hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  I don’t dare raise my head or look him in the eye. Still, I manage to survey the layout. The window over the urinal is propped open. Fresh air squeezes through the crack. The second it hits the bathroom’s warm, disgusting soup, it collapses.

  I suck at math. Today, however, panic turns me into a human calculator. I’m able to instantly calculate the distance from floor to window. Too far. I nix that escape route.

  I push, opening the stall door. No hand’kins. Fuck! I’d planned to splash my face with cold water and wash off the sleep. I am not about to touch the faucet knob. The round push button’s smeared with bacteria, trillions of invisible germs. I look for a stack of cheap doily napkin wipes (you always need a handful ’cause the first five dissolve). I don’t mean to, but I look in the toilet.

  Soggy turds float in the yellow-brown water. They’re pressed up against one another like dead coy fish. My stomach revolts. I taste bile, the pre-vomit stuff that dances in your throat right before you barf. Which only guarantees that you will, in fact, barf. If only I’d known today I’d be so barf obsessed, I would have stolen a barf bag from the seat pocket on my flight back from Honolulu. Oh, silly me.

  I turn to leave. Moustapha stands outside the stall. Oops. The stall door slams into his Santa Claus–sized paunch: While I was away and Haifa (or, her twin) got to work transforming her face into an Arabian Wonder Woman, Captain Cuckoo’s been pigging out on Ding Dongs and Ho Hos. Suddenly, I understand why he’s agreed to stop. Junk food raid.

  “Sorry.” My apology’s drowned by the outside roar of several semi engines. Moustapha’s eyes are invisible behind the sunglasses’ mirrored panes. I’m face-to-face with Darth Vader.

  “Done?”

  The Force of Darkness does a double take. He sees the shit-filled toilet bowl. Oh joy! Darth puts out an arm and blocks my body.

  “Flush it,” he commands. “Or didn’t they teach you that?”

  “But—”

  He spins me around, and shoves me back, into the stall. I hold down the flusher. It’s stuck. The toilet gurgles, churning, tossing up shit chunks and dirty water.

  “See?” I step aside. “It won’t flush.”

  Darth’s thick lips press together, his Bert unibrow knitting. This is his “serious” look. The “don’t give me any lip” expression.

  “I think it’s broken.” I instantly regret voicing my opinion. Ever since Haifa opened my journal and read the scrawled words, “I might be queer,” Moustapha’s lived for confrontations that pit his anger (righteousness and hypocrisy) against my budding sexual identity.

  “We’re not leaving till—”

  “Ahmed?! Moustapha?!”

  Haifa possesses the instincts of a homing pigeon. I wonder if she knows that my father hires hookers. That I wish I’d written down in my journal: the afternoon I walked into his office and found him face fucking a tranny.

  I bet that incident crosses Moustapha’s mind, too. He grabs my head, shoves me down and holds my face near the cloudy brown water. My stomach tightens, forcing up breakfast and tranquilizers. I taste the stew just before it hits the cloudy water. The shit soup splatters, up and onto my face.

  My eyes are tightly shut. Still, I feel hot tears burn my cheeks. I just lost hope that my father might ever look at me as anything other than an animal. I remind myself I’m lucky to be alive and, literally, eating shit. We’ve all heard stories about Arab parents who think nothing of killing their queer kid.

  My head jerks up. Blind, I cannot see him. But I hear his low, nasty laugh.

  “Feel better?”

  Arms out, I step forward and touch … nothing. He’s gone.

  I stagger to the sink and throw water on my face.

  “Is he all right?” Haifa’s voice drifts into the bathroom through the open window. I’m surprised by the concerned tone of her voice. Then again, she’s so good at faking everything else, even her concern’s probably a put-on.

  “He claims he’s sick. Hurry up!”

  “One—” I stop short, cut my impatient tone. Readjust, Ahmed, use the Good Boy tone (flat, humble, certain). “Please, could you give me one minute?”

  “We’ll meet you in the store!” My stepmother’s voice is crisp and round, Broadway style, Janice Dickinson on mood elevators.

  I step out the bathroom. The water ran out every two seconds and I only had ten. So I’m not sure if I cleaned off the shit slime. Again, my will to run slips. Doubt rushes in—nature abhors a vacuum—and I know, I can’t follow through.

  “But after a while,” Lance says. “They didn’t know how to make the bleeding stop.”

