the popeye treatment

We were in front of a wall-sized mural of Yasser Arafat. The canvas was Israel’s security fence.

Where was N? We said we’d meet at this border crossing half-an-hour ago.

“Do you want to cross to the other side?” I asked A. “N and her uncle might see us better from there if they drive by.”

We crossed the street. Now Yasser Arafat was looming over us, and a series of aluminum trash bins formed a pungent barricade in front of the more stately concrete one.

Three apple-cheeked round-faced straight-haired boys formed yet another barrier, this time in front of me. Each had a stack of CDs in hand. A was an ajnabiyah (foreigner), whereas I — I would understand their entreaties.

“Min shan Allah. Min shan Allah. For God’s sake.” They pushed the CDs at me.

Somehow, I ended up with three random CDs: one for Amr Diab, another for Um Kulthoom and the last — catch this — a Fattah Party mix (not to be mistaken for a Fattah party mix). What’s more, I ended up with a loyal following of pre-teen CD sellers.

Some of the boys who’d sold competed as vigorously over my attention as boys who hadn’t. I looked from face to face. Several of these kids were spitting images of each other. There were clearly brothers in the bunch.

“Instead of hustling each other like this, why don’t you guys work together? Now, some of you sold me CDs, right?” They nodded impatiently. “If you took turns, you wouldn’t wear out your buyers and you’d each go home with something.”

My reasoning didn’t buy new clothes or wash off dusty feet. Dissatisfied, a couple of the the boys picked up disintegrating spinach from the garbage heap and flung it into the air. It came fluttering down on A and me like green confetti. A was seriously unimpressed.

We crossed back to the other side. A sat on the foot of a supermarket. I stood in front of her, on the lookout for N and blocking the sun.

We heard a siren. An Israeli police car was wailing near the border. Two teenagers walked past.

“We did it! We broke the glass!” They clapped hands and, on fast feet, were gone.

Two of the apple-cheeked boys who had remorse written all over their faces crossed the street to us.

“You should probably go.” One said without making eye contact. “Someone threw rocks at their cars, and they might shoot. They sometimes shoot. You never know.”

From our place across the street, A and I listened as one vehicle wailed its distress and a hundred others stood mutely in their queues. Yasser Arafat, too, watched. He, too, was ominously silent.