Imagine for a moment that you’re just an average Joe bartender, very over-worked, and very under sexed. It’s late Frinday night on the drive home. You’ve just worked a double at a barely above white trash (but some how still uppity) country club. You made decent money, but the last thing on your mind is going out on the town to celebrate. Your feet ache, your back is stiff, and the only thing you want to do is get home, crack a beer, sit, and stew in your own juices before passing out; waking in the morning to do it all over again.
You pull onto your street, greeted by the neighborhood hookah bar, located directly behind your building, teeming with people. The owner’s massive family, ranging in age from infant to ninety-seven, were taking up almost all of the parking-lot-converted-patio space. Their flowing, multi-colored robes, scarves and head coverings reminded you of strutting peacocks. They were Arabic speakers possibly, but did not appear to be any type of strict religious sect. Persian maybe, or whatever the Kardashians are. Fucking gypsies even. No way to be sure really, without asking, but who cared enough to bother. The rest of the customers were shit stain high schoolers, or under-age college students who are too stupid to get a fake ID and get into a real bar. The Middle Eastern, disco-techno-tribal music blared through the wall-mounted car stereo speakers damn near all hours.
Lucky for you, the nightmare ends there, but for me it gets worse. For the last three months this awful scenario has been my
reality, ever since the bastards opened. Making matters worse, they'd taken to roping off the best
street parking spots for themselves or costumers (totally illegal) so any of the twenty people
living in my building were shit out of luck, unless they’d gotten home before
seven. Bartenders never get home before seven. As a result, I now spend more
time looking for parking, once I get off work, than I do commuting from work.
Longest it’s ever taken me to find a spot, unless I wanted to park twenty
blocks away, was thirty minutes. That’s 1,800 soul crushing seconds.
And
the smell! Huge clouds of strawberry apricot, or sour apple bubble gum hasheesh
tobacco smoke filled the air form nearly 3 p.m. until well past 3 a.m.If
I’d made the mistake of leaving my kitchen window open, billows of the thick
and sticky smog would make it’s way into my apartment.
Hookah bars are also filthy damn things to live next to, in a much more broad, general
sense. I don’t speak from experience, but I’d bet at least on par with any late
night greasy spoon diner, or a rat hole bar. Spent coal ash and wads of used
pipe tips litter the alley between our buildings. It looks like a scene from
crack-ridden neighborhoods of HBO's The Wire. Globs of half burnt
hasheesh tobacco, just left on the street or sidewalk. Step in it,
guaranteed to stick to your shoe, and if you’re not careful, and you get some on your hands, good luck getting it off your cloths.
On
one night in particular, after much time/effort was spent finding a spot, I made my five-block trek back home super pissed, I passed the proprietor standing
outside. A fat man in his fifties, with gray hair covering almost every inch of
his body from head to toe. He’s usually sitting back and pompously puffing on
his very ornate personal hookah. It’s bedazzled with fake rubies, emeralds and
gold platting. This time he’s standing by the sidewalk. He smiles at me when I
pass, a single gold tooth flashes in his mouth; mimicking the flash of his
pipe.
Opting
to just nod instead of punching him in his smug fucking face. I maintained my
practiced robotic, expressionless face, remaining as still as possible. In that moment I could have chocked him occasions. Just for an instant I thought about
using my size advantage, and knocking him to ground ... plunging both my thumbs
into his eye sockets until I felt his brain smush.
As
I walked up the stairs to my apartment, a realization struck. I stopped at
the landing to my floor and reflected on the seething hot anger I’d just felt
for a complete stranger. In the few seconds we'd made eye-contact, if he had
provoked me in any way, I could have easily beaten him to death with my bare hands.
Scouts honor. But just as quickly as it had flared up, now it was gone. I was
home now and the awfulness of my day was over, however temporary. After drop my keys on the couter, I reached into the fridge and cracked a beer. In one mighty gulp, I downed half of it.
“Ahhhhh"
Strolling
over to the couch, I plopped down and melted. All the incredible injustices
afford me seemed unimportant now. Well, at least until I needed a place to park
tomorrow night. But in the grand scheme of things, being a white man,
native-born American is pretty fucking sweet. Matter of fact, the only that
makes it better is being rich. All my 'friends' at Gypsy Hookah aren’t so
lucky. They’re journey to this country is no doubt fraught with hardships I
can't imagine. In the post 9/11 era, they endure senseless hatred, and venomous
racism I could never understand. Maybe a shitty parking spot isn’t the worst
thing ever. Honestly, I choose to live down town, and sometimes that means a new
place opens, and you loose your spot.
From
that moment on I promised myself I’d try not to let the parking
situation get to me so much. Live and let live. Right? No more unadulterated
rage … well at least until the winter. Halfway through January he’d
probably be out of business, without the help of their ‘patio’. Can’t say I’d miss them, but I don’t wish that on anyone. Turth is it wasn’t really up to either of us if they’d make it till Spring or not. Capitalism and competattive open markets rule here, and they would decide. Here, we’re actually all on our own when it comes down to it. Even in America, you still have to work hard and get lucky.
-J.R.
