Change of Plan

Men in suits and sunglasses trudged along the pavement, weary expressions on their faces. Even though this was the start of the business week, the general mood wasn’t overly enthusiastic. But the guy with the scruffy beard, for all practical appearances, didn’t look like he was working that day. As he stood still under a glorious morning sun, looking across the road at the source of his momentary pause. She stood with her hand poised over the parking ticket machine, dropping coins and pressing buttons. Under the white of her exposed upper arm, he could see the perfect curve emblematic of full natural breasts. Her abdomen clung to her shirt in a smooth, imperceptible rise. It was the thing that struck him the most, and her back-lit figure accentuated the perfection of this bend all the way down to her hips. Like two curvy sand dunes traversing a magnificent sunset, joining arms to form a scene even when both of them stood at disparate distances from the spectator.

In this case, how far, the man with the scruff couldn’t tell.

He soon found out when she turned and walked a few steps further from him and dropped a ticket on her dashboard. As she walked back again in his direction, apparently heading to her work place, she looked up in a puzzled bewilderment. The distance between her two proverbial sand dunes was disproportionately small. For any other guy, this manly frame would have invoked a misogynistic joke or an indignant dismissal, but for him it was a huge turn on.

He crossed the road and walked over to her car. He glanced stealthily at the expiry time on the ticket placed neatly on the dashboard and proceeded to his work.

The next day.

The man with the scruff was up late this morning. His work allowed for flexible timing. He could report anytime as long as he closed his target. And unlike struggling salesmen, this guy had a secure client base and could afford to be an hour late to work and dress in modest clothing. Not that this diminished his sex appeal, he knew he had the looks and the physique. If the woman’s stunning figure conjured up an image of sand dunes, his toned body looked -he hoped- like convoluted, hardened volcanic rocks.

He came back this morning to see her car in the same parking lot. He didn’t have any business in the area. He was supposed to be somewhere else, attending the needs of other customers. He came back here only for her. He knew from checking the expiry time yesterday that she most probably worked around that area. And that she’d certainly be back at that time to put in a new ticket. Routine. He’d have a chance for another encounter. Maybe this time he’d introduce himself, or maybe concoct something to get her attention.

The man -who still had a couple of days worth beard on- waited and waited. The expiry time came and went and she didn’t turn up.

Maybe she got busy. He thought. Stuck in a meeting or something. The absent bear their excuses with them. I’ll wait for a few minutes longer.

As the man waited under the blazing noon sun, he got more irritated and his eyebrow furrowed in annoyance. Beads of sweat started rolling down from his forehead down his sunglasses. He wiped them with a kerchief and put them back on, a smile spreading across his face.

The parking inspector took out the tiny electronic machine from one of the giant pouches on his uniform and worked the touch-screen. A moment later a fine receipt rolled out of the slot and was dully placed on the windshield of the woman’s car.

After all, you never know what lies at the dark swathes between the dunes in a desert-scape.

Time to Face The Music...

Sometimes I get to thinking about bleak future scenarios. In one of those I picture myself as a big shot businessman or a hot shit hip hop dancer. Nothing bleak about that, but then the cosa nostra interferes in the vision and they kidnap me for ransom.

From then on I’m not sure what happens (in the vision), mainly because I’ve not been kidnapped before. Secondly because all the hostages I’ve seen in movies were women. Crying their eyes dry and their throats coarse. I fancy myself a tough guy who wouldn’t be intimated by mobs.

Oh yeah.

One thing is for sure, though. I’d certainly not be sending you guys coded/ciphered messages about my whereabouts though my dumb abductors.

Because you, with all do respect, suck at deciphering messages and solving riddles.

Here goes the answer to my previous post (the lyrics from the song, followed by the relevant clue embedded in the post):

There may be trouble ahead,
Frank looked forward to all the trouble and challenges that lie ahead that day.

But while there's music, and moonlight, and love and romance.
Nancy's face resembles a full moon. And music was mentioned more than once.

Let's face the music, and dance!
The guard was swaying in a pantomime dance....

Before the fiddlers have fled..
The self lock system should be engaged before the robbers have fled.

Before they ask us to come up with the bills.
The old lady was wondering how she'd be able to pay her bills.

And while we still have got the chance.
No clue on this line.

Let's face the music and dance....

Soon, we'll be without the moon.
Again, Nancy's face.

Humming a different tune.
Frank hummed his own sweet tune.

and then,
there maybe tears drop to shed.
The old lady shed a few tears.

So while there's music, and moonlight, and love, and romance
Let's face the music and dance!

.........................

