It was the first night of Eid and the bars had finally opened their doors to thirsty expatriates who were longing for a good drink and a night of music and dancing. The city had been silent for a month, deserted during the day and quiet during the night with the exception of the bustle in the malls and the sighs of bored foreigners as they walked through the streets looking for something appropriate to do. The Oasis bar at the one-star Paradise hotel was the cherished haven of many an underage drinker who had sought solace in the coveted taste of alcohol that they first discovered in the deep recesses of their parents' china cabinets.
Tamara was ecstatic at the prospect of feeling the smooth touch of vodka against her tongue for the first time in a month. She put on a pair of jeans, a halter-top and a pair of boots, throwing a jean jacket over her top and buttoning it up. She heard the horn honk three times outside her door and hurriedly grabbed her purse, pausing for a second in front of the mirror, and then running down the stairs and out to the car. Jim, Kyle and Andy were waiting for her in the car. The four of them sang and screamed at the top of their lungs all the way to the bar, their knees shaking in anticipation, their eyes glistening with the awareness of their impending euphoria.
The Oasis bar was dimly lit, its floor covered with a burgundy-colored carpet, dotted with black stains. The tables were low and made of dark-colored wood, enclosed in a square of couches made out of brown leather, ripped at the corners, their white stuffing showing like melted marshmallows floating in milk chocolate pudding. They walked over to the edge of the bar and asked the bartender if happy hour had ended.
"No," he said, "it ends at nine. If you open a tab, you can add all the drinks you want for the night to it and come up and get them whenever you want. If you do that, you'll only have to pay the happy hour price when you leave."
They wrote out a list of four vodka singles, four beers and four Baccardi Breezers. They went over to the corner of the bar and sat down on the sticky couches. It wasn't long before the rest of their schoolmates showed up. The girls were dressed fairly similarly. They wore light colored jeans tucked into their knee-high boots, tube tops that stretched down to their navels, their ping pong breasts enhanced and boosted by their wonder bras; a couple of the girls also wore eyeglasses for effect. The boys were in jeans, and most of them wore black t-shirts with the familiar logos and names that permeated in every corner of their school: a triangle pierced by a rainbow, a mouth set against blackness, sticking its tongue out at you. They drank fairly quietly, each person talking to the one beside him, joking, sharing intimate thoughts, flirting. The girls got up to dance and dragged Tamara with them to the small dance floor. They whispered in the DJ's ear and an R&B song began to blast out of the speakers. The girls shook their hips and twirled their arms above their heads, grabbing each other by the hands and shooting each other playful, seductive looks. Tamara swayed back and forth robotically, her arms loosely swinging by her thighs, her head shifting abruptly from side to side. She lingered for a moment, and then slowly edged her way back to the boys, eluding the grasp of the girls. As she walked to the table a hand smacked against her thigh; she paused and turned around. A group of men sat around a table, four of them sharing two glasses of whiskey. He spoke in a language she couldn't understand, and he winked and grunted at her repetitively. She rolled her eyes and started to walk away, when he grabbed her by the elbow and motioned at his left pocket with his eyes. He slowly pulled a one hundred riyal bill from his pocket, only letting the corner of it show. Tamara closed her eyes and turned her face away from the man. She bit her lower lip and jerked her elbow; the man let go, and she made her way speedily towards her table.
They were the youngest people in the bar, and besides that they were the only females in sight. The Oasis bar was a refuge for under-privileged expatriates. Taxi drivers and supermarket clerks came here after work, exhausted from their long, mundane day.
At midnight they paid their bills and left. They stood outside the hotel waiting for the designated drivers to get their cars out of the parking lot. Tamara and Kyle stood on the sidewalk, smoking their cigarettes quietly. Pia rushed past them, waving and smiling.
"I'm going to take that cab," she pointed at a cab across the street. "See you guys later!"
It felt like it happened frame by frame. Stop motion reality. Frame one, black Land Cruiser appears with its headlights turned off. Frame two, Pia turns her head and sees the car. Frame three, the car hits Pia. Frame four, Pia disappears, becomes a blur, flies away and hits the ground. Nothing is heard but the sound of the car rushing by and the lucid thump that continues to echo in the onlookers' heads. Frame five, Lisa—her best friend—rushes to the body. Frame six, Lisa embraces the corpse. Lisa cries, Lisa wails, Lisa smacks her palms against the pavement. Frame seven, ambulance approaches. Frame eight, paramedics rush to Pia. Frame nine, they wrench Lisa away from the body. Frame ten, they declare Pia dead on impact.
Pia, her obituary printed on page six of the Gulf Tribune. Pia was Swedish, they wrote Danish. Pia, was Pia Masterson, they wrote Pia Manderton. Pia was a victim of a hit and run; the driver, a local citizen, was found and charged with a twelve thousand dollar fine which he was to pay to the family. The driver went on with his life, Pia did not.
Tamara and the boys never went back to the Oasis. They occasionally drove back to the spot where Pia was killed and stood around the bloodstains that had baked into the pavement. They stayed off alcohol for a month, but smoked a joint every weekend in honor of Pia's memory.
Sophie Chamas says, "I'm Lebanese. I'm studying political science with a minor in English literature at the American University of Sharjah. I'm an aspiring writer of fiction and poetry. I published one of my poems at The Juke Jar."
Comments (closed)
Meris
2008-08-16 01:58:40
Honest and disturbing. I loved it.
mautomata
2008-08-16 02:46:39
you know what i think already, but again love the insight and contrast. I agree that there is a disturbing aspect. A kaa'ba, vodka, and a joint, in the same place. That does need to be shared!
On another note, i'm really happy! yay!
pia ;).
Nour
2008-08-25 06:01:07
Sophie, the story is really shocking and captivating. I especially liked the way you described the Pia incident. It was really touching. That part had shivers running down my spine.
The imagery of the high at the food stall is also incredible!! wonderful job!keep it up :)
Hope to read more of your published work soon.
Kareem Kabra
2011-01-15 23:33:05
Hi Sophie, this is excellent work. I am not sure how long ago you posted this piece, however I do remember the incident and I am proud of you for putting this down in writing so eloquently. It is important that people remember. I havn't heard from you in a long time and I hope you are well.
-Kareem