  I walk toward the Shop ’N Go. Flies swarm my face. They’re drawn to my skin. It must be glazed with shit slime. Although I’m anxious to flee the flies, I slow my pace and look, taking notes. Rows of semis form long alleyways. Each one is a potential escape route. I could run right now, but I’d risk getting lost. I might turn the wrong way.

  I shoo away a cluster of flies. My hand touches my left jaw, grazing my throbbing tooth. Again, I reconsider my half-assed escape plan. If I stay with my parents I will get my tooth fixed. Relief from the constant, throbbing pain. That, or I’ll overdose on Haifa’s sleeping pills.

  Nearby, I hear a chorus of gunning engines, race cars anxious to blast the starting gate. I’m starting to feel like I stepped into a video game.

  I feel someone staring at me. I glance to my left. Two girls, tough looking and sexy, stride between the trucks. They work a look that screams, “Dyke!” I know this because I’ve never seen a straight girl who dresses like supermodel truck driver—I am a secret fashionista.

  In every way, they’re extreme. The blond isn’t just blond, she’s PLATINUM blond. White hair bristles her head like ice picks. Backlit, the brunette’s shoulder-length mane looks a devilish blue in the sun. They both wear tight, faded jeans, frayed bottoms licking the top of steel toed, black motorcycle boots. The white tank tops plastered to their taut torsos barely contain their breasts. The material is so sheer I see matching sets of four, quarter-sized areolas.

  Barbed wire and flame tattoos circle their biceps, and their wrists are bound with three-inch-thick leather bands. Evenly matched in height and stride, one looks like an angel, the other a demon, both spit from chariots and sent from heaven and hell to meet—who, me?—in this dusty parking lot.

  “Hurry up!” Moustapha stands between the Shop ’N Go’s stuttering automatic doors.

  I resume walking, toward the store and away from the dykey supermodels. I sneak a peek. They’re looking at me. They smile, Sly. I imagine that’s their signal, my invitation to run and join them. I’d leave with them, for sure, but I don’t know how to signal them back. Except … left hand behind my back, I twiddle my fingers. Lame, it prolly makes me look like a dork. But I gotta do something, let them know, “Yeah! I’ll go! Wait for me, um, somewhere nearby!”

  I pick up my pace. The plastic bracelet slams my ankle bone. If I manage to escape, I need to figure out how to quickly remove the tracking device.

  I enter the store. My orange kicks skid on the waxed white floor. The electric doors close, and the silent Whoosh! seals off the hot outside air. The store’s a giant fridge.

  I stop. Overload. Rows of vivid red soda cans, dazzling orange lotto tickets and potato chip bags puffed up with salt and cancer.

  The tranks make me stare—a lot. Plus, I’ve been off consumer culture for a year and that’s a whole other detox. Hello, Ahmed, and welcome back to the house of addiction!

  Next to the register, there’s a cornucopia of jazzy-colored lighters, cigarettes, gum, mints, fudge and Slim Jims. Next to that, a magazine rack stocked with more temptation. Pornos, fashion and celeb porn.

  A large TV hangs from the ceiling. On-screen, a singer writhes around on a soapy car. She wears a tiny loin cloth, and her long, blond wig is glued to her plastic tits.

  Oh, now I get it. My people aren’t offended by American infidels so much as their bottomless appetite for junk and
skanks who crave dick. (Or, me.)

  “Ahmed, what do you want?” Haifa asks.

  “The hot boy in aisle ten.” I could say it, but I don’t. Haifa doesn’t care what I want—only that I say I want something. Anything. Exercise my native-born right to consume. The family that shops together numbs out together. Sugar comas. Alcohol poisoning.

  I walk the aisles, looking at the boys (all blond and perfect; a Mormon boy convention?) who wander amidst shelves crowded with stuff. Bright orange Sno-Cones? I’ve been gone so long from the world, I didn’t know Halloween’s in two months.

  Near the end of aisle one, thick rubber slats divide the store. Midshelf, next to my left hand, a notebook. Blue. College ruled, 150 sheets, three subjects. 9 1/2 x 6 inches. It fits perfectly under my shirt.

  The rubber parts. A girl steps out. She reeks of cheap perfume and cigarettes. Her long hair brushes my arm. Past her, I see the back. The room’s crowded with boxes—a lifetime supply of corn nuts, Slim Jims and boxed Kool-Aid. Bright light—white, of course—pours through the exit, makes my eye snap. If I can master my pounding heart (“Dude! Get a grip!”), my escape plan (RUN >>>> FAST) might work.

