Sneak peak

Sneak peak

At this point my family left the south in subtle pursuit to another beginning and unloaded the past from across the border free from anxiety and conflict of war and relocated north to Tripoli, the second largest city in Lebanon.
My parents with two children didn’t pick up arms and engaged in the life of history, they just want it to raise their children, provide for them and nurture their lives. It is simply hard to raise a family as it is, but to deal with war and violence is not a way to live.

When I peaked into my past while I started to write this episode I squeezed my memory relentlessly and what summed up to be stocked in bits and pieces. Somehow the rest was misplaced and forgotten and that’s why I called it sneak peak for I have returned traveling the past and came upon to write the things that wasn’t washed from my brain.

I only remember hints of our first house in Tripoli as if a cloud pulled by a passing wind. We lived on floor level on a steep street. There sit a historic castle standing high facing our house blocking the sun in the afternoon. Built from stones hundred years ago and was a defending fortress with high walls and big canons pointed towards the city and over the river on the eastern side.
Other than that few memories, one is vivid watching my mother making holiday favorites. Pureed dates filled in sweet flavored dough and baked slowly for hours. The aromatic smell of spices filled the house while my dad was decorating the Christmas tree.
The other thing I remember seeing my mother chasing a mousse with a broom in her hand running after it. The mousse hid under the sofa and mother was screaming and moving the furniture. The front door was open and I saw Mickey junior running for his life.
Shortly after, we moved to the heart of the city. We resided on the last floor, eight stories building and we shared half of the top penthouse space with another apartment.
My life in Tripoli was peaceful, not a single shot was fired, no human conflicts as I experimented later in Beirut, instead a few of nature’s madness and my childish mindless behavior.

Winter of 1954 a blizzard assaulted the eastern mountains followed by a rain storm. The thunder blasted the sky, river Abu Ali had risen spilling its guts over the land and the mud slid trickling down on Tripoli. 
I remember the windows in our apartment shattered from the force of the gusting wind. The water reached a foot high and flooded our house, with my brothers and sisters we stayed above the floor on a bed while my dad and some neighbors came to help shoving the water into a large hole they broke with chisels in the concrete out on the large veranda so the water will seep down toward the street. 
In the morning the sky became crystal clear and mother nature was serene and quiet, unobserved by my parents, sneakily I went down to the level of the street. I was deep up to my knees in mud at that age and it felt walking in soft concrete. 
Three buildings parallel to our building, I saw rescue workers pulling three dead bodies from a basement apartment bellow street level, two adults and a baby. The corps covered with dry mud looking mummified. Eagerly and slowly pushing ahead in the thick mud, I was curious and got closer, by then the bulldozer driver clearing the road saw me and shouted at one of the worker to capture me. Threatened by the worker who tried to seize me I got entangled in the thick mud trying to escape. In a brief opportune moment and without permission the man grabbed me by the arm abruptly and dragged me to the lobby of our building, he had an angry expression in his eyes next to his words, venting in anger, wiggling his hand warning and promising to whip my butt if he sees me again on the street.
I stuck my tongue at him and ran upstairs. At that age without intrinsic sense of right or wrong, I was curious and unaware of danger.
A week went by, the streets were cleared and when I went back to school I learned the fate of the two nuns who taught in my school, they found their bodies buried under mud. 

When an earthquake hit Tripoli it was a hellish cold midnight and I was asleep. My father came storming into my room shaking me to get up, as soon I opened my eyes and saw him, he asked me to wrap the blanket around me and follow him with my younger brothers each held by my father wrapping his arms around their waists tightly and safely, my mom carrying my baby sister and my oldest sister followed behind. We ran to the front door and we went down the stairs. I felt the ground moving under my feet. When we reached the street we kept moving forward and buildings lining the streets swayed from side to side ready to cave and disintegrates. We raced galloping to an orange grove safely and stood under trees for hours. I imagine we were lucky and this answer that god was kind to us for life or death was held by seconds and a thin string.

One Sunday I was sent to a family friend’s house few blocks away to attend a bible study. The lady of the house was a devout catholic. There were lots of kids my age.  It was the first and last attendance for me. I had no idea what the lady was telling in her story, at that age I didn’t comprehend what the Lord was, I wasn’t sure. I reckon now I was not interested by not listening. I guess I had a deficit concentration syndrome and the bible stories seemed indifferent to my curiosity. 
After that I didn’t attend another meeting. I do not remember verbal messages but I do remember they only served lemonade. I expected sweet treats, chocolate, nuts and mainly coca cola. Believing in the notion how people who visited our house were received and treated, adding a demitasse jolt of caffeine. I expected a variety of treats.
Lemonade was not one my favorite libation. I had plenty vitamin c., sweets were after my heart, tastes full of smiles. I was a happy child and I couldn’t swallow religion with a sour treat.

