Category Archives: Bader Shehab

Jay by Bader A. Shehab

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Hey Cutie,

I’ve been coming here quite often, your cherry Chapstick left a mark on the straw paper you helped pull off for me. I kept a piece of it just to remember you, Jay, the patch on your diner cloth. You’re the cutest girl in this pit and you carry yourself around like you know it. I’d do the same if I were you… I’d like to sit by you on a warm evening at the theater chairs and ignore the hour and a half film to just side gaze at your defined cheek bones and curling episodes of brown-golden hair lines while every once in an occasion you turn to me and catch my eyes.

Sorry, this is supposed to be short and brief, but you probably deserve a book of poems, or books if I could. That asshole in the kitchen who treats you like shit always burns my hashbrowns, overcooks the eggs and “accidentally” dumps a pound of salt all over the sausage, basically your diner is shitty… Needless to say, I only come here for you.

I go on the rest of the day dealing with high blood-pressure headaches and bacterial black coffee just to catch a glimpse of you. I stutter and forget my order when you look down on me, as if you’re the pedestal and I’m the stone, oh I’m stoned by you that’s for sure… You just sing with your honey-molten telephone operator voice of yours “I guess it’ll be the usual if you’ll stay quite like that…”

Look, I know I’m not the first guy to hit on you, but I’d like to ask you when was the last time you were worshiped in the dead of midnight? I’m sleeplessly lucid dreaming of you. Or how about a painting of you hanging over my one-room apartment? I dried the oil on it myself. Not washing my hands for days on end after you mistakenly touch it with the tip of your polished nails…

Your fragrance, your ponytail, your ankles flexing, your fingers playing with the number 2 pencil, your eye brows cornering, your earrings bending, your hazel eyes, your Goddess-designed nose, your smart-but-acting-dumb moments, your “I work two jobs” line to reject me moments, your playful smile, your Victorian handwriting I can tell you’re cultured… Your yawn behind the counter on a 6 AM Monday, or your palms touching my cup feeling the cooling thermal equilibrium between your touch and mine. Excuse the “cutie” line, but I’m a good man…

Call me? 1-800-NOTACREEP

THE EVERYDAY© NAPKINS – The best Napkins money can buy!

Terminal by Bader A. Shehab

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It was suppose to be the end,
The end of all conflicts,
The end of all beginnings,
and the end of it all…

The inevitable breath that forecasted
a thunderstorm of cries into the nights
that turned to day in the wake of shellings.
They whistled and hurled into the mist,
and the fog that condensed ghosts into hordes,
magically wandering the trenches
as their bewildering grows.

Not the hands that shook,
nor the suits that shone,
shoulder-cut and pressed
to a perfecting being.
The Oxfords that sounded
into the empty halls of diplomacy.
Could bring this war into a halting terminal.

Take me back to my wife, mother and brothers…
I am a long lost soul in the golden burials of man’s greed.

– Epitaph of a fallen hero on an unmarked grave.

Home by Bader A. Shehab

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I am not sure if it was the carrot stew or the parsley diced thinly over the potatoes… Maybe it was that sprinkle of sea salt I saw him apply swiftly and with skillful hands. The cucumber melting into the olives as it swims in the streams of freshly squeezed organic tomatoes. In a shallow pool of lava emanating from the oven flamed potato stuffed with vine leaves; my God, was I in heaven from the first bite!

It probably was the ear-catching crumbling and crushing sound of the freshly warm baguette dipping into the dish piece by piece, which elevated the taste. But there really is no way, even without the Parisian bread warming my palms in the frigid Belgian winter, the dish still stands out marvelously needless to say! Perhaps it could be the pumpkin sauce and garlic salt dabbed very lightly from the iron spoon atop the sauteed cocktail of vegetables harvested from the fertile lands of Charleroi. It added to the aroma fuming the room around me lavishly, reddening the Belgian-French border cheeks from the faces sat around me, as if the Czars have come back from the cold dead to dine with us!

Whatever it is, it is all the above and something that I just can’t seem to put my hands on… It surely can’t be that sip of the heavenly white wine of Sancerre from the Valleys of Loire. It moves my senses to ecstasy with each bite and every drop of the 2004. I could not help but make the sweet, sweet, love to this heavenly gift of a meal, finish the remaining crumbs and walk across the great hall into the kitchen. I’m greeted with buttered saute vapor and the grinding noises of pans slamming against the flames worked by tireless hands.

