Dubai Jazz

There's a Petrol Station (gas station) next to the building where I work. It's quite a busy one, and for good reasons. It's the only source of fuel for quite a long stretch on Shiekh Zayed Road (one of Dubai's main highways.) And it has a convenience store. Although, nothing about being next to this station is convenient. (Except the proximity, perhaps.) In the basic design of most of the petrol stations here, the banks of fuel-filling hoses to the left are reserved to big vehicles; buses, trucks, tankers, bulldozers, bobcats, graders, construction excavators ..etc.. And because there's a trucks driving school nearby, an assortment of monstrous machines would invade our street to queue for fuel, blocking the entry for sedan cars in the process. And because Sandy from the office next door feels bitchy every morning until she fills up her tank and get her caffeine fix, we'd have to tolerate her relentless horn whenever her royal entry gets blocked. That could last up to 15 minutes. My hand vicariously starts aching when I picture in my mind how she keeps hers pressed on the horn. Brutal.

Back to the station, it's quite a useful amenity to have in your neighborhood. On many levels. I usually get my breakfast from the small bakery section. And would saunter down there every afternoon for a green tea and quick scan of the trashy magazines on the news-stand. In a way, they have quite interesting headlines, and I had figured them out eventually: men magazines offer the unequivocal secrets on how to make all women on planet earth fall for you, women magazines offer tips on how to break hearts, smash noses and churn stomachs. This is probably why I subliminally switched from caffeine to green tea over the years.

I usually can't stay for long though, the samosa smell is overpowering. But I get to spend 15-30 minutes collectively there everyday. Discreetly (and sometimes not so discreetly) watching people. There's also a pattern here. Lots of people I know would walk in. Either some pompous ass Dubai celebrity of some sort, an old friend, an estranged client or people who are just plain familiar. It's a busy place. And the only one on a linear length of 20 KM of a main artery. So I'm not usually surprised when I bump into acquaintances. They, on the other hand, are usually surprised. People are the least self-conscience when they walk into a convenience store inside a gas station. I'm not sure why. They're probably pre-occupied with what they need to buy, or with the grueling traffic on the journey home, or with the business meeting that had gone bad or turned out too good to be true.

So the other day I was walking back to the office, minding my own business, with a Styrofoam cup in hand. I paused to watch for approaching cars at the entry point to the station, because I'm aware that 95% of drivers do not slow down. And then I saw this beige-color Mazda 3 hustling by. A rental. The driver's window rolled down. The guy behind the steering wheel looked familiar. Who's he? I wondered. I couldn't recognize him instantly. Gears in my mind turned and pistons pumped. I still couldn't remember where or when or who. But one thing was for sure, HE had recognized me. And I could tell he wasn't so pleased about the coincidence. He kept driving. I kept my gaze at the car until I was level with his side mirror and was looking at him through it. I waved. He turned left and kept driving, past the fuel banks, past the small parking lot and out the exit.

He didn't stop.

Which sounds fishy, doesn't it? People are usually here for the fuel or the food, and he bailed out of both. There was one conclusion only, he avoided me. But why?

And then it hit me. Memory flashes tumbled down like pieces of domino. I had met this guy briefly two months ago. A sunny day, an exceptionally hot day in the middle of may. Around mid-afternoon. He tried to con me. I couldn't totally prove it then. But now I became quite sure.

So what happened in May?

I was walking down a street in Deira, 20 KM away from where I'd meet him later. I had just parked my car and was on the way to have lunch with a friend. Up came this guy, driving a black Mazda 3 -- rental, for damn sure-- and buzzed down his window. He asked for directions to the airport. I picked up the Italian accent right away. It was clear; a little too clear, perhaps. I told him how to get the airport. He kept asking questions, making sure. He seemed in a hurry. And almost distressed. I thought he was concerned about missing a flight or something. He seemed genuinely thankful that I had helped him, and enquired where I was from. I told him I'm from Syria. And I tell you, I've never met anyone before, either here or elsewhere, who had got nearly as excited for knowing that I was a Syrian. He pointed at me and rattled something in Italian to a guy next to him on the passenger seat. Like "look, a Syrian! These are our friends and allies! Can you believe this?"

He then told me he had a present for me. You heard that right, a present. He parked haphazardly at the side of the road, got out of his seat and told me that given the brotherly and long standing relationship between the Italian and the Syrian people, he'd give me a present. This may sound a little corny to you, and it sounds corny to me now that I read the words in prints. But this guy was incredibility persuasive. He acted the part impeccably. I've met my fair share of salesmen over the years. Credit cards salesmen would wander into our office and get totally spurned. Suppliers of construction materials would use every trick in the book to make their product the best ever, to no avail. So I knew right then and there that this guy was a salesman and that he was acting. Call me a cynic, give me any label you like, but no one throws presents at strangers for giving him/her directions (unless he's a prophet and on a mission to spread a new religion). My suspicions grew bigger when he picked up one of a few suits from a hanger's rail on the back seat and told me, in as few words as possible, that these are leftovers of a big fashion show. And they are worth thousands of dollars and so on and so forth. And he'd just give me one.

As a present.

Now, I'm a nice guy. But one of my favorite pastimes is to call people's bluffs. So I went ahead and asked him how much he wanted for a suit. Quite serious and business-like. He was momentarily taken aback, but then he backtracked and told me that money ain't an issue between us. He went back to stuttering in his heavily accented English, and to telling me that art was much more important than money. Or something to that effect. I asked him again, with the same tone and cadence, how much did he want for a suit. So he contemplated me for a while, looked me in the eyes and made a gesture lik he'd resigned himself to me being a guy who doesn't like handouts. He picked up a black box from the back seat and handed it over to me. It was an empty cardboard box of a mobile phone of an expensive model. He kept talking while I inspected the box. He said something about his daughter wanting this phone. That I could give his daughter the phone as a present in exchange for a suit.

His daughter is in Italy. So the present had to go through him.

If I had any doubts then they were completely vanquished. How likely it is for an Italian guy attending a fashion show to end up handing out surplus suits to people just because they gave him directions to the airport? And how likely it is for him to ask for a mobile phone for his daughter instead? Quite smoothly avoiding portraying the issue as 'money for a suit' transaction, but a 'cell phone versus suit' one?

I could have stayed there and eventually called him out on his little scam. But to be honest, I felt a little overwhelmed by this guy and was perspiring profusely. So I just dropped the box and the suit on the back seat and walked away. My abrupt action interrupted his incessant speech and he called after me, almost desperately. He said just come and take the damn suit. No phone, no money. But I wasn't buying any of that. That shit don't fly in DJ's zone, Mr. Corelenoe. All I heard afterwards were bangs of doors getting closed and wheels skidding and screeching on the blacktop as he angrily swerved into the traffic. Good riddance. I hoped he'd get to the airport ASAP. Although I doubted the airport was his destination. I didn't believe the fashion show angle either. I'm still not sure how this little con business could be feasible for two guys to undertake. There are resources involved. A rental car, time, and of course, the suits. I'm not an expert, but my brief inspection told me they aren't trashy. They certainly are counterfeit. But even those are somewhat pricey.

There's only one way this little venture could be profitable.

There must be plenty of gullible people out there in Dubai.

So please guys, spread the word and don't be one of them.