▪
When he emerged in Astoria, Omer finally caught a reflection of himself in a mirror. He wasn’t the prettiest sight and he had only a few minutes to spare. Omer pulled himself into a public restroom at the subway station and quickly began to work. He pulled off his backpack and yanked out a roll of paper towels. First, he used a wet towel to wipe off as much of the makeup from his face as he could. He followed that up with soap and water and finally another dry paper towel for what remained. Omer leaned closely towards the mirror, examining his face and picking at pieces of glitter here and there. He ripped his sweat-soaked shirt off, pulled a fresh one from his backpack, and put it on. Dry. Much better. Finally, he unclasped two necklaces from his neck and yanked bracelets off both wrists. He dropped all of the items into the outside pocket of his backpack. He reminded himself that he’d have to sneak most of the jewelry back into his sister’s drawer when he had the chance the next morning.
A few minutes later, Omer sprinted along Steinway towards home.
▪
Omer pushed the door open to find his entire family sitting at the dinner table. It was bizarre to find them so solemn, especially at such a late hour. They stared at him for a second before turning back to their plates. Luckily, Omer could immediately tell that the jig was not up. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Dessert in the Amin household was a forced affair that evening, decided upon by Omer’s parents for reasons that remained somewhat unknown. Obviously, the events of the day weighed heavily. But although the Amin family lived in Astoria—only eight miles away from Bryant Park—their angst was nothing more or less than that experienced by hundreds of thousands of Muslim families all around the United States of America. The Amins had no direct connection to the massacre, only a guess of a shared religion with the attacker. But this attack was the biggest and most deadly act of terrorism on American soil in almost twenty years. That meant there would be repercussions for all Muslims, whether codified into law or simply dealt with throughout the course of normal everyday life.
All five members of the Amin family were present. The patriarch, Omer’s father Moradi, was a genial fellow who had moved to America from Pakistan when he was five years old and settled in Texas. After high school, it had been difficult for him to find a solid job. It seemed like all of the job openings were at convenience stores and laundromats. He chose laundry or it chose him. Either way, Moradi started out way in the back of the house of an industrial dry-cleaning company. He steamed, folded, ironed, and eventually ran and repaired the machinery.
The rest of Moradi’s time back in Texas was spent trying to find a wife. That wife was Azza, whom he’d met through the eighties version of online dating—headshots sent from the homeland. He and Azza were set up in a transcontentinal relationship by his mosque in Dallas, and after a one-month-long trip back to Pakistan with his parents, he was engaged to be married. Between the two of them, Azza was much more headstrong than Moradi. She was also more religious. Arriving in Dallas was a shock. The city was nothing like Karachi. At least the heat was similar at times, but her biggest problem was assimilation. Everyone from Pakistan who arrived in the US wanted to buy a huge SUV and become as American as possible. She felt that there wasn’t enough diversity for her to maintain her identity, and she was convinced that New York City was the answer. Luckily for her, at that point Moradi was just happy to have someone to have marital relations with on a regular basis, so off to New York it was. The young couple saved up all of their money for about a year and eventually moved, much to the chagrin of Moradi’s family at the time. The problem wasn’t that they were moving; it was that Moradi still didn’t seem to have much sense of direction in life—beyond whatever goal Azza was pointing him towards at any given moment. In any event, they left Dallas. They settled into a small Muslim community in the northern point of Astoria, Queens. About ten months after finding a tiny studio apartment on Steinway Street, their oldest son Murad was born.
Moradi went back to doing what he knew best: installing and fixing the mechanical systems in the back of dry-cleaning businesses. He started working for a Jewish man who owned six dry-cleaning stores and over twenty-five laundromats throughout three boroughs of New York City. Azza also did what she was best at—telling Moradi what to do. She had worn a hijab for every second she was in public since age twelve and didn’t let up once she’d arrived in America. She quickly convinced Moradi to stop smoking, although it would take her ten years before he would stop drinking. Even then, she suspected he might have a sip of gin on Friday afternoons at work. Azza wasn’t condescending about other people’s beliefs. She had no problem with Moradi’s boss being Jewish, nor with the other Muslim women in the neighborhood who would walk around with a scarf around their shoulders—or no scarf at all. The only person that she was truly strict with was Moradi himself, because Moradi was the man who was going to be responsible for getting their family out of the studio apartment and into one of the nicer semi-detached townhouses that sat on the side streets to the east and west of Steinway.
It was not entirely clear how Moradi and Azza were going to accomplish this goal until the great reinstall. The great reinstall began when Moradi’s boss decided to upgrade the facilities in his dry-cleaning businesses and contracted with a steel-and-aluminum fabricator out of Long Island to bring all new, custom equipment into the stores. Moradi was responsible for working with the fabricator and the mechanics to make sure everything fit. At some point, Moradi realized that all of the old equipment inside these stores was destined for the commodity dump. The first day Moradi dropped off what he viewed as seven thousand dollars’ worth of machinery and received a check for his boss for four hundred dollars, he complained to Azza when he arrived back at home. It didn’t take long for Azza to decide what must be done. They took every single dime of their net worth and rented an industrial space down the block that used to be a car mechanic’s garage. Then they started paying the liquidation checks themselves. Moradi continued working for his old boss for about eight more months. That’s how long it took him in nights and weekends to get all the old equipment running again inside of Steinway Cleaners, their new business. Thus began the first building blocks of Moradi and Azza’s version of the American dream: two Pakistanis who pulled themselves up by the bootstraps and owned and operated a profitable dry-cleaning business in America.