  I case the store. My eye strips the junk. Now I just see the basics. People, layout, exits.

  Up where the wall meets the ceiling, there are bugs. Well, not bugs, but bug eyes. Round, mirrored insect eyes hiding cameras. Reflected in one, I see my parents. They huddle in the liquor section, heads pressed close together, comparing vodkas. For such observant Muslims, they’re singularly obsessed with grain content.

  I step to the glass beverage door, hand out, like I’m going to open it. But instead of reaching for the handle, I part the rubber curtains. I slip out of the light, into the dim storage room.

  “Ahmed?” Haifa’s voice pierces the dark. “Ahmed!” (Like I said, instincts of a homing pigeon.) I run. Already, her voice chases me. “Ahmed!!!”

  I trip on empty boxes, slide, trip. My knee slams a metal prong. Fuck!

  My eyes aren’t adjusting to the dark. Blind, I trip through this painful obstacle course. Too fast, too slow? I don’t know, I’ve lost track of my body. I am all forward movement. Terror is my fuel, smell is my guide. I follow the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. That girl with the long hair was outside, smoking on her break.

  Arms out, my palms touch flimsy aluminum. The doors swing open. I stumble out, into light and heat.

  I look over the loading dock. It’s a five foot drop to the ground. I cannot do this. I’m terrified of heights. I look around, where are the steps?

  “AAAAHHHHMMMMEEEEEDDDDDD!”

  Oh, Haifa. Give it up. Allah, kindly tap her shoulder and let her know, “Ahmed’s left the building.”

  I close my eyes and jump. My body lands, flat and heavy, on the hard dirt. I don’t even stand. I scramble, run for the semi alley, low to the ground. I have no idea where I’m going. I’m lost in the engines’ roar and air thick with exhaust.

  Out of nowhere, a hand grabs my shirt and lifts me up. The claw-hook-hand holds me over the dirt. I land on a passenger’s seat, face-to-face with an enormous man. Or woman. Her / his gender is an elevator that’s stuck in-between two floors. There’s a beard but it looks glued on. Well, Halloween is soon. Stomach fat spills over the steering wheel. S / he smiles, a wolfish grin that glints gold and nicotine stains. The meat hook / hand reaches up and jerks a cord.

  HONK! HONK! HONK!

  The truck lurches and rolls forward. Large Marge reaches around the seat and opens a small, second door.

  “Git,” s / he orders, picking me up again by my neck and tossing me out as quickly as s / he took me in. “Run straight that’er’re way. Three trucks, thar’s ya ride, waitin’ fer yew.”

  I leap out the back door, run that’er’re way, the length of three semis, and turn right.

  My ride: a cherry red convertible. Xena and her warrior gal pal, the supermodel dyke duo, sit in the muscle car’s front seat. The motor’s running. They wave me over.

  I jump in the backseat and pull the door shut. The car peels out. My body slams against the hot, black leather.

  The world becomes a blur of alloy wheels and metal.

  I feel like James Bond’s bitch.

  Chapter 3

  The brunette—the one who looks like Xena’s twin—turns and reaches over the seat. She holds out wire clippers.

  “What the fuck?!” Xena ignores me, lifts the bottom of my jeans and clicks the clippers. Snip, the white plastic ankle bracelet drops. She tosses it out the car. I love the dykes, they’re so fucking can-do.

  “Here.” She dumps clothes on my lap. We’re still in a James Bond movie. The car’s moving at the speed of sound or near to it.

  “Whoa!!!” Xena screams. “Sandy, grrrrl, you gon’ win the derby!” Pirates, the women thrust bare arms up, into the air. Sun gleams on their tan skin and black, barbed wire tattoos.

  I look back. My parents, those two clueless fucks, stand on the Shop ’N Go’s loading dock. Moustapha’s mouth is pulled down into his “I’m pissed off” face. Beside him, Haifa’s slipped into her helpless act. I can practically hear her whine, “Honey, what should we do?” as she reaches into her clutch for the cel-lie. I bet she’s got Serenity Ridge on speed dial and has already plotted her refund request: “He’s still gay! He escaped!”

  I turn back and face the front. I can’t be bothered.