The song was sung by Frank Sinatra in 1961.
There was a reference to the 60s' era in the first paragraph.

And as you could see from the video below, the song is exactly 3 minutes long.
The time that had elapsed between Nancy's checking of her watch, 10:51, and Frank's, 10:54, is 3 minutes.

Nancy is Frank Sinatra's first wife.

Enjoy the music!

The Daring Heist

The woman wore tight skirt and had a shiny black hair that dropped to her slim shoulders. She walked into the marbled hall of the bank with a confident stride and headed straight to the counter. Nancy’s hair-do would have caused a stir at some other era but, this being the 60s, nobody paid attention. She pulled a form from a stack, stepped aside, and furrowed in concentration as she pretended to be filling numbers, while her mind did a quick assessment of the surrounding.

OK, the guard at the door was pacing across the entrance, swaying in a pantomime dance to a song in his head, not paying close attention to anything but his shiny boots. Not that Nancy looked suspicious, her angelic face resembled a full bright moon and could disarm the national guards if she wanted it to.

There appeared to be two other customers at a corner lounge, being entertained by what seemed to be a senior investment executive.

The counter was four feet high and built of marble.

There were three employees behind the counter: two tellers at the front and another one who sat a little to the back and appeared to be handling forms passed along to her by the tellers to check. One teller had a ‘counter closed’ plaque in front of him. And was preoccupied with counting and rubber-banding rolls of crisp bank notes. The other had three customers waiting in line, the one in the front an old lady who looked like she’d forgotten how to count, and whenever she was prodded by the teller to hurry up and finish she‘d place her elbows on the counter and shed a few tears…”how am I supposed to withdraw enough money to pay my bills when you keep distracting me, son?”

Nancy checked her watch.

Beyond the counter was a partition of frosted glass and wooden frame that ran along the entire breadth of the building. She knew from pouring over the blueprints of the building with her associates that beyond the partition is a corridor that fed into offices in the back, and led to the underground vault through a stairway at one end, and a guarded back exit (equipped with alarm pad) at the other.

What appeared to be a courier slid a door of frosted glass open and walked into the working area behind the counter. He methodically placed a load of mail on each desk and disappeared where he’d come from.

She checked her watch again.

It was 10:51 AM.

.........................................................

The man who’d written the emergency procedure manual for the bank sat in a coffee shop across the street from the pacing guard. It was a sunny and glorious morning. But Frank was weather proof, no amount of sun shine or rain could distract his mind from whatever it was occupied with. His thought processing didn’t work through moods, but rather ran on the basis of events and developments, and he surely looked forward to the events that will be unfolding today, and all the trouble and challenges that lie ahead. Frank was the toughest, most feared and most trusted man in town. Qualities that helped the business of his security firm sky rocket. As he sipped his coffee today, he ran his mind through the relevant section in the manual:

In case of an armed robbery, a suspected arm robbery, or violent actions by a customer or a group of customers that can’t be contained by the security guard, the duty manager shall be notified by a red light alarm on his desk. The red light could be activated by the security guard or any of the employee through concealed switches. Upon spotting the alarm, the manager shall activate the self lock system immediately, preferably before the robbers have fled, and even before intimating law enforcement. The self lock system is irreversible, can only be deactivated by a code known to the Sheriff and the branch manager from outside after bringing the situation inside the bank under control. A piece of music will be played through the public address system of the bank to sooth the occupants of the besieged building. The music selection is left to the discretion of the manager……

Frank sipped his coffee and looked at his watch, humming his own sweet tune.

It was 10:54 AM.

.........................................................

No no no...... This isn't another short story. I just wonder if my dear readers will be able to guess the song the wise manager had selected to be played during emergencies.

And yes, there are enough clues in there.... Where are the music gurus?

The Man Who Shaved His Legs

My Friend James from Atlanta, Georgia, had chosen to shave his legs (yep, with a razor) as an assignment for his Women Studies' course. He kindly gave me the permission to repost his experience with photos. He might also pop in to answer questions and debate with ya'll. I salute James and his courage to carry out this project. It's high time we examine the gender issues we take for granted.

Enough of my babble, here we go:

For the gender project assignment, I couldn’t really decide what to do. As a man who identifies as a full-fledged feminist, and has done so well before this class, it was hard for me to find something that would put me outside of my comfort zone. I already don’t believe that masculine and feminine are even labels that we should embrace, as I tried emphatically showing the very first day by standing in the middle of the chalkboard. If I want to dance ballet, it should not be considered feminine; likewise, if a woman wants to play football, she shouldn’t be considered a Tom Boy. I’ve worn dresses; I’ve worn high heels; I’ve worn skirts; I’ve worn makeup; I’ve worn bras; my ears are pierced (although most of those things were done during Rocky Horror or Powder Puff). The one thing I hadn’t done, surprisingly, is shave my legs.