I remember the little girl who lived down the block from me but I don’t remember her name. One Sunday morning while we gathered on the street we heard a man pushing a cart yelling ice cream, ice cream. I ran upstairs and asked my mother for a nickel then went down the street and got me a double scoop of my favorite chocolate delight. As I proceeded and stuck out my tongue to take my first lick the girls held my arm and screamed,
  “No don’t eat that or you’ll die”
easily torn and incoherent I asked,
  “Why?”
she answered,
  “The last time the ice cream man came to the neighborhood I asked my dad to buy me some and he said that he knew a little boy who got sick and died afterward from eating ice cream”.
Affording that luxurious treat held in my hand ready to be eaten and the thought of the little boy sick and dying was not convincing enough, but I confess I was scared. 
So I figured maybe if I gulped down in one swallow I’ll be saved and what the heck if I die at least I die happy.
Debating to do it or not and by now the ice cream was dripping all over my hand and cloth I closed my eyes and shoved the whole thing in my mouth and that hit me like a thunderbolt and gave a frozen head. I held my head in both hand, went down to the ground and curled my body like a snail in its shell. The little girl got scared and took off running, shouting and screaming,
  “He’s dying he’s dying”
I reckon it is imperceptible at that age we all have vague and wild imagination and sometimes adults say stupid things to children like the little girl’s cheap skate father who made up the story for not shelling out a stingy nickel and gave me a frozen head instead. 


At age six, watching my father telling the man at the general store, write it down. I learned about credit and frequented the store on my way to school and asked who ever was behind the counter, to write down. The stuff I was ordering that is. The storeowner questioned me couple of times, and I said my mother approved it. It was my business to get the candies first and ask mother later.
We had a notebook. In it recording of all purchases and advances during a week, paid on weekend by my father, other times goods were delivered to our house by store runners. I was allowed to use the account as an expense for candies. I figured that was the only thing to pay for. A luxury cost.


I remember the time my mother and I visited a woman who lived next building to our building. The woman’s son was mentally challenged. Though he was genius and had passed Master’s degree. Sitting in the kitchen listening, his mother was telling my mother that when he got sick he became belligerent, went berserk and threw his books and cloth out the window. Bored, I left to the living room and sat on a couched chair. Few minutes later he walked in and stood in front of me while I sat on his favorite chair, scaring the hell out of me demanding that I move commanding,
  “Get up, that’s my seat”
while he grabbed twisting my ear.
I felt assault and moved the hell out of his way, I could tell at that time he was a dangerous freak by the look in his goofy eyes.
Few days later I watched him from our veranda, looking down one floor less as he sat  on a lounge chair in his veranda. I ran to the kitchen, scooped a handful of olives from a bowl and threw it at him. He hunched covering his head with both hand and ran inside.
Month later he came with his mother for a visit and I hid in my room under my bed thinking he was going to pay me back. God it was a two hour visit and two long hours under the bed. At least I was cautious!
He became a practice target, I use to collect peaches and apricots seeds and any time I saw he was alone in his veranda I threw stuff at him for pulling my ear.
I was subjected and retaliated for his actions. I think his mind was clouded and I didn’t know he was mentally unstable. I thought he was picking on me. I acted naturally though, maybe defensively, I was too young to know the difference. 

Tripoli reminds me of coach buggies pulled by horses. I remember riding with my father for a cab lift. We stood on the corner of the main street, the carriage stopped, I climbed with my father in the back leathery seat, my father paid the driver and the horses took off to the barbershop.
At times with some other kids we ran after the buggies from behind and clinched standing on rear axis bar for a ride. The riders held a long whip, directing the horses on the road, many times the riders delivered a backward sweeping blow at us while in motion to deter us and cause us to jump.
Couple times when I jumped, I had bruises and scratches all over my arms and legs. When questioned by my parents I was scared to tell the truth and they believed my made up story that I fell going down the stairs. It blows me out when I think of it today, I was no older than six and my parents didn’t know I slipped and crossed a mile down to the main street straying from home.

