Thursday, July 16, 2009

Portrait #91: Justice served

Continuing in, and possibly ending, this impromptu series on dubious encounters with Syrian men, I must share what may be yet the most amusing one.

Yesterday, my friend and I were riding in a taxi and got stuck in a traffic jam for nearly half an hour. As our taxi inched forward, we chatted and caught up with each other's news. A few minutes in, my friend pointed at my window and said, "What's with that guy?" I looked out and saw a big old silver SUV inching along next to our taxi, deliberately maintaining the same speed as us. The driver was a big greasy man with long gray hair: he was leering out of his window and peering into ours.

I shrugged and we continued the conversation, but we were aware that the leering and the peering continued, albeit ignored.

Until, that is, we finally were nearing the end of the backed up street. My friend looked past me to my window with a strange look on her face. I turned around and saw his hand reaching into my window holding out a business card. "Try to call me", he said to my friend in broken English. She is from here, though, so she replied in Arabic. He didn't catch on to the fact she was Arab, though, and instead he repeated: "Try to call me." So she rolled her eyes and said back to him, "I don't want to call you." In English.

Surprisingly, it worked. He withdrew his hand and his business card and pulled a little bit ahead.

As we approached the traffic light that caused the accident, he went through the intersection ahead of us and veered right. Then, BAM, an old Mercedes rammed into his back bumper!

My friend and I and our taxi driver, who had respectfully listened to but not joined in the entire conversation, laughed and laughed and laughed. We all turned back to wave at him as he lugged his heavy frame, suspenders and greasy gray hair and all, out of his seat to inspect the damage to his sleazobile.

No comments:

Post a Comment