Alain Ducasse was seated resting with a cigarette next to an old stove with nothing but a tea table adjacent, an ash tray and a small shot glass of thé à la menthe. The greatest chef in the world ever so humble. I started towards him nervously slowly brushing past the rushing pastry chefs, busboys and busgirls, who gave me hard looks because I wasn’t allowed back here.

I hesitated at first but when he looked up at me past the issue of Le Monde I cleared my throat and asked, “Excuse moi monsieur, chef Alain, but I have a question, ahm… actually a comment and a question if I may…” I began sweating as I stood before one of the world’s greatest chefs, if I didn’t mention that already. He folded his news paper and took a quick sip from his tea.

“Oui, sil vous plait, go on please.” He replied with a faint, yet welcoming, warm smile.
“Yes, thank you very much for the wonderful dinner, but monsieur, I have been coming here to this wonderful restaurant of yours for a while now and I always loved it but, for the love of God, I have never dined like today ever before. The special dish you made for the conference table earlier, what was it?” Curiosity took over my manners and I finally questioned the hands of the man himself…

“Oh, well my friend, it is traditional French Ratatouille…” He answered casually unattended to my excitement. I had to interrupt him.
“But monsieur, I know what it is, it is more than just ratatouille. I mean the recipe is prepared to perfection, the sauce is just heavenly, everything is perfectly tempered and presented… Is there any real secret to it?” I finally imploded and let everything out at once, the thousands of questions in my mind all into one breath.
“Oh I see, well that is very generous of you, but really there is no secret… Or, you know what, since you are a wonderful customer I will let you in on a ‘secret’. Back in my old restaurant in Paris I have won the Michelin star for that dish which elevated the status of my dining and my career. This dish, ratatouille. Is no ordinary recipe…”

Ducasse stood up, placed the newspaper on the chair and put his arm around me. He then walked a few paces leading me to a nearby window overlooking a great plain as the sun began to set. “It was my mother’s recipe, it’s the true color of France; the ratatouille that changed my life. It is, my friend, a little taste of home.”

Box by Bader A. Shehab

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January 24, 1991 – Iraq

Chris: We should probably box-round the enemy base.

Andy: I’ve had recon on them for the last 12-hours we can go through no harm.

Chris: We’re just a few hundred kilometers away from Kuwait, I think it’s worth it if we box-round this base.

Andy: Chris, the base is badly monitored, half shifts on infantry, and the ground defence has been inactive since that scud missile hit Israel, this whole operation Desert Storm is complete garbage.

Chris: Hereford is asking for full caution at all times, regardless of intel, I know the war is almost over but we have got to cross to the Kuwaiti border even if it means box-rounding 500-kilometers more.

Andy: And all I’m asking for is common sense, on what logic are we to hit high desert at subzero degrees with hardly any rations left? When we are only a stone’s throw away from the UN green zone.

Chris: On the logic that we are to defend Kuwait and not risk alarming this enemy base that is basically a backdoor to the border. Please comply, that is an order; we will box-round the enemy base.

Andy: If intelligence says this area is fine, then I am going through, Kuwait is literally right there and it’s a green zone. I can see the burning oil dumps, I am not taking any unnecessary “precautions”.

Chris: No precaution is unnecessary! Stand down, soldier!

Andy: Who dares wins, aye Chris?

Chris: I said stand down, or…

Andy: Or what, Sergeant? Huh! This whole operation was a load o’ bollocks right from the start, you and I know it! Our comms went down 48-hours ago, we got seperated from the rest of the team because of bad weather which intel never informed us of, and the whole war is fucking over. The Americans are pulling out, for fuck’s sake the UN are at the border crossing!

Chris: And you’d like to make it any worse by walking through the base or sneaking by the fence. Then be my guest if you get shot at or captured… This isn’t how SAS go about operating.

Andy: Oh give me a break Chris, you and your special operations manual propaganda bullcrap, save it for the rest of the team who are probably lost out in the desert.

Chris: They are fully-equipped and trained men, they will manage, but right now it’s you and I, or if you’d like it to be; you or I. This is the last time I ask of you to comply, going to radio-in our locations. We are heading North from our current position to the Safwan area, and from there we will meet with allied forces, then head East to Kuwait, and I promise you we’ll head home after that.

Andy: You’ve got your thumb up your arse, Chris…

Chris: Do it for Kuwait, Andy.

Andy: It’s not even my country.

Chris: But it’s your pay day.

Andy: And what if Saddam takes her?

Chris: Not on my watch he won’t, not on the NATO’s watch, or the US’s.