This change seemed to be the most appropriate for me because a.) I’ve already stepped out many times, as I’ve stated, and b.) I didn’t think anyone else would do this. I also decided to do this because lately I’ve read articles regarding women and shaving their pubic region. In today’s society, it is a guarantee that women will shave their legs, or else they’ll be seen as unkempt, gross, dirty, lesbian, or even the f-word (in the pejorative sense, of course). The goal posts are moving even farther and now women are expected to be totally clean-shaven in the pubic area, especially with the growing spread of internet pornography for what women should look like naked (I happen to be a “sex-positive” feminist, in that some pornography is ok, but that’s for another time). Although there’s some pressure on men to also be shaven, in my own experiences, I’ve seen it to be more of the man’s choice rather than pressure from his partners. In the case for women, I believe it to be the opposite. This seemed like low-hanging fruit just ready to be grabbed.

Before the day started, I didn’t expect much. People usually don’t look down when you’re walking; they look straight into your eyes—or your chest if you’re a woman. So with respect to other people, I didn’t expect to turn any heads or raise any eyebrows. As for me, I didn’t have many expectations about the entire experience, either. I just thought that it was going to be an annoyance more than anything, as I’ve frequently heard women complain about shaving. The women I interact with regularly are also feminists, so I expected positive reactions from them.

Sure enough, as the day went on, I didn’t even notice one person who looked at my legs or said something about them. I specifically wore shorts to highlight that they were shaved, too. It took a surprisingly long time to shave them, but I suppose if you’ve never done it before and it’s long that it won’t take a short while. At the end of the day I took pictures and posted them on my Facebook account to see many of my girlfriends comment approvingly. No guys really commented, which sort of surprised me. I half-expected some sort of homophobic statement from at least one guy and didn’t get it. Perhaps they didn’t notice the photo album.

What did poke out to me, though, was that if a woman decided to do the opposite of me, as in not shave her legs, I guarantee that heads would be turned. So while I didn’t expect anyone to really notice, it was a poke at gender not just because men traditionally do not shave their legs, but for the gross hypocrisy of what would happen if women didn’t do it. Sure, some people might make fun of the guy for shaving his legs, but a woman would be treated as an outcast.

As to gender in and of itself, I believe almost all of it to be a social construct. There are some biological differences in the brain, to be sure, but they’re very small and trivial at best. I was brought up as a boy, and I know that throughout my childhood I was constantly being hammered by male-affirmative messages and biases, and I think it's obvious that girls were also hit with lots of their gender-specific cultural influences.For example, a few months ago I saw in a Toys ‘R Us catalog listing children’s telescopes and microscopes with three different colors: pink, black and gray. The pink one, however, was the weakest in strength and ability. Obviously, a social message is being conditioned for how people think. A color that’s known to society as feminine and girly means you aren’t as concerned about utility of the equipment in science, and are more concerned about appearances. People often wonder why there aren’t as many women in engineering and science—my discipline—so the first thought was that women simply couldn’t handle that hard thinking stuff. It couldn’t be all of these gender roles being shoved into our faces since we were young children, not at all.

I think the reason for a lot of the arguments regarding social vs. biological is comfort and laziness. There is inequality in this world, and it’s just easier and takes less effort to just say “It’s obvious why things are the way they are, WE’RE BORN DIFFERENT!” I think a lot of these biological arguments also stem from the social conditioning aspect. For example, women are thought to understand emotions better than men simply because they’re more compassionate and empathetic. After all, in public policy polling, women are usually more anti-war, empathize with the plight of the poor more, and incidentally also vote more Democratic. So it must be our biological differences, right?

No, it is the result of social conditioning to pay attention to these things more. Women being more in tune with their emotions could be true in the sense that our environments often remind women they should be good at it and remind men they should be bad at it. That doesn’t mean that men are actually bad at it, but it is society reminding us that “this is how things are, so just accept it.” To wit, when women are taught that men are “hard-wired” to deal with math better than they are, rather than trying to work against this stereotype they simply accept it because how on Earth can they fight their own biology? You know, if women tried thinking too hard, their brains would overheat and they would get hysterical, or something.

So you have a perpetual sexist cycle going on here: there aren’t many women in hard scientific fields; biology prone people say it’s because men are better or that women aren’t interested because it’s how they’re hard-wired; women believe they’re hard-wired to fail at science and become disillusioned with trying harder, basically “proving” the biological argument; and then the cycle repeats.