One afternoon playing with other kids on our street, a woman came out of her corner house screaming for help, in minutes the neighbors rushed after her. Inside the house I saw a man sitting on a chair with one arm stretched and blood gashing from his slit arm resisting the two men trying to tie their belt to stop the hemorrhage. After they subdued him they rush him to the hospital in a car.
The word on the street conveyed the man was trying to commit suicide. He lost his job and couldn’t handle the stress and humility.           
He was poor and didn’t have money to pay the rent and provide food for his family. The next day people volunteered and brought boxes filled with food and clothing. I did my share of charity.
I stole half dozen Pita bread from our kitchen, tucked it under my shirt and donate it. What a lack of intellect I had. I did something worthy with a guilty conscious.
Had I known how godly and generous my parents, I’m sure they would give a lot more than a stack of bread.

Last of bits and pieces conclude my final days living in Tripoli. A situation that happened and remembering a boy whose name was Manuel who resided on the second floor in our building as we attended the same school and the same class. Back then both had surpassed the age of seven but he was an inch taller and looked down on me and called me,
  “short stick”
and I mocked him,
  “thermometer”.
Thereafter I caused him uneasiness and when asked me why I nicknamed him such a stupid name, I explained,
  “A thermometer is a brainless height and only could tell the fall and rise in temperature, and by the way I was told my grandpa was a giant, so don’t call me short stick?”
According to what I said he responded with haughtiness,
  “Short stick your grandpa must’ve been a peewee like you”
inflated and arrogant proceeded and said,
  “I was told my grandpa was so tall when he stood up and lifted his hand he can touch the sky with his fingers”
Having heard such a whopping giant his grandpa emerged, I poked into my imagination to withstand such titanic opponent and arranged to trap Manuel, quizzically I said,
  “Indeed your grandpa was humongous but may I ask if your grandpa had felt something soft when touched the sky with his fingers?”   

Manuel paused searching for an answer with serious vacancy and slow on the uptake to my question he replied,
  “Oh ye, now I remember for a fact he did touch a soft cloud when he reached to heaven”
  “It was not a cloud he touched you idiot”
Surprised and incoherent Manuel proceeded,
  “What was it then?”
With a provoking laughter I said,
  “That was my grandpa’s colossal balls and that proves he was taller than your grandpa”
Snubbed, bamboozled and displeased Manuel walked away tears gushing down his face and from there on never found the courage to call short stick again.

Back then we attended a Catholic school, half a mile down the street from our building. I snuck out from under the huge iron gates twice and was sent back by my mother. I felt I was kept hostage, it was intimidating and callous.
All the catholic priests were old and looked primitive, dressed in black from head to toe with long beards, bushy faces looking as mystic wizards. 
The school was built kind like a monastery with arc arches in the yard and the indoors resembling medieval dungeons, day dreaming in class I could hear the chains jangle and impatiently held my breath in delirium and couldn’t wait for the bell to ring to be released from that horrifying prison. 
On the contrary Manuel was compliant, docile and well behaved in school, convivial and spellbound in such surrounding.
The school teacher applauded when Manuel recited our father in heaven in French, his mother praised him the future president, and my mother couldn’t agree less when Manuel’s mother came to visit and boasted highly of his talent.

I reckon every one graded Manuel in approval to be little Einstein and hailed his genius apex of achievements.
Being slow in learning at that age I didn’t care bearing such pinnacle of fame and it made no difference being the head or the tail, from where you start could be the end and from where you end you could start. 
When Manuel ruffled my feathers I was provoked and displeased and aside from respect to him I saw a different freak when he outshined and diverged to be nothing but a rat and a snitch when he dropped the dime on me concerning school and here how it happened.
 