Andy: Oh you hero you, defending a country that’s not even yours. Haha!

Chris: Let’s move, do your job!

Andy: Fine, you sad sob…

Book by Bader A. Shehab

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“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain

You have been in my memories,
since my earliest years.
Not that ragged clothing,
nor the star-bangled hair,
or your charismatic charm,
has left my mind… Continue reading →

Traitor by Bader A. Shehab

By Posted in Bader Shehab, Prose, Traitor 1 Comment

Remember back in Rabat?
When the wind blew against our cheeks,
with it sticks to your derm the sea salt, on the edges of your nostrills: the fresh bakery, the durum wheat stew, and the remedies of their hands.

Do you remember before I left the city? The promises we made,
from the cradle to the grave,
you know how we would not desert one another and whatnot,
it was all that repetitive cliché and hopeless romances,
which we episodically performed on every Tuesday night while the retired blues band played their sorrowing sway away into the haze. We danced and I held your hips, from ballroom to ballroom, wasn’t that fun back then?

Do you recall and find it in your heart the first night I got on stage for you? The Parisian one-man theater, I mastered and learned, just for you. All I wanted was to see your smile under the moonlit starry nights, amongst the many faces in the candlelights. Then I got in the fighting ring for you and lost touch with my senses when I bled and sweat for you, you chanted my name in the echoes of the stadium, amongst the crowd you were all I could see and hear.

Do you remember when I carried you across the Andalusia park to the car when it rained heavily so that you don’t ruin your Tom Fords? Do you remember when I held your long and slender body along the flat board as you swallowed salt water on tiny baby waves trying to learn how to surf? That was fun, wasn’t it?

Do you remember when I watched you walk across the ocean lines, the winds playing on your summer dress, the sea weed sticking on your ankle lace, and the sand under the edges of your nail polish. Do you remember? That Spanish song that goes “Baila, Baila Mi” and we promised we’ll keep it as our song and we’ll play it for our children one day, how does one move on and simply forget all about that? The sounds that I hear as I ask myself such questions are nothing but fainted heartbeats and cringing doors closing. Good bye to my yesteryears, please do write me back, pick the pen up sometime.

Seeds by Bader A. Shehab

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It was prophesied thousands of years ago… Perhaps dating back to creation and immortalization, even long before Genesis itself…
The telepathic subtle emblems, graffiti on narrow alleys, worded hordes of poetry, and conjugal meetings of the great elements.
The mind would thrive on the elixir falls, where it would snow in hell, and pour lump sum of rain in the Sahara. Continue reading →

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.” By Bader A. Shehab

By Posted in Bader Shehab, Prose 4 Comments

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.” Jimi Hendrix

1969 Woodstock, New York – It wasn’t long after the midnight blaze, loud thuds of headache bangs in my ears, my eyes blurring began fixating on a patch of blonde hair on my crotch belonging to this random chick passed out and the dusty air whirling around the sunlit curtains across the room penetrates the cigarette burns of the old cloth. I find my away across the creaking wood floors carefully negotiating the sleeping bodies around, I myself still figuring out how I ended up here, where was I exactly, whose house is this and where was my other pair of shoes? Continue reading →

Echo by Bader A. Shehab

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“If you keep doing whatever it is your job requires you doing then you won’t last very long, girl.” My mother spoke on the other side of the bathroom door as I washed the blood stains off my left forearm then looked up at the mirror and addressed traumatic blows to my cheek bones, nose and lower lip. I poured some Medline into a wet towel and cleansed the rest of my wounds thoroughly. I pushed the door open and there she was still standing there with a worried look on her face, eyes glaring with horror and she held my chin pulling my face to one side and the other.

“What did they do to my baby?” She cried. “Instead of getting a nice job, marry your high school sweetheart and buy yourself a nice little place in Long Island, no! You keep doing this piece of shit turn-up of a job you call your life…” Before she could go on any longer with the usual daily tirade I gently move her hand off my chin, kiss it and kiss her forehead before wishing her goodnight. I collapse on the couch, too tired to go to bed.