In addition to Murad, Moradi and Azza had two more children. Their second child was Omer, who was quickly followed by their only daughter Salma.
The three kids sat around the kitchen table.
“It’s not the political system that’s the problem,” Murad was complaining. “It’s the social system.” Murad was in his early twenties and worked for his father. But while Moradi was a closet liberal, Murad took after his mother. He was stubborn and devout. Moradi and Azza had been most strict with Murad. They had forced him to go to the mosque much more than the next two kids. Or maybe Murad’s attitude was just due to the oldest-sibling dynamic. Parents are afraid of everything at first, which makes them crack down. By the time Omer and Salma arrived a few years later, and eleven months apart from one another, the laundry business was more successful and more demanding. There was less time for discipline and less time for everything else—just work, food, and maybe a vacation every year or two down at the lakes in Texas.
Murad continued to dominate the conversation. His words came off like a rant—something he had been doing more and more lately. But no one in the family complained. Murad had always been outspoken. It was his nature. Instead of placating him, terror attacks such as the one that had occurred that day generally got him more riled up.
“The social system! Know what I mean?” Murad’s rant was reflected by mostly blank faces, except for a slight grin from Azza. “You see, officially everything in America is perfectly diverse and equal. My dollar bill is worth the same as anyone else’s dollar bill. That’s what people will tell you. What nobody talks about, but everyone knows, is the way t
he world keeps brown people down. It’s not that Americans are overtly racist or anti-Muslim. Nope. They just don’t have the time to try to make new friends who are different than them. And you help your peeps out. So if all your friends are white Christians, then those people are the ones you’re going to help out. They get the job offers, the dinner invites . . . It’s small little cuts like that that form the thousand cuts, and then . . . well, then today happens.”
“Conflation . . .” Moradi responded quietly.
“No way,” Murad replied.
“Yes. You’re conflating two dynamics, Murad. You’re creating a connection that doesn’t have to exist. Can’t live your life looking at barriers and thinking you can’t climb over them. That’s not what I did. If we thought that, we’d have no business at all.”
“Well, I agree with Murad,” Azza said.
“You think terror is justified?” Moradi asked.
“No, I didn’t say that. Neither did your son,” Azza replied.
“Sometimes when you dance near the line, you fall over it. And anyway, you’re either part of the problem or part of the solution,” Moradi said.
“It’s not justified,” Murad replied. “I am just saying that these people, our people, don’t have a lot of ways of fighting back against—”
“I’m sorry, but that’s totally crazy,” Salma popped into the conversation. A year younger than Omer, Salma was the most outwardly liberal. She was always in conflict with her mother. She also often disagreed with Murad, but they tended to simply ignore each other instead of fight. “When you say stuff like that, you are the problem! What do you get out of it? You’re going to sit there and be an apologist for some terrorist? All those people had families. People that love them. There’s nothing you can say about it that makes it close to right.”
“How do you beat back a system that’s designed to make you lose?” Murad asked.
“You”—she pointed to Murad—“saying stuff like that? You’re the problem. You’re the loser. You’re the person that all the haters and racists think we all are.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Murad replied angrily as he rose from the table.
“Where are you going?” Moradi asked.
“The business club. I told you.”
“It’s after eleven . . .”
“Mur . . .” Azza gestured, a subtle hint. “Say hello to the guys,”
“I will,” said Murad. He stepped towards the front door. “And Omer, I don’t know how everyone else didn’t see this. But just one question: Why are you wearing a ring?”
Omer glanced down at his fingers. Sure enough, he’d forgotten to pull a ring from his left pinkie finger. The jewelry itself wouldn’t have been a problem, if it hadn’t been a bright-pink gemstone in a silver setting shining brightly for all to see. For a moment, one could hear a pin drop at the kitchen table.
Until Salma popped in. “You found it? Omer, where? That’s incredible.” She reached out with her cupped hands and Omer gave her the ring.
“Uh . . . in the hallway . . . just now,” Omer said.
“I told you I was looking for my ring. Thank you!”
“No problem.”
Murad stared at Omer for another moment before departing.
“Omer, how are you?” Azza asked.
“Fine,” Omer replied.
“You haven’t said anything tonight. What are your thoughts?”
To be honest, Omer had been barely listening to their conversation. He knew that his parents had called the family meeting for a reason. They were worried about their kids. Ironically, he guessed that he was the reason for the meeting. They were always pushing and prodding to understand what he was thinking, because he was the quietest one. But the real reason he didn’t speak up was because he didn’t care about geopolitics at all. If he could never have another overwrought discussion about race, religion, politics, or terrorism ever again? That would suit him just fine. Deep down inside, Omer was fuming. He was angry that something like this had happened that day, of all days, because he had been looking forward to the evening. Now he was just worried about Murad and the ring—and worry was the real problem that he spent most of his time trying to eliminate. Oh, and both of his parents and his sister were expecting him to say something now.