A windfall is something unexpected but forthcoming, it is like a comparison to the new bike my parents promised me under one condition that I place first to fifth in my class at school’s end.
When the teacher handed me the report card to take to my parents the last day of school, I made (31), and close to last in my class. Not an achiever at this stage of my life.
Boy, did I have to cheat and pull a trick from under my sleeve.
What a bummer; I want it the bike so bad and was looking forward to ride it all summer long. My imagination shifted to first gear. I must have the bike one way or another. Something has to be done. It meant the whole world for me at that age, my first big toy, paddling up and down the street burning rubber, leaving my mark on the neighborhood as the long rider from hell.
I was quick and slick as the devil himself who tricked Eve to crunch the apple and committed my first sin.
Exhausting little mental energy, I found a simple solution and a happy medium for all. Time was on my side. I must come up with a clean and a suitable plan without getting my hand caught in the cookie jar.
First and quickly I needed to alter the report card before I get home and show it to my mother.
Second, father is away in the capital and won’t be back for two weeks while setting up his new ventured hardware store.
Third and final conclusion, my school locked its gates and every one went away for the whole summer and that made it hard for my parents to contact my teacher.
By the time classes resumes all be forgotten, life goes on, all loose ends are tight and an attitude “qui vivra vera” (who lives will see!), What’s the odds? 
With harmless intention on my part I guess the devil took advantage of my innocence and whispered in my ear encouraging me to do the unspeakable,
  “Hear me little child you are smart, bold and spunk and if you don’t reproduce and lower your grade you want get the bike!” 
Wishfully thinking, with an ended pencil eraser carefully rubbing, deliberately removed the digit (1) from the report card and left the digit (3), lowering my grade from (31) to third. Dishonestly placed Show in the race and came in the money, it was a long shot but the odds were in my favor, pay dirt, I gambled and took a chance. Why not! Athletes cheat by taking enhanced steroids in competition, I just fixed the race without any substance abuse, no trace evidence and three was a magical number in Olympic performance, it won’t get you the gold medal but with a bronze it raised the flag riding my bicycle to a new horizon. It is all about the trophy.
Artfully and artificially I made it to third in my class. I ran home and presented the report card to my mother and shouted holding it high in her face,
  “Mama, mama look I made third”
My mother was cheerful with a big smile showered me with kisses and I felt I was in heaven. It worked. She giggled, her face shined and her eyes glittered and asked me to cover my eyes. I did and she proceeded to her room and fetched the bike to the living room were I stood peeking through my fingers acting if I was in the dark.
Trick and treat again. Life is full of surprises. My parents already were going to give me a bicycle that summer no matter what the outcome was. They did it to encourage me to learn and try harder, and what did I do? I cheated.
I had the smarts to concoct an insidious plot and duped enough not to concentrate and learn my ABC’s, instead resorted taking a dramatic route. I guess I was able to device and handle situation in times of tentative discourse.
Maybe I was soft headed when my parents dangled a carrot ahead of me. It was a trick to motivate me to study harder, an approach to the slogan of E.F. Hutton that I must earn it.

At that age it was not a questionable dishonesty on my part, I reckon it must have been a disorder of innocent intelligence similar to trial lawyers fabricating defenses in the courts of law, a metaphoric adjustment as a liar with a legal license and a diploma.
For heaven’s sake in a modern century of advancement and a plateau of social acceptance people get away with murder on the ground of insanity claiming the devil made me do it and when it happened I was sleep walking.
Freud might have diagnosed such symptoms as a crude indigenous foresight with side effects of pulling the wool over people eyes. It is a character twist to a particular goal, experimenting with a first lie.

Happy riding my bike, I fell couple of times doing swirls and donuts. That hurt little bit, but what was more painful when my plot unfolded and the rabbit came out of the hat. My triumph was defeated. My happiness lost a notch and somehow I felt a bit guilty.
Two weeks have passed, my secret survived inconspicuously until Manuel appeared with his mother at our front door for a visit. And in the door to the living room both women started to chat, mother started bragging how I placed third in my class, then turned to Manuel and asked him what grade he got.
The trustworthy Manuel couldn’t hold his pride and mother could have been less inquisitive.
Manuel pointed the finger at me, spilled the beans and commented that he placed fifth and I was the last in my class.
I got up and slipped out the living room faster than speedy Gonzales and mother’s voice followed me,
  “Is it true Johnny?” “Johnny where are you?”
I sneaked out of the house went down the street and disappeared riding my new bike.
Hours later I came back home as if nothing happened and when mother asked me again, I replied,
  “See Manuel is jealous because I made third and proved that I was smarter than him”
Mother was not convinced and kept telling me how she’s going to find out the truth when school open again.
A week later I convinced my older sister to invite Manuel to play in our house, he came and between both of us we ganged and overpowered him giving him a good licking. And that was the last time I saw of his informant face.

It was our last two weeks in Tripoli and that provoked a change of school. My father open his hardware store, rented a house in the Capital and the whole family followed the bread winner.
My bike moved with me to Beirut, a win, win situation. No information was obtained from my formal school or teacher. I guess!
The subject never aroused again, all forgotten no words were spoken. Turning the page it became time for new performances.

The reason we had to move was duly to a bureaucratic new law enforced in Tripoli. A northern senator established a new resolution forbidding persons unborn in the north to equal opportunity employment with I.P.C.
Born in the south my father was let go again, first it was the war and now a selective government decree of prejudice. Upholding the mandate, I.P.C. handed my father a pink slip with a pension check. My father humbly took the small chunk of money and opened a store in the capital Beirut. In connection the whole family followed the breadwinner to a new horizon.