I jolt from near-death tiring sleep to a full-alert snapping out of a nightmare responding to the radio chatter on the portable ham radio emergency frequency – “All nearby units in the Bronx area please respond to a major shooting incident off West 6th Avenue, Robinson Projects. Report 4 males, Hispanic, 20s, possible hostage situation, proceed with caution suspects are armed and extremely dangerous.” The emergency dispatch repeated the message several more times as I snatched my badge, Glock .45, loading and turning on the safety, and barged out of the apartment door. I held the radio closely interrupting the emergency dispatch “Unit 32, Officer Jennifer Jiménez on call, on my way.” There was silence from the operator for some time as the emergency channel muted and a woman’s voice came on as I got in the car – “Unit 32, roger, be careful out there.” The Dodge Charger’s Hemi 6.2 liter engine revved under my foot as I warmed her up in this harsh cold, storming out of the parking lot I turn on the flasher and sirens, the little bit of traffic dispersed around make way for my unmarked vehicle and I race through red lights and intersections at full speed.

The reported shooting place is a mere 3 or 4 blocks away and needless to say I make it there in less than 10 minutes, I turn the last corner and I see several units at the scene with sirens and flashes silencing the dead cold of the night with the red and blue and high-pitched alarming sounds. The ghetto residential blocks, the projects, and low income housing around the imminent area of conflict are no strangers to such scenes. An eye in the sky police helicopter circles above with a powerful spot light trained on a ground floor apartment complex and from a distant a news-broadcasting helicopter from NBC impatiently waiting for something to happen. I drove hastily up to an empty space near the other vehicles parked across the street from the suspects’ hold-up, got out the car with my head low and crouched behind one of the marked vehicles parked horizontally and tapped a shoulder.

“What’s the situation, officer?”

“We’ve got four guys, possibly more, trenched in and well-dug. Just an hour ago several gun shots were heard and the chopper picked up images of a body being dragged to the last apartment complex right up the street from here” responded officer Trent as I nodded and moved away to the next vehicle where a large speaker was turned on and police negotiator Thomas McKinley was desperately trying to get control of the situation – because things got ugly very quickly that very second as he stood up and held the speaker phone to his mouth.

Automatic weapon fire went by across the street and we were right in the middle of it, screams were heard, mostly in Spanish and before I knew it – Officer Trent and everyone else were on the radio desperately calling for backup. I took off my jacket, the adrenaline rush uttered me senseless to the harsh Christmas cold, kept my head low as more gunshots went off in the distance, and the place was escalating. Reaching into my car I dragged an 8-pound armor vest, put it on discretely and zipped it up to my neck. I holstered my Glock .45 turning off the safety and swiftly moved to the trunk of my car and took out a SWAT-issue M4 Carbine as I knew this would get even uglier. More sirens and flashes were approaching at the end of the street, enclosing our area. As I walked across my car I saw my phone’s light go off, it caught my eye in the middle of all this chaos because the caller ID read: “Mom”, I knew she was probably worried sick not finding me asleep as expected, watching the breaking news, most likely guessing that I’m in the middle of it – or about to be. I would have taken that split second slip in the middle of the crazy atmosphere to pop in and answer, hear her screams and cries with a tired and sorrow, yet happy smile drawn across my weathered facial skin, something I don’t do much of in my line of work – smile. When I hear her voice once more, perhaps it will drag me back to the safety of her arms, her caring hands caressing my injuries, battle wounds and scars. Braiding my hair on a Friday afternoon, picking up groceries and making a warm meal on a cold evening, most likely interrupted by the usual dispatch calls – gloom draws on her face and horrible worrisome as I zip my jacket and hang the badge around my neck.

I held the rifle in one arm and the other talking into the loudspeaker, I spoke in Spanish and the shouts at the other end of the conflict were silenced – possibly hearing a woman’s voice over the loudspeaker for a change, speaking in their language and calming the storm, for the time being. “This is the police, please drop your weapons and come out with your hands up. Nothing will happen to you if you comply.” I repeated this several more times in my mother’s tongue and it seemed to work as I heard responses in the distance, as though trying to communicate back. I moved in closer keeping my rifle at the ready for any surprises, the police chief was there as well and he pulled on my shoulder “Don’t go any closer! It’s dangerous!” said Commissioner Johnson.

“I have to do something before more people die…” I responded and he nodded, signaled for a squad to follow me across the street just in case – I lead the way, several SWAT members followed me as I eased my way against the wall and screamed again at the voice, immediately responding. “I am not coming out of here! I want 2 million dollars in unmarked bills and a helicopter on the roof or I will shoot this whole family up!”

