Koolaids

by Rabih Alameddine

  Christopher was very hurt that you would even suggest that he would knowingly or unknowingly transmit HIV or put Janice or Jennifer in danger. This suggestion was insensitive, ignorant, and bigoted. What you said was very hurtful and harmful. You should consider what you say before you let something as ugly as that out of your mouth.

  Your use (when you were here and over the phone) of the term lifestyle choice is offensive to both of us. We no more chose to be gay than you chose to be nongay. Why would anyone choose to be something so despised? Tell me why I would choose to be spit on and hit by strangers in the street for this “lifestyle.” You may not care, but this has happened to me for being who I am and for happening to be on a public street.

  Finally, you are not welcome to call or come to this house until you apologize to Christopher in writing. I will not let you do this to him again. If I find out that anyone tells Christopher about this letter (be that Janice or anyone else in his family), you will have no further contact with us. Christopher’s time is too precious for him to be upset by your foolishness.

  If you want to discuss this, you may call me on my private line at 415-555-2339.

  Joe.

  …

  It was Christopher who later explained the situation. Janice, his sister, had come to visit him with her daughter, Jennifer. They ordered lunch from a gourmet Mexican restaurant. Christopher ordered calamari soft-shell tacos, which he thought were simply divine. He suggested that his sister and niece have a bite out of his taco, which they did. When Janice arrived home, she told her husband, who freaked. He phoned Christopher and accused him of being a killer.

  While Joe fumed, Christopher kept repeating, “You should have tasted the tacos. They were fabulous.”

  Christopher lay dying when I saw them next. Joe showed me a letter from Christopher’s stepfather, Al. Joe had previously asked him not to write Christopher anymore. Al swore, on the Bible, that he would never write them again. He lied.

  …

  Dear Christopher,

  We’ re very sorry to hear that your not doing well. I felt a need to take the time to write to let you know we love you & are praying for you daily.

  More than that God loves you and Joe, more than we could ever love you. In His book He tells us that “As sheep without a shepard we tend to go our own way & we suffer the consequinces of our sin. He also tells us that “We all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” In another verse He tells us, “For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

  No matter how we’ve lived or what we’ve done He waits with open arms to receive us. In first John 1:9 He says if we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins & to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

  It would be wonderful to know that sometime in the future, we would meet on the other side, both you & Joe.

  The both of you will always be in our prayers. My God reveal as to His presents & He is waiting with open arms.

  Love, your mother & I, Al

  …

  I was furious. The letter got my blood boiling. My first reaction was to correct the spelling and grammar. I wanted to edit for punctuation.

  I was on a nude beach on Maui once when three locals showed up. They were drunk, looking for trouble. They insulted everyone, men, women, gay or straight. They accused us of desecrating their island. They prodded the nudists, trying to instigate a fight, but none bit. Everybody started getting dressed and leaving. My companion started dressing. He wanted to leave. They came over while we were departing, and began insulting us. I was not offended by their insults. I was offended that I was being insulted by people who used incorrect grammar. I started correcting their English. I corrected their grammar, told them when they were repeating themselves, and reminded them that “we be real Hawaiians” and “youse gay people be bringing AIDS to the islands” were not proper English. My companion thought I was crazy, but the idiots were completely oblivious. They just went on and on until we got to the car and left.

  I wanted to reply to Al’s letter, but Joe would have none of it. After Christopher died, Joe sent his parents a letter telling him both he and Christopher had converted to Islam. As Mohammadans, God would be waiting for them with open arms, but with better presents.

  Joe died not long after.

  …

  Out of timber so crooked as that from which man is made, nothing entirely straight can be carved.

  Immanuel Kant said that, which I find so fascinating. He was also the first, to my knowledge, to postulate that time and space are created by man’s mind. They do not exist without our perception, which is an interesting concept when you think about it.

  I wonder if something entirely gay can be carved. That was a bad joke. I apologize.

  Intuition and concepts constitute the elements of all our knowledge, so that neither concepts without intuition, nor intuition without concepts, can yield knowledge.

  He said that too. When I was smarter, I had a reason for remembering those quotes together. I can’t think anymore, however. I can’t remember. It might have had something to do with time. Time is what I need right now, but the concept eludes me always.

  …

  I love you, Mohammad.

  I love you, Scott.

  I love you, Scott.

  I love you, Kurt.

  I love you, Mo.

  I love you, Ben.

  I love you, Mom.

  I love you, Christopher.

  I love you, Tim.

  I love you, Kurt.

  I love you, Joe.

  I love you, Jim.

  I love you, Alan.

  Goodnight, John Boy.

  I love you, Karim.

  Hey, who said, “Goodnight, John Boy”?

  I love you, Mr. Momad.

  Isn’t this The Waltons?

  I love you, Kurt.

  I love you, Juan.

  Of course this isn’t The Waltons.

  I love you, Mahomet.

  Where are we?

  This looks like the last scene from Longtime Companion.

  Don’t say that. I hated that scene.

  This isn’t Longtime Companion.

  This is the ending of a book.

