So, this is the highlight of my entire work day, which started and ended at like stupid o'clock.
Pistachio Almond ice cream. It seemed a man at the bus station was intrigued by this as well and decided to approach me, sit quietly for 6 minutes, then wait until I stuffed my mouth like a Thanksgiving turkey, hanging perilously from my red plastic spoon with his eyes, it seemed. He was menatally saying "wait for it...wait forrrr ittttt..." until the green sloppy jet was safe and sound in the hangar. ZOOOOOMMM! And then was when he opened his mouth to say something obscure to me like,
I said something along the same lines, but you can guess why, "shovvy?"
I still never figured out what he said, but he introduced himself to me several times, while laughing and saying how this and that and ice cream was the meaning of happy times. Yeah. Great fun. He stuck out his hand a grand total of three times for me to shake it, which I then counteracted with three shakes of my head and three stifled smiles and three look aways. Maybe more.
"You waiting on the bus?"
"Yes sir." Otherwise I would be sitting in a sweaty crowded bus station enjoying some pistachio ice cream just for the filthy fun of it; waving at the spit globules that flew all around me by dark, dirty, robed men with all manner of sacks in their hands. I wish I had told him that. But then, he probably would not have understood after the words hit four syllables.
"So, which bus? Where are you going?"
I pointed to the one that was loaded up with its 12 women already, which meant that the several BAZILLION seats at the back after the plexiglass partition could only be reserved for men, so I waited, with a sigh...and a scoop, for the next one to almost never come.
"Where do you live?"
"Around. You really think I'm going to tell you that, right? I'm afraid my mother taught me well."
"Ah, it is just friendship talk...just blah blah blah gobble mumble friend mumble jumble I not kidnapper yadda yadda yadda."
Anyway, so it went like this and then he opened his wallet and told me the most pleasant thing that could have burst my seams and had me shitting myself right there and then.
"I'm a writer. I write English poetry."
He then started rifling through his wallet for a badly folded piece of paper the size of a business card, where one of his poems was typed; something about a cup of tea and milk of some other f-word faith, tea leaves of promises and things like that.
"Ummm, that's cute!"
"Yah, like you, yar?"
"Sure, why not?"
He said it was crazy faith since I'm a writer too and that we should stay friends and exchange emails and phone numbers (and here he would not rest even after my 96.375 firm 'NO's') and look out for each other as we're in the same area.
Sorry palos.
Not happening.
In fact, how's bout never.
But I did take the "business card" he offered me, saying he started doing them up when he got a couple stuffs published in Gulf News over here. I took it because, as soon as he said "I have a blog where I share my work, here have my business card and check it out sometime and contact me pls pls pls contact me" I was thinking of YOU; my blog babies. I thought you might, at best, be ticklishly amused by this...'S.H. Ghazi', says his card with a feathery quill icon in one corner.
The catch is...I haven't checked it out yet, and in order for you to come back and visit my blog tomorrow (yes, it has come to this) I am going to withold this amusing information from you until tomorrow. Hopefully you're still interested...or even STARTED off interested at the very least.
BEDTIME! CHEERIO!
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