We're moving away from ships and investing on land. Much of this story is going to be guess-work. I've tried the research method, and over here it's like pulling teeth, no one wants to lose any. I don't blame them though, who wants to talk about gay police in Kuwait? Nothing gets more macho and masculine than the 'Force'.
Rafid's a police officer, struggling with a secret, and family obligations in an environment he doesn't really feel part of. What's the fine line between being happy and belonging, and will Rafid have to cross it to find out?
This is a WIP, multi-chaptered work. Please stick around for the rest of it, no matter how long it takes.
.jpg)
Rafid cursed when he got
his assigning papers, all the way in fucking Ahmadi. The one road completely
traveled only by guys with a macho personality, or a car packed like a tourist
bus.
He hailed his gear,
getting snickers from the assholes who were lucky enough to stand patrol closer
to home. Closer, not close, because their sergeant was a bastard like that.
Rafid was pretty sure the old man disliked taking in young recruits in his prescient,
and he disliked Rafid just that extra bit more because he was single, and very
much into keeping the status quo stick.
He stepped out of the
Salmiya station, the stale air of the sea hitting his nostrils faster than the
ensuing humidity could clog his senses.
The laughter from the
station followed him as he left to located his patrol car. It was one of a very
few things he liked about the job, other than the dashing hero aspect, his Ford
Explorer. It was sadly refitted with the bars inside, but it made for a great
luxury item when he wanted to take naps after a long shift.
The drive took forever, or
what amounts to forever for mortals. He had to dodge a couple of shady road
construction works, and a cement mixer that wasn’t supposed to be roaming the streets
past 9pm. He’d mentioned that once before and the other cops told him to butt
out of it, by which he understood that no one really gave a shit as long as
their sirens and flashing lights got everyone out of the way. He was beginning
to wonder again why he ever thought the job was rewarding, when an unpleasant
memory of getting sick during final exams struck home.
He was a cope out turned
cop, and he’d long since had to deal with it going into the academy. Bitterness
at his remote location was probably working a fine weave through all of his
strings tonight.
Finally out of the packed
streets in Salmiya, he sped towards the Fifth Ring Road, merged into the King
Fahad lane after he spotted the glaring mistake in the temperature tower. It
never ceased to amaze him how in a society where exaggerating is the base of
many jokes, the clock tower kept downplaying the freaking weather.
He caught the street at a
good time, empty lanes, and no crawlers to hinder speed limits. He parked just
shy of the Oula petrol station and made his way up the bridge’s dirt side.
Rafid went through the routine checkup, called base to let them know he was on
standby and cited the location to them. He flicked the headlights off but kept
his lightbar on, he’d have to check on the car battery and turn off the lights
at intervals, but it would give him an extra inch of peace when cars pass. He usually spent these
hours trying not to nap, getting equal time between his phone and the street
ahead of him. Keeping the windows open made sure he’d pick up sounds, and so
did keeping the speed radar propped on the dashboard.
It was a relatively empty
location, and was generally problem free, as it gave way to industrial
factories, oil burners and oil inspection sites. Civilian cars tended to overestimate
their tank abilities and power down in these locations, which is why it was
important to have someone to pick them up off the street, and charge their
cars. The trunk of his car was fully equipped for any possible emergency, and just
maybe some opportunities.
Right.
Opportunities, in the
Kuwaiti equivalent of the boonies. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to
massage some of his stress away. The subject of relationships, with anyone
brought forth an image of his mother’s scowling face. He should be grateful
work kept him out of home so often, that she couldn’t give him her –now- well
recited speech on marriage. It wasn’t that her intentions were bad, but he
couldn’t keep pushing her arguments aside without getting angry anymore. He
knew she was under a lot of pressure from family, namely his grandma, and from
her friends, who always wonder why she wasn’t asking around to get him a bride.
Knowing wasn’t equal to understanding though, and more often than not, these
speeches ended in shouting and his mother in tears.
How could you explain to
your conservative family, in a country that punishes homosexuality, that you
were gay? Rafid wasn’t one to take a chance, and he knew that his coming out
would be equal to admitting murder in the eyes of this society. The irony that
he would be setting himself up for arrest by the same people he worked with,
wasn’t lost on him.
Time passed slowly,
nothing but the sound of tiers on gravel, and occasional beeps from his phone
interrupted the dominating silence. The humidity wasn’t as intensive as it were
in Salmiya, and there was the occasional soft breeze that flittered through the
window, but it wasn’t by any means cool enough that he could stay in the car
any longer. Rafid switched off the lightbar and stepped out of the car,
stretching muscles and popping joints and kinks as he left. He grabbed his
radio just in case, it wouldn’t do to just drop off of the radar.
It was very hard to focus
on the street ahead, when the deafening quietness lent a listening ear to
reminiscence. He itched for a cigarette, further proof he was teetering on the
edge of memory, as the lung cancer had caused all his grief. Rafid’s dad was a
chain-smoker of 70’s proportions, a packet of smokes sitting at the top pocket
of his dishdasha and a roll snuggled between two lips. The image that springs
to his mind at the thought of his father wasn’t from them living together, but
of a single photograph nestled in a bank of forgotten albums.
It happened when he was in
his senior year of highschool, right before the final Arabic exam could start,
his name was being called. It took him a while to process the information being
delivered, and it took even longer to shuffle outside the school gates knowing
that that was the moment his childhood ended.
There was a lot of
mourning the first two weeks, and all thoughts of exams were washed clean out
of his head when faced with his current legal status. The house was theirs,
which was a relief in its own way, but anything beyond the immediate cash in
the bank wasn’t.
Social services paid them
quite a few visits over the course of that struggle with loss, and they weren’t
welcome 90% of the time. He hadn’t been worried about himself, so much as his
younger sister, who still needed 3 more years to hit that age of independence.
All of which took its toll on his mother, whom he could almost swear, was
fading a little.
People coming in and out
of their house requesting owed cash, asking for cash, and claiming some part of
the inheritance. His father hadn’t kept records of any kind but soon proved to
be a bad investor in several small projects that were asking for continued
assistance from his bank balance.
Amid all the chaos of
their lives, came a contender for his mother’s affections. Rafid had about lost
it when the man came to visit them, barely two weeks since they buried his dad,
to express interest in becoming a father figure to him and his sister. He
remembered with blind rage the hand this man had laid on his shoulder while
expressing his wishes.
His mother still teases
him about fighting off possible suitors, but had given him an look of approval
when he’d led the man outside their property with a few choice words she
wouldn’t dare to repeat herself.
It wasn’t a surprise to
anyone when he failed his high school exams miserably. There were no surprises
when he expressed his desire to go into the force and start working, instead of
hobbling through college for the chance of getting into a program of a 4 or
even 2 year long program and risk the lack of jobs.
His mother pleaded, on
days when her mind was sharp and she wasn’t sick with grief, and pleaded that
he change his mind. It was made up though, cemented by the slew of people who
called themselves family who attempted to rob him and his family of every Fils
they owned.
A cloud of dust raged near
by, announcing itself in a screech of tires and clang of metal. Rafid’s
training kicked in, and he scaled the small hill higher out of harms’ way,
waiting for the dirt to settle.
The white Cheeroke Jeep
teetered dangerously close to the edge of the concrete covered sewer line, but
at last it stilled. It didn’t look like it had sustained any damage, but Rafid
couldn’t be sure from such a far distance.
His descent down the hill
began, and didn’t stop until he’d arrived at his destination.
No comments:
Post a Comment