  Longtime Companion could have been called The Waltons Do

  AIDS.

  You’re sick.

  Is this the last scene of a book?

  I think they are trying to get a movie deal, which is why we need a sentimental ending.

  I still love you anyway, Kurt.

  This is stupid.

  Is the book over?

  I love myself the way I am.

  We can’t have the last scene without Steve.

  This isn’t the last scene.

  Do you think this gratuitous sentimental scene is enough to clinch a movie deal?

  I don’t think this is as good as Philadelphia.

  I was just wondering.

  Philadelphia sucks. Tom Hanks is insipid.

  Ask the reader. They have an objective view of this whole thing.

  Okay. Hey you! Hey you! Do you think this is enough?

  …

  April 14th, 1989

  Dear Diary,

  Will it ever stop? Will it ever stop? How much longer can we suffer? How many more deaths before someone says enough?

  Last night was one of the worst nights of the entire war. It was the worst. No one was able to sleep. The Syrians shelled the Christians, and the Christians bombed us. How could they do this? How can they keep going? Didn’t they have enough?

  The Syrians fired seven thousand shells into East Beirut.

  Last night was the fourteenth anniversary of the beginning. A fitting celebration was held. Someone should bring the leaders together, put
them in the same room, and kill them. How much more can we take?

  …

  A young woman opened the door. They hadn’t told me someone else was going to be there.

  “You must be Mohammad,” she said in heavy accented English. Probably a recent arrival. “Come in.”

  She walked into the living room without introducing herself. I found myself having to hang my coat on my own. Samir’s voice came from the kitchen. I was to come in and say hello. The kitchen smelled wonderful, just as I remembered. He was washing his hands, while his lover chopped tomatoes.

  Samir came over and hugged me. “I’m sorry,” was all he said. It was all he needed to say. We build our own family.

  Mark made small talk. How was the trip? Did I know tabbouleh was difficult to make since they could never find real parsley? How was I handling life without Scott? Samir just watched me.

  They kicked me out of the kitchen. They should be done in ten minutes.

  I saw her sitting reading a magazine. She barely glanced up at me before going back to her reading. I sat down opposite her, not wanting to disturb her. I just wanted to look.

  The lighting was perfect. It gave her black hair a warm highlight, making the cool shadows more vibrant. She wore a simple short black dress, a stark contrast to her skin. It was intense.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” she said. She didn’t stop reading.

  “Nobody has ever accused me of being polite.”

  “Are you having some sort of heterosexual attack?” Heavy accent, but a definite command of the language.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only staring.”

  She put the magazine down, and smiled briefly at me. She lit a cigarette. She didn’t ask if I minded.

  “Okay. So what are you staring at?”

  “I much preferred it when we weren’t talking,” I said.

  “Fine by me.” She picked up her magazine again. “Just remember that. For the whole two weeks, we aren’t talking.”

  “What two weeks?” I asked. “I leave tomorrow.”

  “Funny. Funny. But I am not talking to you anymore.”

  Then it hit me. I was looking at my sister. Not the looks, but the mannerisms. This was Washington, DC. She behaved as if she knew me. I should have known.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were.”

  “You mean you are rude to strangers as well.”

  I liked this girl.

  Samir announced dinner. Marwa stood up, stuck her tongue out as she walked by.

  “I see you two are getting along well.” Samir chuckled.

  “Marvelously,” I said. “You should have told me she was coming to dinner.”

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “She just comes over whenever she feels like it. We were neighbors while growing up, and we are now neighbors here.”

  “It must be fun,” I joked.

  “You’ll get to experience it firsthand. I understand she will be staying with you guys for two weeks.”

  “I’m not sure I will be able to handle both of them.”

  “That’s right,” Marwa said, already seated at the table. “You’re not only having a heterosexual attack. You’re also having an incestuous one.”

  She was already serving herself. I liked this girl.

  …

  I wanted to write a book with Fabio on the cover. A stunningly beautiful American woman with perky breasts is sold as a slave to an Arab prince. He, on the other hand, is an incredibly successful American corporate executive pretending to be an Arab prince, for what American would fantasize about being seduced by an Arab.

  Kidnapped and sold into slavery, the fiery Felicia Courtney realized that only her inexhaustible will could protect her honor. However, the nubile lass did not account for the sheer pulchritude and sex appeal of her ruthless master. His piercing emerald eyes saw through her soul, his muscular arms carried her into realms of unexplored passions. She found herself giving him her virginity willingly as the need to defy him melted away. She was his woman to do with as he pleased. Yet this perfect prince, who elicited her most intimate desires, was not what he seemed underneath his national robes. Blue-eyed Felicia could only hope their fires of passion would reveal his true secret identity. Their tempest of desires carried them beyond the harem walls into a mysterious Eden, where only magic and true love reside.

  Then I realized I was copying the jacket of a book already published. There were hundreds of books with Fabio on the cover which had a Western woman kidnapped by an Arab who was really a Westerner in disguise.