  Sandy drives so fast the car sucks wind, and hot air thrashes my face. I claw, desperate to peel off the stiff blue denim jeans and shapeless, polyester shirt. I want nothing more than to shed these lame-ass Mormon boy clothes.

  My spontaneous nudist behavior shocks me. My whole life I’ve been shy about undressing in front of strangers. But now I can’t wait to take off my clothes. I want nothing more than to feel the hot wind lick my body. A pukey lime green, my olive skin’s starved for sun. In seconds, I’m nearly naked and really confused. For the second time in as many minutes, I lose track of the moment.

  Meaning, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am. I know I’m “free” … and still high, on hospital drugs. Or, I’m losing my mind. I go with it.

  “Here,” the brunette says. I get a better look at her face. She’s gorgeous. A cross between Salma Hayek and Penélope Cruz. Ola, chica, donde Latina? She holds out an Evian. I take it and tilt the bottle, guzzling la agua.

  “Hey, pilgrim!” Sandy shouts. “Take a fucking look! America!”

  Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. I know her. She’s the crazy white girl who grew up in a trailer park with an alcoholic father who molested her while Mom waitressed in a casino.

  “See, they’ll never get’cha!” Sandy yells.

  I know what that means. Sandy won’t be satisfied until she’s certain that I see what she sees. Dutiful, I turn and look back. Five semis split off into opposite directions, creating an enormous dust ball. Whoosh! The opening sequence of James Bond #39, “Dust Ball.”

  “See, we tricked ’em! Hi, I’m Elena!”

  Up front, the girls chatter, laughing. Sandy cranks the music. The speaker blares, bad rock (screechy guitar solos). Heat waves glimmer on the road and empty desert. The speedometer’s eighty-five M.P.H. Every mile the car travels puts more distance between me and my parents. And, I know my parents. They won’t stop until I turn eighteen. Or catch me. Or I’m dead.

  I should be grateful I’ve been rescued by these female pirates but … where the fuck am I going?

  The leather seat sticks to my naked back and hamstrings. I close my eyes and spread my arms. I savor the feeling of hot air mixed with the thrill of escape. Silent D.J., I work the reluctant junkie feeling into the mix. Delicious. I feel like I’m in a mobile spa.

  Blink: The back of my eyelids go white and take me back to the private screening room. On it, a sea of men in butt-hugger swimsuits. I was twelve when I started riding my bike to the park. I rode around the fruit loop and stared at men sunbathing on the grass slope. They all wore tiny bits of stretch
y fabric that were designed to show off their muscular bodies and big dicks.

  In my mind’s eye, beneath its bright, midafternoon sun, the men’s bodies glisten, their tan skin slick with oil. I set myself down in the middle of them. I’m no longer a skinny kid wearing saggy granny briefs but a hot, young muscle boy surrounded by tons of studly admirers.

  “Doll!” Elena’s voice breaks the bikini brief spell. “Ya betta get dressed, now.”

  I open my eyes and reach for the light brown chinos. I slide my orange kicks through the legs and hike them up over my slim hips. The pants are ten sizes too large. I need a belt.

  “Here.” Elena holds out a heavy leather belt with a brass buckle. On it, the cowboy rides a broncing stallion. “That was my bro’s, Luis’s, so you better take good care of it.”

  Our hands touch. Something besides the belt passes between us. Her sad, beautiful eyes say everything. She doesn’t need to explain Luis is the reason she’s helping me.

  “I don’t wanna be gettin’ this back from you.” Her stern voice trails off. The hard prison matron shell cracks. Tears well up and threaten to spill out her almond-shaped eyes.

  I look away, embarrassed. I can’t bear to look at her face. It’s an open wound. I mumble, “Sure,” turn my body away from the front seat and thread the belt through the back loops.

  Elena takes my chin and gently tilts it up with her elegant fingers. Tiny golden sunsets and palm trees are painted on the nails. She looks me in the eye. “You better.”

  The engine growls, a deep, steady hum. The speedometer inches toward a hundred M.P.H. The ladies grasp my need to travel, fast.

  “Here.” Sandy holds out a trucker’s cap. “Put this on.”

  The wind shatters Sandy’s stiff hair, churning the blond ice picks into a white froth. In the rearview mirror, my brown eyes meet hers. They’re emerald green, mischievous as a cat’s. “You can tip me later,” she says, arching her back, pushing out her boobs and licking her lips.