This cycle needs to end, and it starts with people throwing aside this ridiculous argument that gender comes solely, or even mostly, from biology.

Qabqab - (a short story by Dubai Jazz)

“You understand what you have to do?”

Sharshar, a middle-aged man with a balding head and flabs of barely biodegradable fat, an aura of malevolence about him, glowered at his guest, Nibras, with eyes full of menace.

He shook his head impatiently and continued: “You have no choice but the one I’m giving you. Get over your self pity; you already lost your dignity, why not get paid in return…?”

Nibras looked on in despair. What the evil man was asking for wasn’t impossible; it was just immoral and humiliating.

But Sharshar was right. Nibras had no choice but to acquiesce. He had never thought he’d see himself in such an impossible situation in a life that, otherwise, was as plain and clear as the conscience of a blue sky on a sunny day...

***

Qabqab was a remote and semi-isolated mountain place. Life here was simple and unpretentious. The residents connected with the pristine nature around them. They cultivated the scarce fields where the lands were flat enough for basic agricultural use. Farming was a job that guaranteed self-sufficiency, it produced enough to sustain oneself but not enough to trade and barter. But self-sufficiency was what most of the content people of Qabqab sought. And so farming for them trumped any other interest. It also made them travel less, and mingle with their neighboring villages even less frequently. Politics did not figure in Qabqab’s social life. There was no hierarchy of power. Disputes, as rare as they might be, were settled amicably. When veteran travelers and rovers sat center-stage at the village square to talk about famine, war and political dissent and events that took place elsewhere, the residents of Qabqab listened in amazement. For them, these things were inconceivable and unheard of.

But this voluntary isolation from the outside world also made them more susceptible to superstitions and mythical beliefs. Very little knowledge had made it through the beaten trails to the village over the years. The wise elderly were as knowledgeable as their limited oral heritage allowed. The youth, if they at all traveled, would usually seek material pleasures and conveniences. As a result, there was a collective misconception about knowledge in Qabqab. The happy, simple-minded villagers couldn’t distinguish the unknown from the unknowable. They thought all knowledge was sacred, and that it took an individual of superior mystical powers to possess it. They couldn’t seek knowledge, even when there had been jarring and most urgent of questions to be answered. They just kept them to themselves, waiting—and hoping- that one day a man with gratifying answers will appear in their midst.

Sharshar had seen this. He spotted the demand, like a sharp-eyed market analyzer. He smelled the silent agony and the distress of ‘his people’. And being a realist, he identified the flaw in their thinking process. He believed the only way to relieve them from their misery was to enhance the ill-informed part of their minds with more superstitions. He decided that he’d be the one to do it. He will be their ‘savior’. He knew how to handle people, and the more he’ll excel at scamming them, the more marketing they’ll do for him.

Self-perpetuating success.

Sharshar had gone on a trip. Had been away for while. Pretending he’d joined an expedition to a town where knowledge and schools were in abundance. He said he’d met a gifted old man while attending a forum. The scholar had agreed to teach him a secret craft after he’d spotted in him great reserves of talent………….

In reality, though, Sharshar spent most of that time holed up at a dingy lodging home in a nearby village, living under an alias and a moderate disguise. Plotting his business plan (scam, really). Poring over the material he’d compiled about the history of fraud: handwritten scrolls authored by the masters of deceit, obtained through underworld contacts. For pleasure, he’d mingle with ex-convicts at the watering hole up the alley, or visit the whorehouse and talk with the working girls for hours.

When he was finished, he’d destroyed all evidence, packed and took a circuitous route back to Qabqab. He’d hung a shingle on his front door, ostensibly waiting for the business to pick up. For those who enquired, (and even those who didn’t) he’d claim he’d become a member in a secret underground society of illuminatis that simply knew too much about the world to be out in the open…..

No one caught on the fact that Sharshar was readily prepared to share the story of the ‘secret’ society with everyone and anyone.

***

However, Sharshar wasn’t merely sitting on his hands. He knew his business needed expediting. A stimulus. And this was why he invited Nibras to his house today; to ‘persuade’ him. As a professional scammer, blackmail wasn’t a stranger to Sharshar’s pool of talent. He knew the young man was in trouble. And it showed on his face and his trembling hands. His finances were down in the cesspool, and he got himself hooked on rum. (all the better, thought sharshar, it’s always easier to control someone who is already out of control.)