“Listen to me” I responded, sticking to Spanish as much as possible. “You don’t wanna do it this way; this won’t go well for you, just drop your guns and I can promise you, give you my word that I’ll make this a lot easier for you.” I’m not allowed to solicit the negotiation but the solidarity took over me as I see my own countryman fall into shambles, with nothing to lose and automatic weapons roaming freely. I popped my head out of the corner quickly to take a peak but more gunshots came in my direction – I felt hands pull me violently back to cover: “Get behind one of us!” a masked face commanded me fully-equipped with tactical gear and armor vest, I use to be one of them for a few years. I tapped a shoulder as I got behind in cover and at the ready – this is going to get even uglier than expected. Shoot outs are devastating in this part of the country, and perhaps for the countless time the news helicopter catches my face as I am about to storm another sticky situation.

But if it is one thing on my mind at every life-risking situation like this one, it’s my mother’s voice, her touch, caring eyes, soulful food and passionate sighs as I am out that door revving the Dodge, driving out at 80 miles an hour, living life on the edge for the lowest pay day. My guardian angel of the night and day echoes in my mind, her words are the last thing I hear before radio chatter, gun shots and boots grinding the floor take over and intensify my focus as we’re about to neutralize the criminals.

Monkey by Bader A. Shehab

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I wondered what could be more beautiful, the sun’s eclipse evading the edge of my atmospheric-pressurized cabin glass pane or bananas dangling basking in the warm tropical wind ripening awaiting my taste buds to blend into their flesh. Continue reading →

Blood by Bader A. Shehab

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Her blood-red velvet dress drunk her skin, shoulder sloped at an angle cutting light in halves below halves of curvature tucked under yarns of episodes of silk, after yarns of silk. Her skin appeared to weave the fabric into worship Continue reading →

Superhero by Bader A. Shehab

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When you’re neither the last on this damned land, no one to clamber on nor a last stand.

You’ll wish the demon’s soul to possess you again, a reoccurrence of the prowess in a single gun’s chambered vein.

The will of a single man shall overcome armies, for history is written by the victor’s hand.

Continue reading →

Sciamachy by Bader A. Shehab

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Sci·am·a·chy noun [sahy-am–uh-kee]: an act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy.

It troubles me to think my opponent shed drops of more a sweat, a blood, a tear than I. It troubles me to think, he who bestows to fend me from those walls, as I speak of breath I could use in bettering me, is leathering their arms and spears, the very ones to be wielded at I. It troubles me to think my foe, fore foes, and upon the Four Emperors[1] I swear. That he who eyes the eagle’s afar, fearless and in no doubt, to strike with no mercy nor loss.

And as I eyed in horror, the suicidal Gaul[2] whom we conquered into surrender, take his own life before my eyes, and that of his lady’s. What power of a person does it take to astonish my eyes? The eyes that have seen all, watched all die before my hands, crushed foes beneath gauntlets forged by gods and swords swung at thunder length with roar and emphasis, to kill my enemy. That Gaul was the talk of Legends, the enemy yet the Dirge of my thoughts; brave, proud and fearless he is, taught me not to lay these arms of mine. For I am burdened with a glorious purpose, I am the son of the king of kings, conqueror of Eratosthenes and ruler of the Farlands. I am Heracles[3] of Agrigento and I must crush them all, “under abhorring!”[4]

Pray I train every day, pray I muster every exhumation, the sinister ways of my armaments that shone, below the spotless shades of melancholy of shadows. Under her Nyx[5] she indulges over my rapid and blinking movements at arms, keeping up with my shadow; pray the feel of it possessing these dungeon walls.

Witnessing my pre-warrior-parting-to war rituals, playing at the sporadic flaming torch glows against rows and rows of shadowless shadows. O! Speak to me Erebos[6]; guide my well-taught eye and hand, spear and sword, shield and armor. For I will still beg to differ of why, of all man, a phantom portrays my errors. Yet of which, I cannot repel nor catch. Better me for I, under you, only but a mortal.

Fellow one, here you are, under Helios[7] as he shone upon you and I. You never fail me but knock me down, only to raise me a better man, warrior and brother to thee. Shall we part this journey at once, for I am a shroud of mystique I’d pray to render open. Now old shadow, show me my ways, my enemies from behind, blind them with your shine and protect me from heat. For you and I, shall flourish in this battle and beyond.

[1] The Year of the Four Emperors was a year in the history of the Roman Empire, AD 69, in which four emperors ruled in a remarkable succession.

[2] The Ludovisi Gaul Killing Himself and His Wife (sometimes called “The Galatian Suicide”) is a Roman marble group depicting a man in the act of plunging a sword into his breast, looking backwards defiantly while he supports the dying figure of a woman with his left arm.

[3] Heracles was a divine hero in Greek mythology, the son of Zeus and Alcmene

[4] Lines from a tragedy by William Shakespeare, believed to have been written between 1605 and 1608. The play is based on the life of the legendary Roman leader Caius Marcius Coriolanus.

