Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  "Can I have your number?" he asks.

  Talk! His sweet lips have stunned me speechless. "I don't think that's a good idea," I manage to say, predicting Uncle's reaction to a strange boy calling me. "Hold on." I find a piece of paper in my purse and jot down the number of the payphone. Good thing I have a great memory for numbers and that I had watched Nasreen write the number for Wahib. But the thing is, if Abe ever calls, I'm going to have to rush out whenever the phone rings. He finds a wrinkled business card in his wallet and writes down both his New York and Miami numbers on it for me.

  "Who's this guy again?" Nasreen asks. I jump at the sound of her voice. I thought she was farther away, lost in the crowd, but she snuck up on us. And she's so rude!

  "This is Abe," I say. "Remember, the guy I told you about who I met on the plane."

  "I don't remember you telling me about him." Nasreen puffs her chest as if she's challenging him. I look at her, pleading with my eyes that she doesn't do anything embarrassing to drive him away. "So you got in the show?" she asks.

  "Too young," I say, shaking my head.

  "Me too," Abe says.

  "Well, we gotta go. Nice meeting you, Abe." Her voice is gentler after hearing about my failure. She sounds resigned, and so am I. I didn't get the gig.

  While I walk away, I turn around and catch Abe staring at me. I wish I could stay to talk to him some more, but we must get back home to plan things out. We're trying so hard, and I won't give up now. How do we get a replacement tape now that NYC Dance Off is a no-go?

  ***

  The rest of the day is all ours. I had imagined I would spend the day in makeup and wardrobe -- doing all that showbiz stuff I've fantasized about -- but I'm back in the basement. The only reminder of the morning is my crimped hair and tingling lips. It's as if my lips have their own memory separate from my brain.

  Nasreen steps out to develop the film of her brother's gambling notebook. Omar is out playing and gambling. I'm alone with Auntie. She's in the kitchen making baklava and spreading the layers of phyllo pastry, butter, and ground walnut on top of each other. I would like to help, but I'm more of a cook than a baker, and I don't have a light touch with phyllo since I've ripped it before. I want to broach the subject of Nasreen's desire to leave New York. If I can't replace the Umm tape, I can at least help Nasreen with this other goal of hers.

  "I think it's interesting that you have a degree in chemistry," I say.

  "I went to the University of Tehran," she says. "I made so many friends and had wonderful professors. I still keep in touch with many of them."

  "Everyone says college life is fun."

  "Yes, it is. I felt homesick, but my new friends made me feel comfortable."

  "You were homesick?" I ask.

  "Yes." She nods. "My family lived in Kashmar, not Tehran."

  So she left home to go to college. Anger at this hypocrisy burns down my throat and chest. I control my feelings, because I'm sure Auntie has her reasons. "So why can't Nasreen leave home for college?"

  "This isn't Iran. It's dangerous here. The city has many good colleges, and there's no reason for Nasreen to go into a strange environment. But you know what? One thing may change my mind."

  "What's that?" I ask. I lean forward, almost tipping my stool over.

  "If I see a sign." Auntie stops spreading walnut across the pastry and looks to the ceiling, as if looking to heaven. "If Allah sends me a sign that Nasreen is meant to leave New York, I will talk my husband into it and she will go where she so desires."

  "A sign? What kind of sign?"

  "It all depends," Auntie says. "There are signs all around us."

  This is all cryptic and over my head. Middle Eastern people have all sorts of superstitions, and I've only learned a few of them dealing with my elders. There are so many superstitions and signs I have yet to discover. Maybe a sign will come to Auntie that she should let Nasreen go to the city and college of her choice.

  I go to Nasreen's room and climb onto my bed. Since I'm alone, I go ahead and pull back the curtains to watch people come and go, talk into the payphone, and dribble basketballs. I get some looks since I'm on ground level staring up at people, so I pry my eyes away and work on my scrapbook.

  Leaving Abe's number in my wallet, I pull out the #191 sign from my audition and paste it into my scrapbook. It's a sign of failure, but at least I had the guts to put myself out there. I thought it would be so easy to get in by looking good and dancing like a maniac, but I was wrong. Dreams may not always pan out, but life wouldn't be worth living if I didn't pursue them.

