Life in the big city

Life in the big city


It was the year 1956 I was eight years old when we moved from Tripoli to the eastern Christian enclave suburb of Beirut called Shiah.
In the neighborhood there were three schools, two movie theaters and a barbershop that sold novelty ice cream and for a quarter you get a hair cut. Then there were a motorcycle and bicycle rental stores, a shoemaker, a bakery, a pool hall and a gymnasium. The soccer field was not outlined but had dirt ground and a goalie wooden post.The Maronite Church was a block away from our house and a couple general stores. Plus all the wagons pulled by horses, some pushed by street vendors shouting and advertising their product making up lyrics and songs selling fruits, vegetables, fresh fish and even kerosene.
Rain or shine that was the order of every day and conveniently you didn’t have to travel far, the whole market was brought to your door steps and people who resided on the upper level dangled a basket tied to a rope while they placed the money in it and the vendor placed the product in exchange. On top of getting such services people haggled with the vendors to lower the prices and warned not be cheated by weight and the funny thing some of the vendors were wise crackers when some one asked how much the price per a kilo the vendor will answer twenty cents per kilos but I’ll give a discount if you buy five kilos for a Lira, it’s the same as twenty cents for a kilo and if you buy five kilos you pay a dollar. Then the vendors supplicate and swore to god that they are loosing money offering such deals and the ones that didn’t know how to count they fell for the trap and were enchanted by the vendors grace. The short of it, the vendors were persuasive and the buyers were satisfied for the benefit received.

The general stores sold any thing you desired, at age nine I purchased cigarettes for my mother and whiskey for my father. No questioned asked and no laws for minors. Democracy with loopholes and lawlessness. Then there was the Falafel restaurant resembling a mini Vegas casino with slot machines in a row along the walls and a couple foosball tables to be fed with quarters.

Passing the railroad tracks a mile east from our house thoroughbred horses grazing in fenced barns.
Early at dawn I use to hear the footsteps sounds of thoroughbred horses walked by men passing in front of our building going towards the racetrack few miles north. The races ended late in the after noon and they walked the horses back to their habitat and most of the time they came through our street. Back in those days the street was overcrowded after school hours with kids each doing his thing or in groups kicking soccer balls and running wild.
One day a kid stung a horse using a bent v shaped nail hooked on a thick rubber band using two fingers as a sling shot. Once the horse felt the sting got startled jumping kicking his back legs, threw his handler to the ground, got loose and was running in a direction towards me and in a flashlight I slipped under a parked car for safety. Later years the horse runners avoided going into our street and took other less crowded routes.

The reason the kids stayed outdoors back then because the majority didn’t have television or computers like nowadays and the main attraction was listening to the radio and for some who can afford to buy a t.v. they consider it an evil luxury because the whole neighborhood crowded their living room and didn’t have privacy. Plus there was only one channel while they started late at five in the afternoon and it was shut off at twelve midnight.

Beirut is like any big city, crowded by all kind of people from different walks of life.
Famous for its nightlife, movie theaters, cabarets, five star hotels, sandy beaches and flock of tourists from every corner of the globe. It earned the title Paris of the Middle East and is modern as any cosmopolitan capital in Europe. It had its elite environment along with the ghettos and slums. Contrast to the heart rural country land where life was simple and pure.
I was not cut from the upper crust, I came from humble background and we lived in a middle class suburb. It was not as bad as some portrayed it, as a matter of fact I liked to have been streetwise and cultured at the same time, it gave me an edge to understand both sides of the fence, what is to have and have not.

My days, Beirut was a united nation, artists and foreign bands played in nightclubs and cabarets.
On post cards a slogan describing Beirut the city of one thousand and one night clubs. I prefer the term Casablanca, intrigued by spies, covert secrets and legal prostitution. Even the prostitutes in downtown advertised their trade and place of origin and hanged neon sign for Janette the French, Afaf the Egyptian and Freda the German. Every country had representatives by their Embassies and professional prostitutes. A Bogart movie version somehow fit the image.

Bribes, corruption, and a social counterfeit kind of a city, some flocked to see blockbusters from James Bond the 007 agent, others had a taste for Hercules or the sound of music. Jerry Lewis movies wasn’t banned considering him a Jew while other Arab countries strictly forbid importation of any thing that is connected to Jewish. Lebanese are portrayed slick traders and convincing negotiators some believe that money talks and bullshit walks, others are innocent and simple minded who lives in rural mountains without electricity or running water and never been exposed to city living. A cultural expression! humble in origin.
I remember an old farmer from a village in the south recounting how he walked out from a movie theater when they turned the light off. Told his wife who accompanied him,
“Get up, let’s leave, these people turned off the light and they are going to sleep”
It was his first visit to civilization and didn’t know in order to start the motion picture the light had to be turned off, and the story of the fool who sat in the first raw hoping to collect empty shells from the shootout cowboy movie and the funny joke of Mr. macho man with a gun in his hand emptying six bullets into the screen while the bad outlaw cowboys shooting at John Wayne. John Wayne was his idol, he thought he was in danger and he was only lending a hand.

