Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  We wake up early. To kill some time I play with our accessories for the stakeout. I take handcuffs out of my purse and put one cuff around my left wrist. It's tight, and I wrap the other cuff around my right wrist more loosely. I pull my hands apart a few inches, the only leeway the cuffs allow me. So this is what criminals go through. The handcuffs are toys, but they look like the real thing.

  "Stop playing around with those!" Nasreen says.

  "I can't help it," I say. "They're fun."

  "I knew there was a kinky side to you."

  Nasreen sits at her desk, looking through college brochures for the millionth time. They all look appealing. They have autumn colors of brown and green with wide lawns and majestic, old buildings. Students are using microscopes, making pottery, and doing math equations. Everyone looks interested and engaged as they leave their childhoods behind to join the adult world. These brochures make me want to look for colleges soon. Nasreen has studied them so much that they're wrinkled and bent. I recognize a few of them as recent ones that arrived in the mail days ago. Nevertheless, they look worn, read endlessly by Nasreen.

  "We'll get you there," I whisper.

  Nasreen looks down at her collection of brochures, her eyes black pools of mascara and shadow. I wonder if she wears that much makeup to hide what's behind her eyes. Deep down I know she has a soft side. I see that every time she wants to help me, and her desires are transparent when she talks about leaving New York.

  Nasreen puts her brochures in a neat pile on her desk. "You ready to go?" I ask her.

  "Yes, let's get that tape."

  For the first time, out of my own will and not because I'm going to a funeral, I'm wearing all black, matching Nasreen's wardrobe. It's for our mission to get the Kulthum tape.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Abe lives closer to the store than we do. I call him on the payphone and he tells me he's just about to leave. That means he should get there a little earlier than us as planned. I turn to Nasreen and cross my fingers. I know how the subway system is and we've been stuck in tunnels in delayed trains, so we decide to leave now. If we're early, we'll watch Abe from across the street.

  The sky is overcast, and it drizzles on and off. Omar opts to stay inside. He looks at us talking on the phone through the kitchen window. He may be a snoop, but he doesn't know about all the things we've been through. It feels good that we can go about our business without him tattling on us. He can't say, "Baba, Nasreen and Asma are sneaking out doing something suspicious." Nasreen has the negatives and photos in a safe place, in the bowels of her closet.

  We're on the subway, on another long ride to Wahib and Tahir's store, and we're hoping this will be our last time going there. When we get to Brooklyn, we sit on the steps outside the school. Sure, we're wearing black, and sunglasses are hiding our eyes since we're on a stakeout, but we fit in. We could pass as girls waiting for siblings to come out.

  I see a familiar figure inside the store. "It's him!" I gasp.

  "Oh, him," Nasreen says in a lackluster tone when she sees Abe. She doesn't seem to take to the idea of my summer fling. She only sees Abe as a vehicle to get what we need: the tape. Abe looks out at us, and then we lose sight of him as he goes deeper into the store. I feel scared for him, as if the two brothers are more than porn peddlers. They remind me of the witch in Hansel and Gretel. Maybe they lure men with nude women and they never come out of the store again. But that's silly, since I've seen their customers leave intact and gloating on the wings of their freshly bought porn.

  I look at my watch. It's been almost ten minutes since we've seen Abe. "It's time," I say.

  "Let's rock and roll," Nasreen says.

  I push my sunglasses up. We march across the street and into the store. I see the trio: Wahib and Tahir are smiling at their newest customer, Abe, who has the familiar paper bag in his hands. On cue, Abe pulls the video out of the bag.

  "Thanks so much, guys," he says in a loud voice. "I've been searching for porn, and this is the only store in my area that has it!"

  The brothers widen their eyes, alarmed at Abe's slip.

  "No, no," Tahir says.

  "Be quiet!" Wahib says, pulling at Abe's arm. He tries to steer Abe to the curtained area, but it's too late.

  Abe resists, shaking Wahib's hands off him and says, "I've got to go. But thanks again for selling me this porn!"