“Maybe the system’s designed to make you lose, but at least it has rules. So there’s still a way to win. The nice thing about rules is you can make them work for you like rungs of a ladder. Then you just start climbing up,” Omer said
“Couldn’t agree with you more.” Moradi beamed with pride at his youngest son.
“Our poet,” Salma said.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Azza said while nodding, seemingly satisfied.
▪
Later that night, Omer was alone in the bedroom he shared with Murad. He went through his pockets as he prepared to go to bed. He realized that he still had the brochure from the club in his jeans. He pulled the flyer out and uncrumpled it. Another punk show was being advertised, this time with a lineup of regional screamo bands. Right in the center of the page was a picture of the headliner, a band he’d never heard of before.
The band’s name was Mythics, and their lead singer was Jake Rivett.
CHAPTER FOUR
“IMAM, IS THIS NOT THE moment you’ve been waiting for?” the doctor asked.
Hanafi preferred not to be called Imam. He viewed the title as a pejorative. He saw himself instead as an alim, a scholar of the letters of the book. He wasn’t interested in growing a congregation and being out in front of it, even though he did just that. According to Islamic literature—in which there was much agreement and even more disagreement—an imam didn’t even need any special qualifications to be called an imam, except for having memorized the Koran. But no one was called an alim unless he had spent years deep inside an academic institution under the demanding tutelage of those who had done likewise. Hanafi hadn’t done that, personally, but he still preferred the term. Then again, Hanafi had to remind himself, what did the doctor know of Islam? The doctor’s ignorance was almost expected at this point.
The doctor, Maximilian Borin, had proven time and time again that he had absolutely no interest in respecting Hanafi’s wishes. Dr. Borin was in his early sixties. He was very tall, close to seven feet. Besides his height, Dr. Borin would be uninteresting to look at if it weren’t for his hair. His hair—dark brown with flaming fingers of grey-white—fanned out for at least six inches in every direction like a fro. Or perhaps he had been electrocuted by his own inventions a few too many times. In any case, Dr. Borin truly looked like a nutty professor if there ever was one. The two of them had entirely different objectives in life but were bound together by a common conduit. Once they were done, Hanafi would see to it that Dr. Borin was finally put in his place. For the time being, Hanafi would have to continue to deal with the man. But he still wished the doctor would stop calling him Imam.
“I’ve asked you to not call me that . . .”
“Sorry. I just figured . . . You know, you run the mosque.”
“The problem is you’re not very good at listening. Yesterday was not a good day. All of your theories and hypotheticals aside, it was a bad day—a very bad day. And since I’m the guy who writes your checks, you better start listening. This is life or death.”
“That’s a good point. About the checks,” Dr. Borin said.
The two men were standing in the basement of Hanafi’s Queens restaurant, Best Middle Eastern Diner. Best Diner, as it was referred to, was located three doors down from the mosque where Hanafi sometimes led prayer services. Hanafi delivered sermons, but he was more of a wonk than a politician. He was more often sought out by high-minded, regional imams in the tri-state area than by members of the general population. He could be incredibly convincing when it came down to the minutia of a religious argument but he was less well-equipped to comfort a mother worried about her sick child. Most of the followers of the faith in New York had never hear
d of Hanafi and never would. It was only when one began to dig deeper that the rumors would begin to be whispered. Alim Hanafi was a stone-cold closer. He took men, and men only, who were nearing full commitment to their religion and made them totally unbreakable soldiers of Allah. His basement prayer room was ground zero for his workshops, consultations, and the like—it was Hanafi’s office. He owned the entire building, actually, all four floors. The top three floors above the restaurant were apartments. Most of the apartments were rented to Muslims in the area whose only relationship with Hanafi was that of landlord-tenant. But Hanafi certainly had tenants who were paying a much lower rate or were simply staying for free. He sometimes did this out of the kindness of his heart, and also when it suited him. The building itself wasn’t fancy. It was practically indistinguishable from any other building on the street. The sign for Best Middle Eastern Diner had been there since the late eighties, hung before Hanafi had even set foot on American soil. Hanafi had many secrets, and one of them was that his building and the businesses he ran out of it made no money at all. They mostly lost money. And yet Hanafi’s checks to Dr. Borin were always good, the electricity stayed on, and his subsidized tenants lived worry-free above.
Hanafi and Dr. Borin—an odd couple if there ever was one—stood in the Best Diner basement in front of a long row of filing cabinets and shelves. Hanafi reached for the bottom drawer of the far-left filing cabinet. He turned a key, opened the drawer, and pulled out a generic remote control. He pushed a button on the remote, and one of the shelving units slid to the side, creating a four-foot gap that led into a dark passageway.
Terror Machine Page 3