were able to listen to the radio in the evening, but I can't since Uncle is here and he listens to the radio at that time. Then another commercial comes on. There's a new entertainment show in town called NYC Dance Off, and they're looking for people to audition to make it onto their dance floor. I wonder how long that show is. Maybe I can do that.

  "Nasreen, what do you think about that show?" I ask.

  Her eyes are on the TV since she's also taking a break. "No way, Asma. You can't go on those shows. You're not a Solid Gold dancer or one of those girls on Soul Train shaking her rump."

  "But I dance really well."

  "You won't be staying too long and can't commit to something like that."

  "This looks like a one-time thing. It said you show up to sing and dance for an audition and then dance for at least three of their shows. That's something I can do. I love to dance. Everyone says I'm good at it."

  "Uh-uh." Nasreen shakes her head. She's so negative. How can anyone have such a dour outlook on life? I can't blame her too much. She wants one thing, to leave New York, and she's not getting that. If I can find a way to help her, I'll do whatever it takes during my stay. Maybe I can have a talk with Uncle and Auntie, even though they never seem to side with her. Everything is about Omar. He gets everything he wants while they push Nasreen to the side. If I can show Nasreen it's possible to make dreams come true, she'll be more open to my own dreams. And I have many dreams. I think about Madonna. Then I daydream about being on the stage myself, singing and dancing. There's no way I'll ever be like Madonna, since she's one of a kind, but I imagine I have Taylor Dayne's voice, Stacey Q's hair, and Janet Jackson's moves.

  "You want to try recording something else?" Nasreen says, pushing the newspapers to the side.

  "Sure. But what if your mother walks in on us again?"

  "The living room isn't an ideal spot with Mom and Omar close by. Let's try to record something here."

  "I don't know if I want to move your Uncle's stereo into this room again."

  "Yeah, he might notice it shifted out of its spot, and then we can't have Omar see we've unplugged it. Maybe we can record something from the TV."

  Nasreen opens her closet and pulls out a dirty beige tape recorder, the kind without a radio that's strictly for cassette playing. "There's a show that comes on around this time, NYC Dance Off, the one you were just mentioning," she says, switching channels until we see dancers gyrating. Seeing them makes me want to move.

  I untangle the cord of the tape recorder, which Nasreen plugs in. She takes a blank cassette and puts it in. "Hold on, we better try it first," I say, remembering the tape we destroyed.

  "You're right."

  We play a few minutes of the tape, fast forward it, and press Play again. Yeah, it's blank.

  "Next up is Madonna's 'True Blue,'" the pretty host with big shoulder pads and bigger hair says. "Let's go to the dance floor to see people groove to this hit..."

  "Hurry up, let's press Record," I squeal.

  Nasreen holds the recorder up to the TV, raises the volume, and just as the song comes on I hit the Record and Play buttons. This is quite awkward. Nasreen mouths "okay" to let me know her arms aren't tired. I've done this before at home, putting a stereo up to the TV to catch a song I like. The recorder has to be close to the TV and the volume has to be really high to get a good recording.

  "Habibti!" someone outside the door says.

  "Noooo!" I shriek.

  "Habibiti, come taste this for me. Why is the TV so loud? I hope I'm not interrupting anything. Nasreen, taste this ground beef I just fried. Tell me how it is for spiciness."

  Nasreen drops the recorder onto her lap, I turn the TV off, and we both slump our shoulders. Before cracking the newspapers open, Nasreen told me she's still mad at her mom, so she doesn't seem thrilled about having her in her room. I'm also down in the dumps because this is the second time I've tried to get a recording of Madonna, but it seems impossible.

  "I'm going to step outside," Nasreen says. "After I taste Mom's cooking, I need to check the mail, and maybe I'll walk around the block to clear my head."

  "Sure thing." When she leaves, I pull my scrapbook from under my pillow. With scissors, glue, and staples, I add the following items to some fresh pages:

  A picture of Madonna I cut out of a newspaper. I want to remind myself I forgot to bring her music on this trip, which has led to a domino effect of problems.

  Wahib's business card. Even though the man is obnoxious and wanted to rip us off, I don't want to forget what I had done. My scrapbook contains both the high and low points of my life.

  There's also a picture of a dancer in a tutu and leggings I found in a magazine. I've been dying to dance, but I haven't ha
d a chance to so far. I need room, and there doesn't seem to be any inside the basement apartment or even outdoors with the thick crowds of New Yorkers. I also want to be on that show I saw, but Nasreen thinks it's a bad idea. Maybe I'm just not meant to be in the limelight.