  He may dance and play basketball like a pro, but he's a horrible actor.

  Tahir laughs. "He's just kidding," he tells us. "This is a dance video."

  "Yeah, dirty dancing," Nasreen says.

  "And we're not talking about Johnny and Baby here," I say.

  "Yeah!" Abe shrieks, wiggling his hips like Elvis.

  "The jig is up," I pronounce, pulling a wallet from the back pocket of my black jeans. I open the wallet and flash a badge, quickly closing it. I don't want the two men to see that it's a cheap toy badge from Omar's stash of toys. Nasreen does the same with her fake badge. Then we pull out the handcuffs. Nasreen holds her pair up with menace in her eyes. She's so good at being scary. On the other hand, I twirl my cuffs on my index finger, and they drop on the floor. So much for being a suave undercover detective.

  Nasreen glares at me and I pick up the cuffs. I've watched endless hours of Cagney & Lacey and 21 Jump Street, and I believe I can pull this off, despite my bumbling. "You've been caught red-handed in our sting operation," I say.

  "Yeah, we're undercover," Nasreen says.

  "Impossible!" Tahir screeches. "You're too young."

  "It's a special operation of the NYPD," I say. "We're young and unassuming enough to catch people like you in criminal acts. Also, we lied about our age. We just look like teenagers."

  "But, but you were on that TV show."

  "Cops don't dance? I can't have a hobby?" I'm fast with the rejoinders, even though I'm trembling on the inside. He wants to disprove me, but I won't let him. Today I'm a pretend cop going after something I want.

  "You're two businessmen who like to dabble in the arena of naked ladies," Nasreen accuses.

  "And you're trying to change the subject," I say.

  "That's not going to work," Nasreen intones. "Boy, are you in trouble. I can't wait to book these two."

  "It's going to be ugly for them when they're in custody."

  "I don't think they'll last a night in the slammer."

  "Whoa!" Abe says. "What's going on? Am I in trouble?"

  "No, no, this is just a misunderstanding," Wahib insists. He tries again to steer Abe into the backroom, but Abe brushes his hands away. He isn't going to leave us alone with these two men. He'll protect us if need be, and he's still playing the role of the shocked, dopey customer.

  "You're facing some serious charges," I say. "Across the street from a school! You're violating, like, a dozen statutes."

  "Shocking!" Nasreen erupts. "Those poor children are so close to this debauchery."

  "What's going on here?" Abe yells. "I can't be here! I'm already on parole, and my officer won't be happy if I get into trouble again. I won't be happy, either!"

  "No, no, there's no trouble and this is a misunderstanding," Wahib repeats.

  "Hold on, hold on, surely there's been a mistake," Tahir says. "Gregory, can you please step aside so I can talk to these young women?"

  Gregory is Abe's acting name for this performance. He finally allows Wahib to pull him behind the curtains. While Wahib turns to us, he rubs his forehead and disturbs his comb-over, his hair flying everywhere to show the baldpate underneath. Tahir also rubs his face. The cockiness leaves him and he looks nervous.

  "Listen, we're running a business," Wahib says when he steps back inside the main part of the store.

  "And we're enforcing the law," I say.

  "I promise you those are only dance videos," he says, his voice smooth and charming. What a fake.

  "Why don't you play them?" Nasreen asks, jutting her chin towards a TV and VCR.

  "No, no, that's unnecessary," Tahir say
s. "They're very long, and I'm sure neither of us has time to view them. Also, some of them involve belly dancing -- this is a store specializing in Middle Eastern entertainment -- and I wouldn't want to offend you ladies. We're just running an innocent business, I swear."

  "Belly dancing my ass," Nasreen mutters under her breath.

  "We've already seen your business side when you wanted to sell us that Umm Kulthum tape for a hundred bucks, and when we couldn't afford it you wanted a sleazy trade," I say. "You wanted me!"

  "Okay, okay, I'm sorry about that," Wahib says. "You can't say that you're unattractive and that no man would take a chance like that. How about we strike a bargain? A real one."