[5] Nyx is the Greek goddess (or personification) of the night, a shadowy figure.

[6] Erebos meaning “deep darkness, shadow” Greek god representing the personification of darkness.

[7]Helios was the personification of the Sun in Greek mythology.

Waves #LifeIsBetterInBoardShorts by Bader Shehab

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It cried and rhymed with these southerly winds, as Hajar and I, sat on those rocks, overlooking the slow, sporadic, sudden and at once subtle motion of the Atlantic sway. It soothed and cleansed my lungs of every air molecule as I, on every diatonic hole, exhaled the tunes of worrisome melodies of which, as though, seemed to harmonize and remedy with the violent claps of nature’s force against those moss and limestone.

We sat upon for an hour or two, as I eased off the harmonica tunes to listen in carefully over the fierce winds the 20-minute interval of weather radio update. “It ought to blow east any minute now” stated Hajar, as her silken of yarns of hairs blew back and forth in reaction to the winds. She looked out to the farthest horizons and continued. “I can’t wait to get out there!” I nodded in agreement, flipped my board over and placed it square on my thighs. I took a handful of wax and applied it on the smooth, shining deck of the board, as I proceeded with my normal surf routine rituals the weather radio sounded off. “Temperatures at a clear and cool 19 degrees centigrade, Easterly winds approaching at 28 km/h, ground swell at 240 meters offshore, wind swell at 12 feet heading south east off Devil’s rock coast, Agadir, low tides at 4:38 pm. Surf away!” Hajar glared back at me as she stood and zipped her lycra wetsuit up to her neck, at this point my heart pumped up a notch, all I hear and see at that point are roars and blues, to the far west one click out, upon whites of descending and perfectly orderly waves.

We found our ways down these slippery sharp rocks carefully while negotiating the balance of our precious surf boards, and atop the last rock fighting for dear life against the approaching tides, we’d hug our boards chest high and jump with one spring. We are met with cold, ocean salt water, as if toying with us in its majestic mercy as though in god’s hands we trespassed and in him we trusted, time and time again, with nothing but ply board-cut decks and bodies merely covered by the thinnest layer of nylon film or sometimes just board shorts. We paddled and paddled, and as the weather radio predicted correctly, counter winds suddenly appeared and we felt the water level under us, dilating to the atmospheric change and almost tuning visibly to the under swell that is bound to shake this coast to a surf spot. I looked over my shoulder and I saw more shapes and patterns of colors appear upon numerous surf boards above the heads of running surfers eager to paddle out and ride nature’s ferry wheel. As though the ice cream parlor drove by, a sense kicks in to the wanting of getting out there upon these limitless boundaries of Oceanic jungles. “How far out?” Hajar looked back at me with the excited look and glare she gets before she surfs. “About 100 more meters out to this way” I replied as I pointed to the south, a deviation of direction, so we can meet the swell just right on the spot.

We sat up on our boards after long paddles after paddles, shoulders sore and muscles already strained, but it pays off so beautifully, once you lay your eyes on that swell formation, tide change, the tail heading and the perfect tip aligning to the wave’s broad body spreading from coast to coast, increasing in speed and hollow pipeline set up, just perfect enough to surf, she is ripe and ready for a ride! “This one is yours Hajar!” she nodded at me and proceeded to paddle and paddle, catching up to the topmost edge of the wave, dropping in perfect glide to its body and surfing it ever so perfectly with textbook technique. She disappeared as I dove beneath the swell, and dipped my first wave off. Submerged, on the other hand, is another world. A top I eyed the cloud-like movement of the wave as it rolled away, so very quiet I could nearly hear my heart beat slow down, my lung capacity can last me 4 to 5 minutes, but if I’m calm and collected, I think I could stay down here a long while amongst the darks of these ocean floors. The buoyancy of my surfboard compels me to resurface and as I do so, I am met by another large swell, after swell forming graciously together and easing the tide for another larger wave.