It’d all started when a shipment of that distilled beverage was brought in to unsuspecting Qabqab. Nibras drank and drank. Feeling funny and lightheaded and happy. Nobody told him about the erosion of self-control. He drank himself to bankruptcy. Now his life was in shambles, his little farming business crumbling, and his wife about to flee.

He really had no choice. He needed the money and he needed it fast. There was no one who could provide him with a loan on such short notice without significant collaterals.

Nibras nodded, got up and walked away in a defeated silence. He stumbled out of the door and hurried unsteadily to his house. Shoulders slumped.

When he recounted to his wife what Sharshar had asked him to do, she sat on the floor and began to sob.

***

ONE YEAR LATER

Sharshar sat happily on a smooth stone ledge, cooling his feet in the stream. He had his little fishing rod with him. He wasn’t into fishing; he just enjoyed the peace and quiet up here in the mountain. The seclusion of the place helped to sooth his senses, and provided him with the time to take stocks and pat himself on the back. Sharshar was a content man today, he reflected: the business was flourishing. He now had three assistants. And no one in the village seemed to have caught on his scam. He felt protected. He felt revered.

‘A water stream follows the path of least resistance’, he now recalled a physical law he’d heard once. How ambitious!

His smug thoughts were interrupted by a rustling sound from behind. He turned to examine the source. Oh, No. Damn Him. Not now. Through a narrow opening in the thicket, a lone figure emerged, his sack of tools tethered to his back with sturdy ropes. He waved a greeting to Sharshar and then went about his business. The intruder, Sharshar had learned, was dubbed ‘Mr. Think’ by the residents of Qabqab. (the name derived from his habit of asking his assistants to always think before acting.) But in his presence he was always addressed as ‘chief’, an affront to his down-to-earth mannerism. He was the youngest son of a well-to-do farmer, and he’d left the village at a young age. Coming back years later with few stories to tell but with plenty of ideas to carry out useful projects, and with the experience and the knowledge to do them well.

In the few months Mr. Think had been here, he invented a brilliant trash collecting system; he introduced the concept of terraced fields; and he also came up with this intricate network of water aqueducts and storage tanks. Tapping the water stream and the occasional flood gorges, ensuring irrigation for the earth and water supply for residences.

Sharshar never felt easy around Mr. Think. He knew if there were one person he couldn’t deceive in this town it’d be him. He kept him in his peripheral vision, always watching out.

He was also aware that real knowledge is his ultimate enemy.

Mr. Think finished checking and servicing his system and disappeared with the easiness of stealth warrior.

***

Later in the day, Nibras was startled when an associate of Mr. Think showed up at his house, extending an invitation to visit as soon as possible. A little while later Nibras was knocking on Mr. Think’s office door. The chief himself received him with a firm handshake and a reassuring smile, he lead him inside and they sat on low cushions. They exchanged pleasantries for a while and then Mr. Think cut right to the subject that prompted the urgent summon.

“Tell me, Nibras. How did it happen?”

“How did what happen, chief?”

“Nibras, we’ve known each other since we were little children. I know you are a straight and honest man, but…” Mr. Think briefly nodded towards the tumblers of grape juice between them, ”Everyone slips. We all have our shortcomings. But it’s an entirely different ball game when our weaknesses are exploited by evil men like Sharshar”.

He saw a puzzled look on Nibras’s face.

“Ah, ‘different ball game’, that’s an expression I’d learned when I was away somewhere….”

They both smiled.

“Is that why you summoned me here, Chief? You want to learn about my business with Sharshar?”

Mr. Think considered this, he said:

“No, I didn’t summon you. This is merely invitation. And yes, something doesn’t fit quite right with this guy. And your entanglement with him troubles me a lot”

“But why now, Chief? You’ve been here for six months and now you’re curious about him all of the sudden, why?”

“Because,” Mr. Think said, “I was up at the stream this morning and I saw him there. His eyes were bright with malice. I know a look of territorial rivalry when I see one. I worry that we’d wake up one day to see our water system sabotaged. This guy, seems to me, is capable of anything…”, he paused for a moment. Nibras winced at the reminder of how evil Sharshar could get. He was also impressed that Mr. Think had figure that out already.

Mr. Think continued, “your involvement in this affair is vital, Nibras, When I got back to my office I made few discreet enquiry. Yours seem to be the first breakthrough’ case for Sharshar. And”, Mr. Think stopped here for emphasis, “I’m fairly certain he blackmailed you into helping him. The thing that I want to know is, how?”