  "I don't know, sir," Nasreen says. "We take our jobs seriously."

  "Yeah, we need to take you and your brother down to the station," I say. "We'll also call in our team to confiscate all your goods in the backroom."

  "There's no need for that." Wahib flashes us a charming smile. "We both can get what we want today."

  ***

  It's done all the time, or so I've heard. Businesses pay off mafia men or the police. We receive our own bribe, and we leave with the tape. It's in my purse, like a block of gold. I'm so happy I could cry. We're no fools, not anymore. We played it before we left, listening with headphones from Tahir's boom box. It's Umm Kulthum all right, the same songs that were on the destroyed tape and five extra songs we'll leave out when we make a copy. All it cost us were the subway tokens to get here, because the men gave it to us for nothing. Nasreen also demanded the tape of me on NYC Dance Off, which I'll ask her to put in a safe place until I leave. My first instinct was to destroy it in case someone found it, but I want memories of my first kiss with a possible boyfriend.

  We stand at a corner two blocks from the store, waiting for Abe. A few minutes later, he walks out of the store with a paper bag.

  "They still let you keep that?" I ask him when he joins us.

  "Yes," he says. "They looked pissed but apologized for the misunderstanding I saw. They also gave me my money back to make up for the grief that was caused during that scene."

  Nasreen and I look at each other. We hug. Then Abe joins us for a group hug. We make a collective sigh of relief. Nasreen's hair is limp, as is mine. My limbs feel like spaghetti. Even Abe is sweating bullets after his feat. It's not every day that people pretend to be in a phony sting operation. We weren't there long, but I'm exhausted.

  "I have to ask my uncle if I can go with you to the Madonna concert," I say. "That would be something. She's the reason I'm in this predicament in the first place. Well, I'm to blame, really."

  "And I was your accomplice," Nasreen says. "I should've been more careful with my dad's tapes."

  The sun peaks out of the clouds. It's still a grim, rainy day, with brief moments of sunshine. Abe rides with us on the first train. I hold his hand until he has to get off at his stop.

  "Where do you want to go today?" Nasreen asks. "You want to see Greenwich Village? There's also time to see the Statue of Liberty."

  "No," I say. "I don't want to go anywhere. I've had enough adventure today."

  "Me too."

  "There are two more things to do during the rest of my stay, and that's it for me," I say. "Go see Madonna and get you out of New York."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  So much sneaking around. I'm tired of it.

  Years ago when I was ten, my middle brother Naveen and I broke one of my dad's records. Actually, I can't blame him. It was all my fault. We had a pillow fight, which escalated into throwing objects. He threw a teddy bear at me, and in a moment of craziness I threw a record at him. It broke in half. My father walked in and yelled at us. It was a disco record, something he didn't care for. He told us to put the room straight, and that was it. I didn't end up all over town looking for a replacement for the record.

  In a week I'll be back in Miami, where my suburban life is nowhere close to being as exciting as Miami Vice -- that's one exciting show, putting Miami in everyone's minds, but unfortunately in the suburbs there's no Crockett and Tubbs and all the action they bring. In New York, life is as exciting as a TV show, but not in Miami. Life will be quiet. My parents will shelter me, as they've been doing all along. I'll be with my friends, who are goody-goodies like me, and my best friends who constantly put me down. I'll play soccer and win games, in the safe haven of my soccer team that's been stable with pretty much the same players year after year, with new people to replace the graduating seniors.

  As crazy as my stay in New York has been, I know I'll miss it. The fast pace, from meeting Abe on the plane to the victory of getting the Kulthum replacement tape, has been nonstop.

  Back in Nasreen's bedroom, she mentions a conversation she had with her parents.

  "Hey, my mom and dad were talking about you last night," she says. "They were thinking of calling your parents to extend your stay since they like you being here, and they think it's good to have someone my age to hang with. Maybe you can change the date on your ticket and stay here for another week or two."