I bodied my board as fast as I can and paddled against the tides, with one hand I paddled and the other I placed near my thigh the other one did the same as soon as the board was parallel to the rising tail, I felt the wave begin to pick me up and nearly flip me, but I counter her power with my weight as I stood on the well-waxed surface and took full balance square center, I’d use my back foot to steer, the tip seemed to wash off the board in reaction to my presence, a spray of salt water tackling my eye and taste buds, I’d grab a handful and wash my face. And here I was, in harmony and remedy with the ocean, time and time again. Waves slapped me around here and there, but nonetheless, I got up again and again. Swells of bodies of rushing water, barreled and formed a pipeline of a shape in accelerating, near-shore waters. But I got out the other side, with a scrape or two, but without a doubt I have. Hajar envied my surf exits so much so, that we spent that full day to sunset’s demise instructing and teaching her how to finish a surf perfectly, as she always had the habit of slipping or falling off the board when these deep ocean groundswell waves approach the coast and increase speed, which causes them to form into a circular, long pipe-like shape; which trick even the most experienced of surfers.

But she’s a fast learner, picks up things quickly on the sport and I am but a wave-shy of asking her out. “I really had fun today, thanks for bringing me out here!” she exclaimed and recalled what a day it was, as her hazel eyes glanced back at the setting sun off the Moroccan coast with passion, while the tides eased off in a westerly direction as if waving us goodbye. I inhaled as much I could and muttered with feigned confidence “Was wondering, if you’re free tonight, we could, you know… grab a drink or bite to eat, whatever you want, I mean…there’s this nice sea food place by the…” I slowed down as she fixated her eyes upon mine, and I was instantly lost in hers, she then broke into a small chuckle, the orange skies seemed to compliment her blushing cheeks, she carefully uttered a “yes, sure…” while scanning her feet dipped in the sand.              

Noah by Bader A. Shehab

By Posted in Bader Shehab, Noah, Prose Leave a comment

In order to understand this, you must first learn who Noah really is.

I’ve been everything a good family man wouldn’t wanna be, or perhaps would out of guilty pleasure; I’m right out of the hoods of Terrytown, New Orleans, Louisiana. The home of the blues, home of the Cajun, or the “Big Easy” if you wanna call it, but it’s been home to me, made me who I am and showed me my years. I started out as a boxer at Jim’s gym, old Jim taught me well, gritted my troublesome hands into good use, and boy did I ever not leave a stone unturned or a lesson learned, I trained my butt off every day for him. He got me out of trouble and got me into matches after matches, I fought at venues across the state and I went on undefeated, I used my training and charismatic personality to land me on and off jobs at bars and nightclubs, I bounced the doors and I even performed stand-up with one liners on some nights. And right into my 18th birthday old Jim told me I’ll fight for the Louisiana golden gloves, a coveted prize of every young boxer, this will get me into the big leagues, I’ll get my professional license, real money gonna start flowing in! I was ecstatic, I then trained harder. I showed up twice a day, I even dropped high school to keep up with his work, but then, I fucked up my neck pretty badly, and just like that, I had to pull out from the tournament. It was over, that was it.

Man, I was devastated, I sat on that bench out on our front porch, my own mother couldn’t look at me and my father later died that same year from a heart attack. I was depressed and borderline suicidal, no school, no job, no future. Decided then to just run away, I didn’t know where to go, I just packed my shit and got out, I simply left and kept walking for miles, and miles.

I was on my own, until, one time at a McDonalds, was browsing the one-dollar menu, then this big black Cadillac pulls up, everybody twists their head and this man, white man gets out, fancy suit cut on the shoulders, boots shine a mile away, he lost the thousand-dollar shades just to catch his thousand-yard stare. His grey hair nearly covered his grey deep eyes, he flicked it back as he approached the counter, and at this point we were shoulder to shoulder, minding my own business by then. I ate, got out, walked to the bus stop about to go home that is the public park where I sleep at. Strangely enough the man only had a drink, not that it is of any importance, but suspicious nonetheless. The black Escalade stopped right across the street from where I was, the driver’s door unlocks open, a younger man in full black suit stepped out, and I could tell he was eyeing me down behind them shades, and then the same man from the restaurant got out from the back passenger seat, this time smoking a thick cigar, crossed the street and walked gracefully towards me. “I know who you are” he puffs and exhales fumes of thick, expensive-smelling cabaña’s “I know your face” he turns towards me and lowers his glasses, takes a step closer “You’re Noah, Neat Noah, so they call you.”