Nibras looked terrified. He started sweating, held his head in his hands, but then composed himself and said:

“You’re right, Chief. The whole disappearance thing was a farce. I was supposed to hide away for few days up in the woods, in a place that Sharshar had prepped for me to live in for a while. And then at a certain date and time I was to go to a prearranged location and lie beneath the shadow of huge walnut tree….” Nibras paused here, unable to complete. Mr. Think did that for him:

“After your disappearance, your wife went ballistic. She was distressed and quite few of your relatives and neighbors went out looking for you to no avail. She was then ‘advised’ to approach a certain man starting up a new business; a man with psychic, supernatural powers. He promised her to find you after a little consultation with his…. whatever he commiserates with...how am I doing so far?”

Nibras, who was studying his feet the whole time, just nodded.

“Sharshar then claimed to have learned your location and he lead a convoy of village dignitaries to a certain walnut tree. Of course, when the word spread about the possible search, volunteers joined, eager to help.

“When they’d got there you were found at the exact same location Sharshar had indicated . Which, it seems, mesmerized the crowd and made Sharshar the hero of the day……. The rest, I believe, is history.”

There was an uneasy silence for a moment. The Chief cleared his throat, he said:

“Do you know what else I’d learned today?”

“What?”

“There’s been two other disappearances over the past year, ever since our infamous friend launched his business. And you know what’s curious? the two other cases were concluded more or less like yours.”

Nibras didn’t utter a word. He was still terrified and confused.

“My friend, we’re not here to examine your past. I know that you’d bravely sobered up and your life is back on track. But what I need to know, and I need to know it now, is how he got to you, Nibras, how?!”

Nibras was lost in his own world; he wasn’t accustomed to manipulation or lying. His face was colorless and his eyes lost their focus. He exhaled loudly and brought his face up, looked into Mr. Think’s eyes and began to talk.

***

Lanky boys scurried about the square grooming it for that weeks' gathering. Dust rose as hard mats were unrolled and pulled into place. A mood of festivity hung in the air. The elderly and the veteran travelers sat where they were supposed to, in the elevated part of the square where they could be seen and heard. Every now and again, ululations reverberated from where the women sat, confused infants looking out timidly from the grasp of their embrace.

And then silence fell over the village as if a giant invisible hand turned everyone mute.

For unlike every other gathering, Mr. Think showed up now with his group of assistants and helpers, sturdy men who had volunteered to support his ventures after the village folks realized their tremendous benefits. The surprise of his appearance registered on every face.

Then silence broke with more ululations and heavy applause. Mr. Think- who may had considered gratuitous socialization a waste of time and had concentrated on his work instead- was however always welcome when he attended an event like this.

However, not everyone was pleased at seeing him. Sharshar's look of hate and contempt from where he sat with his assistants couldn't be disguised. He was always present at the gatherings, they presented him with the chance to consolidate his public relations and reaffirm his status as the sole psychic in Qabqab. Mr. Think realized that his fun for the evening had already begun.

Without further ado, Mr. Think walked into the middle of the ad hoc auditorium unbidden. He smiled and greeted his people and started speaking with the tone of an entertaining yet earnest story teller:

"Folks, there's absolutely no need in this world for a person to be ashamed of his past. We all do stupid mistakes every now and again. Even I, a person who you regard as knowledgeable; I've made quite a few blunders in my life. I'd hurt people, broke hearts, let down myself and my family, and lost financially in many foolish experiments.

"The real shame, in my humble opinion, is for a man to have to live with shame discreetly and let it eat up at him. And to allow it and its consequences to harm his life and others'.

"One such man is among us today. He'll be speaking to you shortly, but before we get to that, allow me to call on Mr. Sharshar to join me here. Mr. Sharshar, please grace me with your presence."

Sharshar's reaction was a mixture of perplex and rage. But he recovered quickly and stood up and walked the few steps into the fray.

"Mr. Sharshar, I'm personally quite intrigued by your capabilities. Please tell me, how many missing persons have you helped locate this past year?"

Sharshar would have loved to wring the neck of this smartass. But he was aware he should play along, public disgrace was nothing short of suicidal to him.

"Three...hmm..four. Wait, three. Yes. That's it"

"In what mental state were they when they were found?"

"What do you mean mental state?"

"Were they, for example, suffering memory loss? Were they experiencing madness?"

"Hell do I know? I just help find them. My job ends there"

"Surely, you'd agree Mr. Sharshar, that a sane and discerning person wouldn't get lost that easily? there are always ways of finding your way back. Our folks are quite adept at using stars and other celestial objects to aid their sense of direction."

"How could I know..."

"In fact," Mr. Think continued, cutting him off, "isn't it true that before last year not a single incident of disappearance occurred except that of a senile man who wandered out and was never found, and that was, what, twenty years ago?"