  ***

  "What have you seen so far?" my mom asks.

  "Oh, you know, the typical places... the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty..." I'm lying through my teeth. Nasreen and I are too busy finding a replacement Kulthum tape to do any real sightseeing.

  "Lucky girl to see such places."

  "Yeah. The Cloisters are beautiful, and I've lost track of the museums I've gone to." When did I become such a liar? I've never lied this much to my mom before.

  "Are you careful in the subway? You're not going out at night, are you?"

  "No." That's true, I don't go out at night, but I'm not careful in the subway. When I'm out with Nasreen, we check out guys, listen to our Walkmans, and sometimes read a newspaper, unaware of our surroundings. Dad would tell me I'm a mugger's dream.

  "What are you doing now?"

  "Uncle is going to take me out."

  "Have fun. We love you." She smacks her lips together in a loud kiss, and we hang up.

  We're going out tonight. I'm not painting the town red... I'm seeing more uncles.

  In my family uncles, aunts, and cousins are important parts of our lives. During my vacation time, I'm with at least one of the clans. I've been to Los Angeles, Paris, Toronto, and many other big cities thanks to these family members. My parents don't believe in hotels. I've never stayed in one. We stay with family.

  It's a relief my parents aren't here with me now. Not just because I want to be free, but also because years ago we all actually stayed in the basement apartment... for an entire week. Talk about uncomfortable claustrophobia. Nasreen and I shared the bottom bunk. My brothers shared the top bunk. Mom slept on the living room sofa, while Dad slept on the floor next to her. We were packed like sardines in this sarcophagus, to borrow Nasreen's term. At least it's just me representing the family, not that I'm doing a great job since I ruined Uncle's tape. But tonight he won't be looking for his tape since we're all going to Uncle Javed's home in Queens.

  Omar doesn't feel like going, though. "I don't want to go, Baba," he pleads, his big eyes turning sad in front of Uncle.

  "All right, you don't have to go," Uncle says. "Your sister and cousin will come with me, and you can stay here with your mother."

  "But I don't want to go either!" Nasreen says, crossing her arms under her chest.

  "You are going. I can't go there by myself. They'll think none of you want to visit."

  "We don't."

  "Stop it, Nasreen. You and Asma are coming with me."

  Nasreen's jaw muscles look as taut as violin strings. Omar gets his way, while we young ladies have to do what the menfolk say. We go into her room to change. I don't want anyone looking at my legs and judging me, so I switch to jeans. "You know, a thought just came to me. Maybe this is a good opportunity to look for tapes at Uncle Javed's place," I say.

  "Hey, you're right," Nasreen says, her mood brightening. She smiles. "Uncle Javed's cassette collection is just as big as Dad's."

  "I can't quite remember where it is," I say.

  "I know where to find it," she says. "And it'll be easy getting there. Uncle Javed doesn't breathe down people's necks like Dad does. If he catches us, I'll tell him I'm interested in his collection, and he'll think I'm exploring my roots. Dad doesn't want me looking through his music, but Javed will be happy. My family always complains I'm listening to devil music, so they'll be comforted by me listening to their stuff."

  I laugh. My parents also think I listen to devil music. My mom tells me that if I listen to too much radio, it's the same as worshipping Shaitan. I don't even listen to Ozzy or Metallica or anything like that. To my mom, excessive music listening pulls me away from all things religious and spiritual. Music might not be religious, but it is spiritual. I want to sing and dance, but my parents don't allow me to try out for the cheerleading squad or audition for the glee club after hours. I want to see Madonna at Madison Square Garden, but I don't want my uncle to have a heart attack and then call my parents so they can have heart attacks too, because what if I get kidnapped or there's a shootout or stampede or God knows what else at the concert -- as if that really happens at every concert.

  "Uncle Javed is cool," I agree. "I bet he won't even mind if we dub an Umm Kulthum cassette if we were to find one."

  "Absolutely not. I've copied tapes there since he has more stereo equipment than Dad does," Nasreen says. "Okay, so my bratty brother may have gotten out of this one and I didn't really want to go anywhere tonight, but now we have a purpose."

  "Yes, a purpose."

  "We erased Kulthum, but we'll find her again," Nasreen says, as if we lost an actual person. But considering how people love her and she's Uncle's favorite singer, it's like there's an actual absence in the household. And if Uncle were to find out, he'd mourn over that cassette.

  "A Kulthum we will go."

  "A Kulthum we will go."

  "Hi-ho, the derry-o, A Kulthum we will go..."

