Mario Muscar

The Date

by Rosemary Ketchum

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Waiting in a coffee bar, the sun streaming through glass block, patrons hug steaming cups while laughter jumps from their throats. My chair squeaks as I lean into it, trying to feign a cool look of relaxation.

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Online dating should be easy. Its entire purpose is to simplify the process and maximize the return. You get to profile someone for as long as you like before having to ever face them. The awkward, hard stuff is curbed by an internet introduction. But the apprehension I feel tells me it does nothing to quell your nerves.

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Rashid was a guy I had met online about 2 months ago.  A well-groomed, employed and kind 23-year-old man who was genuinely interested in getting to know me rather than getting to bone me. Charmed I was. He told me about his life, a business student at Pitt, originally from Iran. Our few phone conversations lead to the discovery of a rather thick yet delightful Arabic accent.

 

Each muddied face that curves past the glass block window and enters the shop convinces me I look uncomfortable. I try to move my arms into a different, more pleasant looking angle or pull my hair to my left shoulder. I read once that guys like longer hair because it makes them feel more masculine. Worth a shot. I spackle some gloss on my lips and hope for the best.

 

Finally, a dark figure emerges from the glass. Donning a blue blazer, dark jeans, a pair of loafers and a black turban. Rashid greets me with a warm smile from across the room. I stand and straighten my white cotton summer dress. Thin enough to endure the July heat; modest enough to be seen by children.  We hug and trade hellos. 

 

He was far cuter and taller in person, smelling of axe body spray and faint perspiration. He told me how pretty I was and said how nice my hair looked. Thanks Cosmo. Most of Rashid’s family still lived in Iran, his older sister in Berlin, both traveling abroad for their education.

 

Over the phone we spoke about his life in Iran; spanning from birth to 19. He had been to Europe on vacation and traveled much of the Philippines before coming to America. Hearing that I have yet to experience plane travel was, to him, perhaps the most amusing fact about me.

 

“Was there much traffic on your way in?” I said.

 

“Not at all, a perfect, sunny clear day.” he laughed

 

We spoke briefly about road rage when traffic is high and he quipped funnily about a time in India where a rickshaw driver almost ran him over while eating a mango. His driving skills he said were developed by a “keen interest in living”. I chuckled genuinely at his charisma.

 

After 45 minutes we discarded our used cups and left our inside voices inside the shop; deciding to explore the city.

 

Wheeling I said, was; “The largest place I had ever lived!”

 

Smirking and telling me it seemed a “quaint town” with “nice streets” felt less like an affront and more like a pragmatic evaluation of the place by an experienced traveler. We grazed through a few antique shops on Market, fondling treasures of past Americana and leafing through old books of broken dog-eared pages. Hanging ominously from the rafters, Rashid spots an odd looking stuffed cat wearing a Christmas sweater. While trying comically to justify American’s fondness for dressing their pets in sweater vests and raincoats, Rashid remarked;

 

“If they are born with a hair coat why put them in a sweater? It seems like they’re always so uncomfortable”

 

“You see, we are very sentimental and we often feel a kinship with our dogs and cats. Like children but less stressful!”

 

His funnily raised eyebrow and pursed lip let me know he still wasn’t convinced. He laughed and continued talking but each time Rashid spoke I felt that someone was watching us. I turned to find an older gentleman, grey haired peeking from beneath a camouflage ball cap pretending to search through a set of old Judy Garland records.

 

I continued to search through books with Rashid when the man with the ball cap begrudgingly pushed his way through the narrow space between us, mumbling; 

“Rug head.”

 

Before I had time to turn around the back of his cap was turning the corner, I had heard exactly what he said and felt his intimidation, my heart began to beat faster as I anxiously looked at Rashid.

 

“Are these books priced individually or like one price for all?” he asked

 

I stammered and replied.

 

“Prices are on the inside cover.”

 

Rashid flips open a dirty book and cheers.

 

“Ha-ha, oh yes, I see it now!”

 

He hadn’t heard, or hadn’t cared. He continued to graze and gawk at items unashamed and unmolested. The mean spirited slur had nothing to do with me but It felt personal.

 

I grew up listening to hard faced men and red lipped women say ‘buck up’ and ‘stop whining”. Hearing how ‘pussified’ liberals were, how sensitive and politically correct they acted. Complaining of discrimination at every turn. I soon realized we “Liberals” were threatening the very bigotry so many of the “stop whining” types bathed themselves in. I felt nothing but anger. Anger at that man. Anger at myself for not confronting him or protecting Rashid. Was I overreacting?