“What the fuck? Whose they? Who the fuck is you?!” I replied angrily or more so shockingly since he knew who I am, “I’ve seen your fights in New Orleans a few years back” he answered while smoking and keeping his calm collected smooth self “They called you Neat ’cause your punches are so crisp and sharp, you’re a knockout artist!” he continued as he placed the cigar in his mouth and threw his fists punching in the air as though impersonating myself. “An artist now, is that right?” I thought aloud “well, sir I ain’t no more that neat former self I was, I’m just a… drifter now, here and there, you know how it is, sir” I cried that last word out “I gotta head home, so you have a nice day now” I caught the bus turning the last corner and as it slowed down to a stop “You don’t have a home, Noah, you sleep at truck stops in the back of alleys, you grit your way around, you fight every day to eat bread off the dollar menu, you ain’t going home, Noah. You’re just gonna drift somewhere and get in trouble with the law again, and again. Then run away to another state, repeat. For how long, Noah?” his words were preparing a bigger question, he then pointed at the bus before continuing “Now you got two choices, Noah. You take that bus and go back to your pot hole of a shit-stink you call home or you come and work for me, gonna get you cleaned up and make some good do’, what do you say?” I don’t remember pausing that long to reply, in fact, I didn’t even think “Well, you’re right, fuck this shit, I’m coming with you.”

I never got the man’s real name. He asked me to call him “McDonalds”, I didn’t even know what he did for a living, but it ain’t legal that’s for sure. Hell, I didn’t even dare ask, not after what he did for me, got me cleaned up, suit, place to stay and I had it all. At first I just carried his bags and escorted him or his girls, he then had me deliver cash from point A to point B, I even went with him overseas, he fixed my paper work and passport. Anything he asks, I do, no second thinking him, he was punctual, proper and always, perfect. Soon enough, I was his right hand man, I would stick with him for the next 8 years of my life, he knew my worth and what I done for him in exchange to what he has given me, our relation remained strictly professional, and to this day I still know him as “Cadillac” Mr. McDonalds. He showed me the world in its truest form.

I then went back to working in nightclubs with more than enough pocket cash to get by, I did stand up just like how I used to in New Orleans and it felt good to be back, apart from my drifting life, beating people up and taking a beating, or transporting briefcases of god-knows what was in ’em, I always knew I belonged on a stage with people below having an innocent laugh, a good time is what I needed, and I needed it nightly. The shows got bigger, then I started giving myself more chance to go from one-line jokers to full written pieces that I performed myself, people loved me and my name “Neat” Noah became somewhat marketable, I thought I always belonged to the nightlife, this is what I was supposed to be doing all along. I would even get called up by some local celebs to host their birthday parties or New Year eves, I was the hit of every town and my name only grew, it grew like my dick when it was on hard erection as Elektra grinded that soft firm ass of hers on my junk in the champagne   room of Stiletto’s Cabaret, New Orleans. Yeah, I found myself back home again, I was doing a show up in Penthouse club then I decided to stop by at one of the bikini bars or “strip clubs” so they call ’em, I was never too fond of such places, I just went in a couple of times with friends. But that night, I wanted to walk in after signing autographs and just to do the “whole thing”; drinks, a couple girls and naked lap dances. Now, I am a celibate man, I’ve been so all my life, I never married nor I ever envied a relationship, I had sex from time to time but nothing serious, just one night stands.

But boy this was something else! That night, I got hooked from the first time, something about the shining-sweat skin, fake titties, blues and hip hop music to the rhythm of the girl’s body flow and scent that sends me to awe, I can say it’s almost better than sex. If I get bored of Bubbles, I get Lemon, oh, Lemon ain’t here, let’s get Foufou with her fake French accent and her “allez vous couches avec moi mon cherie” trademark line every now and then. I asked the manager after he took a photo with me, “big fan Mr. Noah, I loved your show the other night!” he recalled, “Do you guys happen to need an MC here, mic handler by any chance?” I asked carefully into his ear over the music, “as a matter of fact we do, if you got someone that would be really helpful, this is my e-mail and…” I stopped him right there as he was reaching his business cards which were stacked in his hand, “It’ll be me, you’re looking at your new master of ceremonies” I replied slowing down at each word, “What the fuck… Neat Noah is gonna MC my joint, oh my god!” he cried aloud and shook my hands firmly for a full minute “welcome aboard man!”

I like it here, in fact I love it so much that I’m well into my 10th year in the gentlemen’s club business, I even partnered with the owner, Mike Virago, improved the place and Stiletto’s Cabaret only grew bigger and more popular, especially after everyone knew that I was on mic, I got a live band while I played the harmonica myself and introduced all the girls. But the women, ahh ahmm, my favorite part was when I get to cast new girls in, I still did comedy shows from time to time. I like it here on Bourbon Street; it is where it’s at! This is the place where you wanna be! Now if you’ll excuse me I gotta introduce Kiki and Lexus, they’re working the pole in a double dance, enjoy the show.