"Look, I don't know where you're going with this. But you must have forgotten that rum wasn't as popular in our village twenty years ago. All three of those who'd disappeared last year were hopeless drunkards"

"So, you'd describe their state of mind as 'drunk' when they were found? Are you saying their disorientation was due to excessive drinking?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying"

"Mr. Sharshar", Mr. Think produced a metal container from his pouch, "this is the standard flask that most drinking men in this village use. Wouldn't you agree?"

The villagers were totally entranced by the unfolding dialog before them. Suspense of story telling had never been better. They hung on to every word.

"I guess so. I mean, yes. That's the standard flask that was brought in along with the first shipment of rum, if I recall correctly"

"Did any of the three men have one of these flasks on their person when they were found?"

"I don't know. I mean, people get drunk and throw stuff away. .....may I ask where is this go-"

"Let's assume," said Mr. Think, cutting him again, "that they had this receptacle with them when they wandered out, how long does a man last in a state of drunkenness under the influence of the amount of beverage contained in it?"

"Hell do I know? I don't drink"

"Give me your best guess"

"A day. A two....?"

"Mr. Sharshar, wouldn't you agree that a drinking individual would regain his soberty and sense of direction when the influence wears off? Actually, isn't it right that he or she would then seek to find another drink to quench their thirst and quell their addiction?"

"I'm not sure. What's that got to do with me?"

"Everything Mr. Sharshar. Everything."

Mr. Think turned to his communion and struck the hot iron with decisive resolve in his voice. They were listening now with eagerness of an avid learner.

"Ladies and gentlemen; remember what I had told you earlier about shame and its vicious grip on a man's life. Today we have a chance to relieve a man who'd lived with shame and pain for almost a year. I implore you to listen to him with empathy and to draw your judgments taking into account his overwhelming circumstances.....Mr. Nibras, would you please come forward"

Collective gasps of surprise could be heard as Nibras stepped up and joined the two men on the stage. Mr. Think laid his arm gently and reassuringly on his shoulder as he proceeded to tell his story from the beginning. When he got to the part about Sharshar blackmailing him, the psychic couldn't control his rage, he lunged forward, shouting:

"You little shit... You ungrateful son of a bitch..."

But Mr. Think came prepared for all eventualities. His burly assistants jumped on Sharshar and restrained him and his pathetic minions with no effort. When peace was restored, Mr. Think urged Nibras to continue.

When Nibras was done with his story, the villagers were heaving with anger and disgust; the man who they thought was their comforter and source of relief turned out to be one big balloon of bluff.

Mr. Think took over from Nibras and went on to tell the audience his analysis of Sharshar's scam: how he deceived and lied and manipulated, how he wasn't able to locate one lost person truthfully. He then introduced the other two men who went missing and they told similar stories of blackmail. By the time they were finished, the crowd were ready to lynch Sharshar and his mob.

Mr. Think calmed them down, then turned to Sharshar and spoke with a tone devoid of any vindictiveness:

"We are not into revenge, Mr. Sharshar. But justice must prevail. You're to be expelled from this place and you're not to return under any circumstances. My men will escort you and your sorry entourage to a town big enough so that your scams wouldn't work. You're to keep your mouth shut about the terms of the agreement of extortion you'd enforced upon Mr. Nibras.

"Any violation to any of these conditions will result in my men tracking you down and hauling you back here for a proper prosecution.

"All your possessions will be confiscated, and, by the permission of this honorable meeting, will be used in my projects of infrastructure. Your shop will be converted into a clinic to provide real and genuine help to those suffering from excessive drinking...."

Mr. Think turned to his assistants. "Take him"

The square broke into deafening applause. Dust rose in the air as kids stomped on the ground in jubilation. Women ululated. Nibras's wife emerged through the cloud of dust and joined her husband and Mr. Think in the epicenter of the celebration, a huge grin of relief on her face.

***

The End

A Day in The Life of a Tower Crane

On the arms of some tower cranes used in construction, there are fluorescent lights placed at a certain intervals. I have always wondered- but never got around to asking- about these lights: what function do they serve, why are they kept lit in the dark? Is it safety, publicity or plain old vanity? Are they meant to warn, to hedge certain dangers, or were they just put there because it seems like the proper thing to do?