  Once I paste the number, there's an empty page facing me that I want to fill. I step down, grab a pile of magazines Nasreen plans to throw out, and bring them to my bed. I look through them and cut out a picture of a model with shapely shoulders, a moth, a beaded necklace, and a few other items that remind me of superstitions I've heard come out of Auntie's mouth.

  I'm getting an idea. It's huge and crazy, but maybe I can create the sign that will unlock Nasreen from this basement that she's tired of. I messed up with the tape and NYC Dance Off, but I can't be a complete failure. I must get something right on this trip. I'll do this for my cousin so she can have the life she wants.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Where is my Umm Kulthum tape?" Uncle yells. He looks from box to box. Heavy rain pounds against the sidewalk, but the boisterous tinkling of water doesn't drown out his anger and confusion. It's only been a week since we've destroyed the tape, yet it feels like much longer with my incessant panic and all the running around town I've done. We could only hold him off for so long.

  "Calm down!" Auntie says. "It must be here somewhere."

  "But where?" Uncle wonders. The shelves have no backing. He tries to pull the entertainment system from the wall to see if the tape fell behind it. His stringy muscles bulge out of his arms, but the shelves are too heavy.

  "Don't strain yourself."

  "I can't move this," he says. "I would have to remove the TV, books, magazines, music... everything. I've lost a few tapes, and they're all behind there. I never bothered to look, but now I want to because I haven't heard Kulthum in a while."

  "You've been working hard all day. Wait until the weekend when Nasreen and Asma can help you pull it all out and you can check if the tape is there."

  "And I'll help too," Omar says, sticking his head out of the curtains. His smile is smug, as always. When he sees Nasreen and me on the couch, he narrows his eyes. He didn't like our innuendo the other day at the fence of his playground. Well, we have more in store for him since Nasreen developed the photos.

  "Let's get ready for bed," Nasreen says. That's code for "let's get ready for a night in the closet."

  We take turns in the bathroom. I hear beeping and other electronic noises as Omar plays games behind his curtains, but then they cease. His parents think he's up early during summer vacation because he has a lot of energy to burn. Yeah, that and he has his gambling ring at the corner playground. As early as ten in the morning his friends knock on the door to see if he's up and ready.

  Uncle checks the locks of the front door before he retires. That's our cue to go into the closet to watch TV. Nasreen enters the closet first.

  "I'll be right there," I tell her. Opening a drawer, I pull out my cosmetics. I dab cream on my face and balm on my lips. Then I proceed to put lotion on my arms. The only light that's on is the desk light, which is dim, but I'm still able to study myself in the mirror. I brush my hair and pout, imagining I'm getting ready to see Abe. I have his number and he has the number of the payphone, but he hasn't called yet. I doubt I'll ever see him again. I can mark him off as a new experience I had during my stay in the Big Apple. His was the first kiss I experienced -- I'm not counting my time with Brad and his Dorito breath. Abe was the real deal.

  My daydreaming comes to a halt when Nasreen calls for me. "Asma, come in here right now," she whispers.

  "What is it?"

  "Get in," she urges in a louder t
one.

  I rush into the closet, plopping down next to her. Holy crap.

  NYC Dance Off is playing. It plays twice a day --in the afternoon and it re-airs at night. I didn't bother watching it earlier today since I was depressed about my unsuccessful audition. I'm over it now, but it still stings. Now that I'm watching it, I see that I did make it into the show.

  "This line is unbelievable," a hostess with lilac eye shadow and purple lips announces. "These people are all auditioning for the show, and some of them were here as early as five this morning, camping outside the building..."

  In the corner of the screen, I see a familiar rattail. It's the back of Abe's head. Then I come into view. There's my crimped hair and outlandish, hip clothes.

  "I didn't see a camera in front of me," I whisper.

  "You've been on for the past few minutes, first walking down the stairs, then tripping, and then Abe was holding you in the lobby," Nasreen says.

  Abe leans toward me for the kiss. It's a melding of my crimped hair and his bushy bangs before we part.

  "Oh no," I gasp.

