Abdul

Betty Page x 2. She’s looking at you saying “The water’s fine. Dive in!” And so let us dive. Into the day, into time. Into Whatever Comes Next.

This morning I started writing a story about a schizophrenic who experiences his first psychotic episode while living with two twin brothers from Senegal. I don’t know where this story came from, except that it’s a composite of actual things I’ve witnessed, and some details I just snatched out of the duende’s grab bag.

As I sat and wrote about themes of cultural lostness, existential lostness, man’s search for meaning, and psychic unravelings, Stella grazed on the kitchen floor, picking up bits of egg and bagel fallen from Eleanor’s breakfast. Cars rolled by our house, which, since it’s a duplex and we live on the top floor, is very much like a tree-house. When the page gets too empty-looking and oblique, I can turn my head and stare out a window, at people’s backyards, or the cars rolling by. In my treehouse, I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.

The Africans came from a guy I lived next door to in college. His name was Abdul, and he played soccer. He was tall, very dark skinned, and looked like a prince. He was an orthodox Sunni Muslim and probably the most good-humored person I’ve ever met. He roomed with a guy named Tromal, from the A-T-L, who was trouble, mostly.

I remember coming home from work/school one day and finding Tromal sitting outside of his apartment door. “Get locked out?" I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, “but Abdul’s in there, he just won’t open the door.” Tromal had a look on his face like someone had just peed all over his pristine Nike Air Jordans.

“Why won’t he come to the door?” I said.

“Because the muthafucka’s in there praying and shit.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can see him. Take a look at this shit, man.”

I cupped my hands and peered through the grime on the tiny window, which was set at eye-level on the front door. In the middle of the living room, on his green prayer rug, the stately Abdul was on his knees in full prostration.

“Open up, man!” Tromal banged on the door.

After making two or three more prostrations, Abdul slid back the latch, opened the door, and, smiling down at Tromal, said, “I am sorry to you, Tromal. I was praying. You see?” He pointed to his prayer rug, flattened on the floor like a tiny magic carpet after a long day of flying.