Martin refuses to grow a beard, to get a tattoo, to carry a cellphone. Except for the tattoo part, he had tried the other two when he was younger, when he thought imitating someone else was a good idea; the beard had been a scrub of itchy brown-red that was forever collecting bits and pieces of his breakfast, while the cellphone was nothing more than a neat little rectangle in his back pocket that was always snapping in two whenever he sat down, and of course moving it to the front pocket only invited giggles, sometimes sneers. Truth be told, the tattoo part had never been a serious consideration because he couldn’t help but worry that years later he might change his mind but of course by then it would be too late. So there you have it: Martin at 39 going on 40, thinking almost nothing about what is fashionable when everybody tells him he should, at least a little bit.
But Martin is other things, too. When he walks to the coffee shop on Salem Mubarak Street on Thursdays and Fridays, even before he takes his seat at the table next to the big window, she begs him to leave her alone, just this once. “Please go away, not today, please not today.” And he, hands flat on the tabletop, will say, “Fine,” and she will say “Fine” back but his Fine has never been anything like her Fine, and after two cups of coffee, along with toast and butter and strawberry marmalade, not to mention him turning to watch the dusty street traffic churn by, he will wait for her to make one of her waitress table visits with coffee pot in hand and then, like some late-night villain, grab her by the wrist, jump out of his seat and start dancing, whirling her around tables and chairs as customers in mid-breakfast watch on. And the best she can ever do is make an angry red face, insisting, “I’ll call the police. Wallah, I will,” until he stops. Hands on hips, he will sigh, “Fine” and she, once again, will Fine him back, as he neatly slides back into his seat, while she disappears into the back room. But as a waitress she has work to do, and after a short pause–something like an intermission–and with customers still twittering in humorous disbelief, she will reappear, her face more pink than red now, and when she edges too close to his table he cannot help but grab her wrist one more time. With this second time her anger grows bigger, demanding he stop: “I’ve work to do. I’ll lose my job,” all the while placing her hands firmly on his shoulders, as she follows his footwork. Finally, coming to her senses, she insists that he stop acting like a crazy man; she’s seen his sort before and wants nothing more to do with him. “Why can’t you just sip your coffee quietly, chew your toast and jam silently, like everybody else. What’s wrong with you?” He will, like always, grin a grin that could mean almost anything, or nothing.
So there you have it: Martin at 39 going on 40, caring almost nothing for some things and maybe too much about others. He acts as if he should have a tattoo, a beard, or at the very least a moustache, almost everybody who knows him says so.
Eventually there came a time when he didn’t go to the coffee shop for weeks. If asked why, he would only shrug, saying, “I have my reasons.” When he did return, a Thursday in October, some stranger was sitting at his window table, reading the newspaper, and when she finally came his way, pouring his coffee, gingerly slipping the plate of toast and jam across the tabletop to him, he said nothing. At first she smirked at this, even felt something like relief, as she retreated to the back room to secretly watch him through the crack in the door.
A short time later–after something like an intermission–she, all done secretly watching, approached him, demanding, “And what’s wrong with you?”
He answered with another shrug, followed by, “I’ve learned my lesson—normal is good, right. Normal.” Although she answered with a Yes, she didn’t know what he meant, not really. He looked the same, nothing new but, . . . something different. Meanwhile, Martin ate, drank and watched as much of Salem Mubarak Street as he could from his new table, before wiping his mouth on one of their paper napkins, leaving a handful of coins on the tabletop and silently walking out. From the back room she watched him go and felt a hurt that, truth be told, didn’t make sense.
Photo by Ruqayyah