  "Shit," Nasreen blasts. She lowers her voice and says, "I didn't know you two kissed. What's wrong with you? You're not supposed to kiss strangers. And haven't you heard of AIDS?"

  "You can't get AIDS from kissing," I reply. "I can't believe I'm on camera. Do you think I look recognizable?"

  "Kind of," Nasreen says. "It looks like you took off your makeup, which you shouldn't have, but the clothes and hair alter your looks."

  "They do," I agree. The thing is, because I recognize myself, I assume other people will. "But my parents don't watch this show. My brothers don't even like this sort of music. Anyway, I'm in the background. It's not like they zoomed in on us."

  "Yeah, let's think positive. If I hadn't been with you, I might not know it's you on the screen since you left here in different clothes."

  The camera pulls away from the hostess and focuses on the actual show, where an emcee is announcing a band, then the camera pans to the dancers, to a world I was almost a part of. They look so happy and free, smiling, spinning, and pumping their arms in the air. Again, I feel bad that I'm not in this crowd. I have my nose pressed against the window. I want to be on the other side, having fun and being hip.

  "What a bummer," I say. "And we still have to think of a fast way to get money for the replacement tape."

  "With the pictures I developed, I think we can get our money back from Omar and then some," Nasreen says. "I just have to figure out a way to approach him since he's such a sneaky bastard."

  "I'll cross my fingers that everything pulls through," I say. "With this tape, with Omar, and even with you leaving New York."

  "Dream on, Pollyanna," Nasreen huffs. She changes the channel, switching from the bouncy youth of NYC Dance Off to David Letterman. It's cool that a guy old enough to be our dad is so funny, but it's not cool that Nasreen is negative and thinks I'm a Pollyanna. I believe in happy endings, as hard as they are to come by.

  ***

  Voices disrupt my sleep. Every time I startle awake I hear a different sound. A woman cries, a dog barks, a man is yelling and asks for his money back, a woman requests a collect call. Then the phone rings. I pry my lids open and look at the clock. It's nine thirty. It rings and rings, shrill in my ear. It's a few feet from the window, but it might as well be in the room with me. When it rings again, it's a quarter past ten. I was up all night watching TV, hoping I could sleep until noon, but this phone is relentless.

  "Nasreen!" I moan. "The payphone keeps ringing and no one's picking it up."

  "It must be for us," she says. She rolls out of bed, literally. She falls to the floor, stumbles on her knees, and is on her feet reaching for her clothes.

  "Oh, yeah," I say, having forgotten that Wahib, Tahir, and my one-kiss-stand all have the payphone number. I leap onto the floor and get ready. In ten minutes we're both sitting in the living room, watching Auntie boil tea so she can read leaves, something she does frequently. Auntie and Uncle usually close the curtains since anyone can peek into their basement apartment, so we don't have to worry about Auntie seeing us from the windows if we were to answer the payphone.

  The phone rings again, the sound dim in the midst of the boiling water. The living room isn't directly in front of the phone like Nasreen's room is, but we hear it nonetheless. "We're going to say hi to Omar and his friends!" Nasreen says in one breath. We're out the door, not even looking back to see Auntie's reaction.

  Nasreen gets to the phone first, and I'm at her side. She picks up on the sixth ring and turns the phone so the receiver is sandwiched between us. I wince, smelling the musty residue of other people's breaths. It's a mélange of all the bad odors of this world. My cousin is kind enough to turn the end farther away from our noses. "Don't talk too loud since my mom's inside," she whispers.

  "Sure thing." Whether I'm outside or in the closet, I always have to keep it down.

  "Hello," Nasreen says. Her voice is strained and guarded, as it usually is.

  "Hello," I say all cheery, thinking of Abe.

  "Ladies, it's Wahib. Can you make it to our store today? I'd like to make a deal regarding the tape."

  "Is it cheaper?" Nasreen asks.

  "Not exactly. But I'm ready to strike a bargain, and I believe it's something you won't be able to resist."

  "We'll be there today," Nasreen says.

  We go back inside, get our purses, tell Auntie we're hitting museums, and then we head to the closest subway station. The stench of urine and the darkness hit us as we descend the stairs.