 

After having explored the rest of the shop we started walking through the sunbaked streets, my white dress catching the light breeze. Rashid takes my hand and squeezes it softly as we make our way toward the nearby park.

 

“Have you many friends here”? He asks.

 

“Haha, oh yea, it’s easy to make friends; people are really kind and down to earth.”

 

Thinking of what had just played out, the words fall unconvincingly from my mouth.

 

“Have you had an easy time making friends in Pittsburgh?”

 

Rashid pauses, pulls his mouth tightly inward and sighs.

 

“It can sometimes be easy. I am Muslim and I practice my faith honestly, sometimes lazily I’ll admit.” He grins at this confession. “but I still have faith every day.  Many people have been made upset by our politics so that everything has become really sensitive to speak about. America has a wound. It’s a wound of history. There are views being championed today that do not align with what Americans value. What they stand for. Liberty and justice for all. Where is that right now?”

 

Rashid looks earnest and thoughtful; he speaks with soft conviction, as if his thoughts were crafted after years of observation.

 

“It’s like you want so badly to heal yet have this great compulsion to self-mutilate. To pick at the scar and watch it bleed.”

 

“But history is important, it shapes who we are.” I say.

 

“History is not the blueprint but the reminder. History reminds you how far you’ve come but you cannot let it infect your future with pain. I think we are losing our basic humanity through the debating of history. Having to answer for our ancestors. I won’t do it.”

 

The American flag clangs on its poll as the wind gusts behind us.

 

“I think people are frustrated because they are afraid.” I remark.

 

“Of what?”

 

“Of losing themselves, their identity. Tradition is a source to shape identity, it comforts us. I think some people feel their American character is being challenged by the larger world. We are becoming more ethnocentric although being racially, ethnically and religiously diverse is an American value. It’s what we are here for.”

 

“Do you think the man in the shop sees it that way?” Rashid softly interjects. “His comfort Is being challenged. Not by me, or by Islam but by his own unwillingness to learn something new.”

 

I sit in contemplation, looking confused and heartbroken. Rashid smiles softly, asking me to show him more of the city. We soon hear street music in the distance and decide to investigate.

 

Outside, on the street corner, a man with a guitar and a woman with a violin play easy, wistful music. I can almost place the melody but it escapes me. A small group has gathered and I can see them stare at Rashid and I. The fabric of his Turban shines in the evening light. He is entertained and completely unaware of his own celebrity. I ask him if he knew the song being played but he was just as perplexed as I was.

 

Standing near a couple, Rashid bends his large, benevolent frame toward them and in his thick yet eloquent accent asks. “Would you happen to know the tune?”

The couple turn and the man, with thinning hair, wearing a faded 90’s “Jamboree in the Hills” t-shirt, replies anxiously. “I don’t know.”

 

His markedly shorter, wider and more animated wife playfully slaps his arm and exclaims.

“Yes you do Darrell!”

 

Turning sympathetically to Rashid she says; “Its ‘Moon River’ honey.”

 

Rashid smiles gleefully, exclaiming aloud; “Ahhh! Of course!”

 

He thanks the woman, looks to me and whispers seriously - “Its Moon River Honey. I’ve never heard of it.”

 

I laugh loudly and hum the freshly remembered lyrics to him. Watching him smile and sway to a song he’d just discovered makes me happy. He takes my hand again and begins to hum along, stumbling a bit but finding his way.

     

The day slipped into night, we sat on the curb talking, eating pizza, laughing and listening to the songs play, a new band by this time had replaced the last.

 

Yellow street light flutters through the leaves of trees. After the last song and slice of square pizza Rashid drops me home. Telling me how much he enjoyed himself and giving me a warm bear hug.  Saying he’ll text me when he’s home so I’ll know that he is safe. -

 

I learned that night that this life isn’t about history. It isn’t about tradition or which flag you pledge to our which books you read. It’s the connection between yourself and the people you meet. It’s the smiles we exchange and the hands we hold. The understanding of one another. Understanding that we are more than the color of our skin or the style of our dress. It is our responsibility to learn about our ideological differences, not to come to an agreement of terms but to come to an understanding that diversity is as good as it is human.

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