A crane operator has by far the most scenic view of a construction site. From his vantage point, always at a higher altitude than the rest of his colleagues, he gets to watch the building going up. He communicates through a walkie-talkie and in sign language, picking up loads from places he may not see, heaving them up, lowering them down. Lifting stacks of cement block, steel rebar or scaffolding rods. Relying on a predetermined arc of rotation. Working his gears with precision and efficiency. It's not within his purview to ensure the load is safely hooked to the tip of his suspended cable. But once he's given the green light, it's his job to move the load from point A to point B. Dancing around with his arms extended. Rising and falling to the rhythm of the work below. Befriending the sun and heavy winds. Keeping a set of binoculars at hand to aid his sharp eyes. Feeling his load, through intuition and experience and training, as the battered seats shudders and jitters beneath him. Coordinating the movements of his eyes and hands and to make sure the load doesn't swing; a swinging load is his first enemy. A full bladder is a close second.

A tower crane grows in height as the building itself grows. A tower crane is the custodian of a new born structure. It's the proprietor of its skeletal growth. Its reassuring presence exudes confidence and inspires hard work. With its three different combinations of linear and radial movements, it's capable of reaching any point in the three-dimensional space of a building. Patting it, caressing it, and feeding it material with the tenderness and care of child rearing.

But for all its enormity and grandiose posture, a tower crane isn't always active. Indeed, the operator enjoys a lot of idle time up there. Hours of heavenly solitude. Vertigo is out of question. Fear of heights unheard of. Long hours. Punctuated by planned bathroom breaks and a quick lunch. The journey up and down the cat ladder isn't something that can be performed frequently, even by fit and eager men.

I wonder if his binoculars ever come to use during these uneventful times. Checking out the vicinity, keeping an eye on fellow cranes nearby. Observing the mundane activities around; laundry being pegged to clotheslines, curtains drawn, balconies washed, flower-beds watered, school buses inching through traffic made of toy cars. Watching the indifferent life of birds, invariably using his arms as a perch. It must be a different perspective from the commanding cabin. Could he ever grow bored? Could he ever long to the life of earthlings? Could he ever grow accustomed to the relentless swiveling of his giant machine, his eyes covering miles and miles of sky and sea and dusty air and bickering humanity at each turn?

After sunset, when natural light dims, it's time to switch off the engines and put the dynamics of this machine to rest. And the operator descends the ladder, his only access to normalcy, gripping the bars with hands used to the delicate handling of gears and levers. It must be nice to have your feet on the grounds again. To be spared the perils of soaring heights and fuzzy physics.

I've been to the cabin of a tower crane today. The view was magnificent. The air smelled different. The passage of time was drawn out, as if the world was standing still. The moment my feet hit the ground again, I had the crazy urge to run. To shout and sing and point out to frowning men how silly they looked like in the grand scheme of things.

And I realized, with a conviction I can't articulate, how it makes perfect sense to keep the lights lit at night, on the arms of a tower crane.

The Yellow Man

The Yellow Man is quite a distinctive characteristic of my hometown, Aleppo. Nothing distinguishes him from the millions of other people who inhabit the city except his choice of clothing. I’d heard about him before seeing him in person. But a picture is really worth a thousands words. This guy roams downtown Aleppo dressed in a yellow suit, yellow shirt, yellow flat cap, yellow shoes, yellow socks, and holding a yellow rosary. This outfit would never change year round. Would never be added to or subtracted from. Rain or shine, hot or cold, summer or winter. The Yellow Man never stopped being himself. And he'd been keeping up the tradition since the early '80s.

Abu Zakkoor before Ramadan

There had been gossips and wild speculations about his occupation. All involving nefarious affiliations and unsightly people. Some, especially kids, were scared of him and kept their distance. But in general, the guy didn't bothered anyone and just kept up his yellow facade at all times.

So it doesn’t come as a surprise, given his popularity, that when this guy makes a radical revision to his outfit it becomes a news article. Abu Zakkoor, as it turned out, owns in the excess of 400 yellow suits of more or less the same color gradient and fabric. Complete with accessories. He decided, however, that for the month of Ramadan he should change into the traditional Galabeya (a traditional Arab dress for men, which in the Gulf is called a dishdash). Complete with the Yellow turban and, one would hope, a more functional yellow rosary. The refurbishment helps him pray the Taraweeh (the post-Isha prayers during Ramadan) more comfortably, as he claims. It’s also more adaptive to the sweltering heat in the month of August.

Abu Zakkoor during Ramadan

Upon asking him about his real job, the Yellow Man said: “I receive a stipend from certain groups in return for communicating the grievances of the poor and downtrodden citizens to the proper government officials in Damascus. If any citizen had been wronged we hope he’d come forward without hesitation because there are people who are prepared to help him.”

Does self publicity get better than this?

PR experts behold. You’ve been owned by a man in a yellow garb.