Rush Hour

A black Mercedes hit me when I was on my way to the theatre. I had just left the All American shop to order twenty balloons, pink and blue, for the performance tomorrow when my mind wandered to the crying clerk. Earlier, I stepped into her kitschy jewelry shop to ask for directions. She was on the phone and hurriedly put it down, wiping away tears from both her cheeks. I stood in the frame of the doorway, in complete shock, and gargled, "Do you know where the All American shop is?"

I was wearing long, tan leather shoes from Cairo, and the Mercedes ran over my right foot. There are actually tire marks over the laces. I think I crashed against the right door or something. A soldier came up to me, the two guys hopped out of the car, shook my hand, everyone was asking me if I was okay. I kept saying, "Ana majdoub! Ana majdoub! Ma shefit!"

Abu Fadi pulled the Renault aside, just meters away from that tank near City Cafe, and came up to me. "Ana majdoub! Ana majdoub!" I repeated as we got into the car.

I think I was in acute shock (maybe?). My hands were jittery, and I remember having to relax my cheek muscles from a frozen expression of glee. He scolded me for calling myself an idiot in front of all those people.

"They're the idiots! Not you! It's a bad word! Don't call yourself an idiot! Yella, I'll take you home, put some ice on your foot and your knee, forget the theatre."

Not a half an hour later, I was sitting in the second row of Masah al Medinah, notebook on lap and pen in hand, for HOW NANCY WISHED THAT EVERYTHING WAS AN APRIL FOOL'S JOKE by Rabih Mroue and Fadi Toufic with Ziad Antar, Lina Saneh, Hatem Imam, and Rabih Mroue. I've been following the work of Lina and Rabih for over a year now, brooding over their texts and videorecordings of past performances. I was exactly where I needed to be.