  "That's enough," Nasreen says, squeezing her eyes shut. "Your voice is making my ears bleed."

  "My singing isn't that bad," I say.

  Nasreen snorts. Negative girl. But we'll do something positive tonight.

  Chapter Ten

  I thought I was done with subway rides for the day, but Uncle, Nasreen, and I make the journey to Queens. Sitting on orange and yellow chairs and staring at multiple surfaces covered in graffiti, I jostle against Nasreen and Uncle, who reads The New York Times. His fingers are inky from reading newspapers all day. News is his crack-cocaine, what with his newspapers and shortwave radio. We've been fortunate that in the past few evenings he's either been visiting friends or listening to international news on his radio. Maybe he forgot about Umm, or perhaps I overestimated how much he likes her.

  "When we get home it'll be late," he says, putting his newspaper in his lap. He smoothes his moustache and yawns.

  "Well, we don't have to be making this trip," Nasreen says, barely audible above the chugging wheels of the train

  "I'd like to watch TV," I say. Nasreen pokes me in the ribs and I yelp. "I mean, I can't wait to watch TV in the morning, because when we get home it'll be bedtime."

  "Yes, we'll all be tired tonight, but before I sleep I'd like to listen to some Umm Kulthum. I only have one complete tape of her beautiful voice. Her voice brings peace."

  I close my eyes, the sinking feeling in my heart deepening, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Uncle Javed has a stack of music, and we'll be mining through that collection tonight.

  Leaving the last subway station makes me breathe a sigh of relief. From basement apartment to the subway, I've been feeling like a mole person lately. I want sunlight and fresh air. The sun is still out in the late evening, and I bask in the glory of a full moon I spot between clouds and buildings. We walk up some porch steps, where Uncle Javed lives in a narrow townhouse. There's the pulsating sound of music from inside the house. When someone opens the door, tabla drums of old-fashioned music reach my ears. I'm not into my parents' music, but I admit some of it makes me want to dance.

  Javed welcomes us in. He's tall, tan, and clean-shaven. He's at least ten years younger than Uncle Farhad. He smells of something strange and pungent. Nasreen whispers, "He's been drinking."

  He's known to do that. He's into arak and American women. His home is a bachelor pad, which is why I never stay with him when I'm in New York. My parents don't want me and my siblings to see the seedy way he lives, even though I think his lifestyle is cool and normal.

  "Is that my little Asma?" he asks.

  I hug him, getting a whiff of cologne and whatever he's been drinking. "Yes, it's me."

  "Ma'shallah, you've grown. Come in!"

  "We won't stay long," Uncle says.

  "Nonse
nse. The party has just started."

  My parents have unfairly warned me about Uncle Javed. "Seedy" is many friends, laughter, booze, and paintings of half-naked women. Javed is a painter, and on his walls are mermaids, women draped in towels, and ladies in other states of undress. Inside the living room are other aunts and uncles, artist friends, and pretty lady friends. Javed puts his arms around many people, particularly the women. Cigarette smoke drifts around me. I count at least a dozen smokers in the crowded space. I'm sort of used to it since many of my relatives smoke, but back home nobody smokes. I just left the subway, but now I feel like I'm underground again. I desire fresh air.

  Uncle glares at Javed with disapproval, yet Javed's licentious ways won't stop him from talking about what he loves the most: current events. "What has happened to Iran?" Uncle asks. "Are you watching the news?"

  "And what are you going to do about it?" Javed asks. "All you do is talk. You either go there or do something, or stay here and build a life for your family. It's one or the other."

  "You can't ignore what goes on there! The land is in shambles. There's no freedom, just torture and imprisonment."

  Some people are mumbling, and others are yelling pro- and anti-Khomeini speech, either supporting or bashing the regime of Iran. Javed doesn't want any part of the political talk, walking away from Uncle and slinging his arm around a woman. "Who wants wine?"

  Many of my relatives shake their heads. No alky-hol for them. Nasreen eyes the liquor cabinet. I've never seen anything like it; it's an entire piece of furniture dedicated to alcohol, with bottles of amber liquid behind the glass. "Do you think we can score some?" my cousin asks.

  "Stay focused," I say. "Let's go find some Umm."

  It's a sea of bodies. I thought Uncle's basement apartment was bad, but the fact is most New York homes are small. As I move, random uncles, aunts, and cousins hug and kiss me. Their cigarette smoke clings to me. I smell nicotine-stained skin and lips. I'm afraid of lung cancer and emphysema, not that they're contagious, but the smoky air is ominous. "Someone open a window!" one of the partygoers demands.