  "Whether or not the tape really is in his private collection, he probably had no takers," Nasreen says, her voice echoing in the stairway. "Maybe he's back in reality and will charge us a few bucks, which I have on me. And I still have the money we borrowed from Mom."

  "I think you're right," I say. "See, things are already looking up."

  "Hold your horses. Remember, don't be too eager."

  I can't help feeling a bit eager all the time. So many strange, exciting things have happened to me here. It's been quite a ride. I feel like my trip is winding down now that we're getting closer to the tape, which I'm sure will be in our possession soon.

  Chapter Twenty

  Three men carrying brown paper bags exit the store. The bags are rectangular, as always, with videos. They smile, one of them elbowing the other in the stomach. When I have an afternoon to myself to purchase tapes and videos, I smile like that too. But I have no time for enjoyment when I'm chasing this tape.

  "Obviously those videos aren't one hundred dollars a pop, or else this place wouldn't be in business," I say.

  "I know," Nasreen says. "How dare these two assholes try to charge us a hundred bucks just because they can smell our desperation? Let's go inside to see what they're charging today."

  "Ladies!" Wahib brays when we come in, the door tinkling as it opens. The curtains from the backroom swish open as he walks into the main area of the store. "Come in, come in."

  The quiet brother, Tahir, sits on a stool by the cash register as usual. He smiles at us, the space between his front teeth pitch-black, or maybe that's nicotine or decay.

  "So you'd like to sell us the tape?" Nasreen asks.

  "Not quite," Wahib says. "I'd like to give it to you."

  I smile, but then I turn grim. Nasreen advised me to not look or sound desperate. "At no charge?" I ask.

  "No, there is a charge."

  "What is it?"

  "Yeah, what?" Nasreen says.

  "Like I said before, we'd like your, Isma's, companionship for my brother Tahir here. One meeting, one date to see how the two of you would hit it off."

  For a green card. For that sleazy, disgusting brother of his. "I thought you had a new deal," I say. "Nothing has changed, and you're asking for the same thing."

  "Oh, but things have changed," Wahib says. "We have something to show you."

  "The tape?" Nasreen asks.

  "No, something even
more interesting." He turns around and aims a remote at a TV. The television's light bursts from the center until the whole screen glows. Then I see the lady from last night, the one who's all purple, and then the rattail. My jaw drops as I watch myself tripping down the stairs -- I hadn't seen that in Nasreen's closet, and I look like a clumsy dork when my ankle fails me -- and there's my kiss with Abe. It's surreal watching it again. My first hot, tempestuous, authentic kiss was televised for the public to see. Such a private moment ended up on tape. Knowing these two brothers, and how they seem to enjoy torturing Nasreen and me, they probably had it on rewind. Pervs. No one can see our lips actually touching. It's more like the back of Abe's head eclipsing my face, but it's obvious what we were doing.

  "You have a tape of this?" I ask.

  "We never miss an episode of NYC Dance Off. It's become our favorite show."

  Tahir nods. "We love that show," he says. I don't see the both of them as dancing types, but appearances are deceiving.

  "It's better than Solid Gold and Soul Train," Wahib says.

  "So you saw my friend on the show," Nasreen says. "What of it?"

  "What of it?" Wahib says. "I'll tell you what. I never forget a customer. In the five years I've owned this store I've had a fantastic memory for names and faces. You're Farhad's daughter. You're not Shireen, but you're Nasreen. You came to this store two years ago with your father. You even had the same hair, same look, same everything. Your father comes here frequently for music. In fact, he came here two months ago, and I sold him a videotape of Turkish music. And I believe Isma is not your real name. That's okay. We will come to a relationship of trust so that you'll share your name with me soon. Oh, and you two look alike, so I can guess this is your sister or cousin, and not a friend."

  "Okay, so you know who we are," I say. "We just want a tape, nothing else."

  "But I want something, and you haven't fulfilled my request. Farhad left his business card with me. I know he's a translator living in Manhattan. I wonder what he would say if I called to tell him about how the two of you are here constantly, asking for this tape. Maybe I can even say that one of you have taken a shine to my brother here. I also have proof you've been here several times." He nods toward the ceiling. I look up to see the eye of a security camera. Great.