Read Online The Taqwacores by Michael Knight - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Knight
Tags: Fiction, Coming of Age
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they drove out and Ayyub walked back to Jehangir’s car, the kid in football helmet whipped out a huge Super Soaker and blasted Ayyub from maybe twenty feet away. Unfortunately for them, oncoming traffic blocked their exit from the parking lot. Amazing Ayyub ran over as the kids yelled at their driver to hurry up and go. Ayyub came to the passenger side just as the kid began rolling up his window.
It was a beautiful thing—perhaps as skilled as Jehangir Tabari’s boardslide at the art museum. In the split-second of his only chance at justice, Amazing Ayyub used every muscle in his throat to reach back and bring up an awe-inspiring glob of phlegm; then, with precision matched only by his power, he sent it in just before the window rolled up completely. Ayyub took a moment to realize what he had just accomplished, wondered where the goober ended up but it didn’t matter because it had successfully gotten in the jeep. Hearing the sound of a door-latch Ayyub booked, ran past us out of the parking lot on the far side and into the street, stopped
honking traffic and disappeared into someone’s backyard while the gallant high school kid stood with back straight and shoulders out, still wearing his football helmet by the Grand Cherokee with its lousy music even louder because of the open door.
“Every day is Ashura,” said Jehangir Tabari, quoting Imam Ja’far. “Every land is Karbala.”
“From the gold helmet,” I mused, “I think they went to Ken-more East.”
“Yeah?”
“Their colors were blue and gold. They were the Bulldogs.”
“Is that where you went?”
“No,” I replied. “I went to Catholic high school.”
We drove around awhile hoping to find Amazing Ayyub. Jehangir popped out his GBH tape and rummaged under the street while still manning the wheel, finding his Sex Pistols and putting it in. The tape came on at the beginning of “Who Killed Bambi.” Neither of us said anything as we kept our eyes peeled for the Amazing One. The musical accompaniment lent a dark absurdity to everything I saw. People, houses, cars, blue mailboxes that reminded me of R2-D2, trees, porches, telephone poles and wires and little Direct-TV dishes, streets and streetlights... it was all dumb, we were all meant to die and it was just funny if you wanted it to be. I was a Muslim and my parents sent me to Catholic high school, wasn’t that funny? How about Jehangir, a Muslim who drank beer and threw rotting Subway sandwiches at SUVs? Or Amazing Ayyub Shi’a spitting on high school football players? Did any of it matter? Why not laugh?
“Ayyub’s the fucking Man,” said Jehangir Tabari to break the silence.
“Yeah, he definitely is,” I replied.
“I remember one time we were riding around in his car throwing shit at people and we ended up getting pulled over. Before the
cop got out of his car I said to Ayyub ‘man, he wants you to walk over there and talk to him.’ So Ayyub reached to open his door and get out and walk up to the cop; I had to pull him back quick and tell him I was joking.”
“He would have gotten shot,” I marveled.
“Shit yeah,” said Jehangir. “This is fuckin’ Buffalo.” Jehangir took out the Sex Pistols and put in the Swingin’ Utters, rewound it to the beginning of “Next in Line.”
“Didn’t know he had a car,” I said.
“Yeah, he used to live in it; it was his house. We used to play the UK Subs’ ‘I Live in a Car’ and say it was his theme song. Shit, miss those days. But anyway, one day he just up and says ‘Jehangir, I’m going West, I’m going to see California and all the taqwacores and turn the deen on its head’ and he gets in his car and heads for the 1-90 and we all thought that was the end of him. A week or so later I got a call. He was at the bus station downtown.”
“What happened?”
“For some reason he decided to get off the 1-90 in Montana and hop on the 1-25 to Colorado. Shit broke down on the way so he took a bus back to Buffalo and
It was a beautiful thing—perhaps as skilled as Jehangir Tabari’s boardslide at the art museum. In the split-second of his only chance at justice, Amazing Ayyub used every muscle in his throat to reach back and bring up an awe-inspiring glob of phlegm; then, with precision matched only by his power, he sent it in just before the window rolled up completely. Ayyub took a moment to realize what he had just accomplished, wondered where the goober ended up but it didn’t matter because it had successfully gotten in the jeep. Hearing the sound of a door-latch Ayyub booked, ran past us out of the parking lot on the far side and into the street, stopped
honking traffic and disappeared into someone’s backyard while the gallant high school kid stood with back straight and shoulders out, still wearing his football helmet by the Grand Cherokee with its lousy music even louder because of the open door.
“Every day is Ashura,” said Jehangir Tabari, quoting Imam Ja’far. “Every land is Karbala.”
“From the gold helmet,” I mused, “I think they went to Ken-more East.”
“Yeah?”
“Their colors were blue and gold. They were the Bulldogs.”
“Is that where you went?”
“No,” I replied. “I went to Catholic high school.”
We drove around awhile hoping to find Amazing Ayyub. Jehangir popped out his GBH tape and rummaged under the street while still manning the wheel, finding his Sex Pistols and putting it in. The tape came on at the beginning of “Who Killed Bambi.” Neither of us said anything as we kept our eyes peeled for the Amazing One. The musical accompaniment lent a dark absurdity to everything I saw. People, houses, cars, blue mailboxes that reminded me of R2-D2, trees, porches, telephone poles and wires and little Direct-TV dishes, streets and streetlights... it was all dumb, we were all meant to die and it was just funny if you wanted it to be. I was a Muslim and my parents sent me to Catholic high school, wasn’t that funny? How about Jehangir, a Muslim who drank beer and threw rotting Subway sandwiches at SUVs? Or Amazing Ayyub Shi’a spitting on high school football players? Did any of it matter? Why not laugh?
“Ayyub’s the fucking Man,” said Jehangir Tabari to break the silence.
“Yeah, he definitely is,” I replied.
“I remember one time we were riding around in his car throwing shit at people and we ended up getting pulled over. Before the
cop got out of his car I said to Ayyub ‘man, he wants you to walk over there and talk to him.’ So Ayyub reached to open his door and get out and walk up to the cop; I had to pull him back quick and tell him I was joking.”
“He would have gotten shot,” I marveled.
“Shit yeah,” said Jehangir. “This is fuckin’ Buffalo.” Jehangir took out the Sex Pistols and put in the Swingin’ Utters, rewound it to the beginning of “Next in Line.”
“Didn’t know he had a car,” I said.
“Yeah, he used to live in it; it was his house. We used to play the UK Subs’ ‘I Live in a Car’ and say it was his theme song. Shit, miss those days. But anyway, one day he just up and says ‘Jehangir, I’m going West, I’m going to see California and all the taqwacores and turn the deen on its head’ and he gets in his car and heads for the 1-90 and we all thought that was the end of him. A week or so later I got a call. He was at the bus station downtown.”
“What happened?”
“For some reason he decided to get off the 1-90 in Montana and hop on the 1-25 to Colorado. Shit broke down on the way so he took a bus back to Buffalo and
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