beirut 1

in the car stuck in traffic. an assault of honks. they form a short interrupted octave. should we open the windows or turn on the ac. wait there's a breeze. keep it open. we are moving extremely slowly. my camera is ready and i snap one of the two disheveled men in the broken-down store. i don't know what they're selling. he smiles like a child. "look look she's taking a photo of me like on the lira". they both turn and pause. the car moves on. the balcony with rusted sinews of forged metal looks down on me and again i snap a picture. i suddenly lurch forward and grab the seat in front. "ya hayawen!" the man with the raybans and the cayenne is not glistening with sweat. in fact he looks so cool and collected while he attacks our car one more time. "wlek leik shou hal hayawen, ma byefham!"
and my little cousin presses forward stubbornly to block his way. the honks are getting louder and longer. the cars the weeds on the side of the road the dirty gravel are glistening with sweat. another balcony looks down displaying a series of white underwear, flanelles and long wailing shirts. black smoke rises. the little renault on the side coughs. a man is pushing his car up ahead, one hand on the wheel and the other pushing, straining with the swallowing heat.