  I shake my head. "No, I'm sorry, but I miss Miami."

  "I thought you said it was boring and there wasn't much to do."

  "It's still home." It's also a place where I don't get into so much trouble, but maybe after what I've been through I'll get into trouble more often. I love soccer, but it can't be the focus of my existence. I need to seek out more things -- people and situations -- in Miami, because surely I don't have to go across the country to live it up. I should be able to do that anywhere. Yes, I must step out of my comfort zone. I can't wake up, go to school, go to soccer practice, and be back home doing homework every single day with little or no variety to my schedule. Not only was getting the tape uplifting, but this thought also makes me smile: I can bring New York to Miami.

  I'm touched that Uncle and Auntie want me to stay longer, but I'm determined to go home. I'm wrapping things up and winding down. Now I can breathe a little bit with this tape in my possession.

  Uncle's at work and Nasreen is doing her audio magic in her closet. She copies songs from the tape onto a blank one, to match the arrangement of songs of the tape we destroyed. Following the songs on the original insert that we kept, Nasreen is recording everything in order. We don't want to hear Uncle say that anything is off, that he doesn't remember Song Y going before Song X.

  The music coming from the closet is loud, and thankfully it doesn't bother anyone. It stopped raining, so Omar is outside playing with his friends. Auntie's taking a nap. She's a heavy sleeper and snores like a Mac truck. Good, because she won't interfere with us and walk in asking Nasreen to taste things for her. This makes me think that not only are we alone in our thoughts, but we're living separate lives in the city, inside homes, inside rooms of those homes. Yet sometimes everyone comes together. One way we converge is through music. I haven't met anyone who doesn't love it.

  The music stops. My cousin bellows, "I'm finished!" Nasreen has the insert and she then digs around her closet for the case of the original... the original meaning Uncle's bootleg. There's all this music floating around all over the world in various media. An extraordinarily talented woman, who's no longer with us, sang. And the world heard her. Thousands of miles away from Egypt, in another country, two clueless teenage girls destroyed a piece of her. Of course, people can replicate those pieces ad infinitum. Yet from what I experienced trying to get her music, it seems like her songs are as precious as diamonds.

  "Found it," Nasreen says, emerging from her closet. Her hair is flat on her head from scraping against heavy coats until she found the cassette case.

  "You have the insert too?" I ask.

  "Yup."

  "Where's the dubbed tape?"

  I take the new bootleg cassette from her hand and fit it into the case. Sure cassettes are supposed to fit into holders without a hitch, but this juncture seems magical. It feels like I've been solving the hardest jigsaw puzzle in the world and I put in the last piece. Last year I s
olved a Rubik's cube by breaking apart the pieces and putting them back together, which was cheating. This isn't. I worked hard for this moment. Feeling emotional, tears well up in my eyes. Looking at Nasreen, her face becomes solemn as well.

  "This is over," I say.

  "This has certainly been an irregular summer," she says.

  "We did it."

  "Yes, we did." Nasreen breaks out into a grin.

  I smile back, sniffling back the tears. We hug each other and then leave the room to put the tape in its rightful place, where Uncle can find it the next time he's in the mood for his favorite singer.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  With the relief of getting the tape in order, Nasreen and I decide to go ahead with our college mission since it's still early in the day. Also, we're on fire after completing the major task of replacing the tape. "We need Omar," I say.

  "Okay, let's get him," Nasreen says, a smirk on her face.

  We do the unthinkable, something we wouldn't have done last week. We march over to the playground, through the open gate, and stop at a wall where Omar's playing handball. We're on his turf, which is okay since we have dirt on him. How many times has he snooped on Nasreen, opened her door to peek in on her, and tattled on her? We'll do the same to him.

  He's in the middle of a lineup of boys. He doesn't see us or stop. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. The balls waltz up and down.

  Nasreen clears her throat, which doesn't do any good because as she does so an ice cream truck drives by, its tinkling music washing over the boys like magic. It isn't my or Nasreen's presence that makes the boys stop playing.