  I wanted to write an endless book of time. It would have no beginning and no end. It would not flow in order. The tenses would make no sense. A book whose first page is almost identical to the last, and all the pages in between are jumbled with an interminable story. A book which would make both Kant and Jung proud.

  I was not able to do it. Besides, I would have been copying the master. Borges did it before me.

  …

  The first massacre of the war occurred in Karantina, in January, 1976. It did not affect me that much. In retaliation, the Palestinians and other leftist militias destroyed Damour, a Christian town. That one devastated me.

  I did not know anybody killed in that bloodbath. It was not the gory pictures in the newspapers that baffled me. It was simply the concept. As a Druze, one would assume I would be more affected by the massacre at Karantina. I really had no idea where Karantina was, though. Damour, on the other hand, I passed through every day on my way to school. I loved that town. In one fell swoop, Damour no longer existed. They killed the people. Bloodied corpses, with open eyes, were left everywhere. Those who managed to escape on boats, left quickly, never to return. They hid in monasteries and convents in the mountains. The guerrillas stole everything. They ransacked the town, picked the houses clean. They took the clothes, silverware, tiles, doors, faucets, furniture, and even toilets. Then they burned the town and the surrounding citrus groves. Damour was no more. Expunged. Obliterated.

  I never thought humans could do that.

  …

  What if there is no afterlife?

  It does not exist, you know. You die. That’s it. You cease to exist. No heaven. No hell. No reincarnation. No presents. No waiting for Judgment Day. You die. They bury you. They cremate you if you’re lucky. That’s it.

  Kurt keeps trying to convince me an afterlife exists. His main argument is a simple one. If all religions, throughout the millennia, believed in an afterlife, there must be something there.

  That argument is flawed, as any rational person would tell you. It does not even pass a simple Aristotelian test. Yet I hear it often, even from people I consider reasonably intelligent. The need for a belief in the nonfinality of death is so great it affects even usually logical people. I hope I do not have to elucidate all the rationales as to why all religions require an afterlife. “If there is no life after death,” a Muslim theologian once told me, “the very belief in God becomes irrelevant, or even if one believes in God, that would be an unjust and indifferent God: having once created man and not concerned with his fate.”

  One of Kurt’s favorite proofs for an existence of an afterlife is the Tunnel of Light. All those who have had a near-death experience have had practically the same vision. They see a tunnel with a bright light at the end, and deceased loved ones calling them or welcoming them into the light. That, for many, it seems, is conclusive proof an afterlife exists.

  I always wondered why they all see loved ones. Where are the hated ones? In hell, I assume. Everyone you loved in your life will be there to meet you, all those you did not like very much are somewhere else. You, like Jesus, have that power. I would hope Rembrandt van Rijn is there to meet me. That would be more exciting. Gauguin would be in hell, since I loathe his paintings. Mondrian, yes, but not Malevich. Shakespeare, yes, but Chaucer should burn s
omewhere else. The Marxes, Karl, Groucho, Harpo, and Chico would be there, but not Zeppo. No dull people in my tunnel, thank you. This is fun, isn’t it?

  But what about the tunnel? What about the tunnel, you ask.

  What about it? It isn’t Nabokov’s fountain after all. If you think about it, the one experience as stressful as death itself is birth. What does one see as one is being born? Possibly a tunnel, but I doubt welcoming loved ones. A slap on the butt is more like it.

  I know, you say. You have proof. Many people remember past lives clearly. How is that possible, you ask.

  Drugs is one possibility. Schizophrenia is another.

  How come all people who remember their past lives were Cleopatra at some point? No one remembers being her maidservant, or the big shmuck with the big feather fan in the background, moving the fan up and down, up and down. Andy Rooney would wonder about that.

  What if I told you matter creates consciousness? Would you believe me, or would you run away and hide behind your safe beliefs? You can call me a heresiarch, if it makes you feel better. I like that word.

  Are you so afraid of this life? Are you still practicing, hoping to get it right in the next one? Are you being a good girl, hoping Father will reward you with everything you weren’t able to get? Are you?

  One day, you will write that book. One day, you will be fulfilled. Some day, you will take that risk. Some day soon, you will be doing what you really, really love. One day, you will begin to live your life.

  What have you done with the garden entrusted you?

  …

  June 14th, 1993

  Dear Diary,

  I had a fascinating conversation with a Swiss woman today. She was visiting her sister who lives in Ashrafieh. It was good to see some of the Europeans coming back to Beirut. We talked about funerals and traditions in different cultures. She played the church organ every Sunday in Leysin. She said she had been playing there for over twenty-five years, and in all that time she had never seen a single person cry at a funeral, not one. This shocked the hell out of me. We both thought it was unnatural. So I tried to explain to her how at some of our funerals, we still have professional mourners. It doesn’t happen as often these days, but some women are asked to come to funerals to mourn the dead person, eulogize, wail, all done loudly to make sure everyone cries. The mourners keep wailing until the loved ones have cried enough. It is shocking that in twenty-five years nobody has cried at a funeral in Switzerland. We are getting colder. We don’t cry as much, but we aren’t that cold yet. I find it hard to imagine.