A city with all kinds, ghettos, plush lawns and a first time encounters with civilization for some who ate with their finger instead using a fork with fat bank accounts, oil wells and abundant wealth.
No subways, a nickel ride on electrical trains takes you from one side of the capital to the outskirt suburbs and caution signs for pickpockets.

Mass population condensed in the arteries of the city, dwellers from every corner of the country. Every one hustling for a buck! half price for Lucky Strikes, Chesterfield, white horse whiskey and Johnny walker in the black market in the city ports. Private beach clubs, gourmet dining and underground nightclubs open till five in the morning, vibrant nightlife and decadent pursuits to those who seek it.
The cultural clash between the old, the new, and the trendy. And that was the make up of the country social diversity.
No alcoholic anonymous for the drunken American marines in downtown Beirut dressed like Popeye spreading dollars in camera shops and tattoo alleys in the prostitute district. All from naval boarded six fleet ships in the ports of Beirut.

All that I saw when I was a kid growing up in the vibrant city. By the age ten I already knew every street and every single neighborhood while I adventured with my buddies walking for hours from seven in the morning to come back home at sunset and sometimes hopping on electric trains without paying a fair and jumping off when the official who collected the fare chased us. We were kids and didn’t have a penny to our name but somehow we managed to climb buses too and many times when we jumped we landed hard on our butts, it hurt but we laughed as if nothing happen amazed by our delinquent behavior.

My beloved Beirut It was a city of silk and rags in my days, even circus Bailey came to town with all its clowns and wild animals to put on a show and the Soprano likewise guys ran the rackets from bookmaking, extortion and horse racing. City cabs paid a fee for a full load in designated pick up stops ran by gangsters in downtown areas, dressed in silk suits showing shiny gun in leather holsters from side of the belts. Every one owned a piece of the action with government connection or political alliance. All who came to power got rich. The same families ruled the country for generations, from father to son, democracy with broken laws. The rest survived in dealing and wheeling, including job placement and payback favors. Some sold the country to other ideals and religious alliance shedding blood without a country heart or a national pride.
Few were true to the legion with small resolves and patriotism, a divided society. Don’t ask how I know, I was affected by it, observed it and lived it.
On the cultural side and civility, a mixed aura of Paris, Casablanca, pirate coves and a Phoenician trivia in money mania. That was my hometown, the city some Arabs called the tramp of the Middle East and that made and added spark to the life in Beirut. Expenditure for the rich Arab neighbors made Beirut the center of leisure and pleasures while the banks moved the money and solidified a statue for the capital to stay creating itself.
Beirut offered an oasis to the neighboring Arabs with its natural beauty and modern trends and mostly freedom which they lack living in their censured countries under tribal religious laws.
I compare Beirut as a city with a liquor license, it sells liquor, fun and a convenient setup.

Life in the big city was on the move, crowded streets, neon signs, rush hours and traffic jams. People drove their cars as if in a speedway honking their horns and never stopped at crisscrosses to check if other motorist approaching. Back then there were no street lights, traffic signs or divided lines and some drove without driver’s licenses and if stopped by a police man they either bribed him or beat him up.
On the other hand some order was enforced in downtown Beirut and in the middle of the streets they had policeman standing on a pedestal higher than the statue of David constantly blowing on a whistle moving his arms left and right directing traffic but no one paid attention while they rolled their window and cursed him for stopping the traffic, quoting Rodney Dangerfield…No respect.

One day at age sixteen I rode the bus going downtown and at the curb close to downtown a car went out of control and hit the bus while I saw it coming from the window seat speeding. The bus driver and a passenger policeman stepped out of the bus and while the bus driver was arguing with the driver of the car the policeman intervened and tried to force both men to obey him, all of a sudden three guys jumped out the car that caused the accident holding guns, they hurled the policeman. At that moment the policeman rendered his gun taking it out of his side holster afraid to be shot and I felt the pain seeing the bus driver receiving staggering blows to his skull with the handle of the gun, blood streaming down from his head covering his face screaming and moaning and when fell to the ground while being kicked and battered.
Every one that was riding the bus exited including me. It was disturbing when every one watched and not a worthy person in the crowd had the courage to intervene and not permit such an atrocity.
Meanwhile a jeep with four Alfa 16 special force unit wearing red berets that policed downtown Beirut jumped out pointing their rifles at the three cruel men holding the guns, they forced them to go down on their knees and commanded to lay their guns on the ground. The offenders complied and dropped their pistols. Nevertheless one of the transgressor pulled out a carnet from inside his jacket pocket as some kind of proof, waving it to unfold who he is. Then handed it over to the Alfa commander and I didn’t believe what I saw. The commander stood stiff erect and saluted the low life and obliged attentively and said,
“Forgive me your honor I didn’t know at the moment’s time who you are and I hope you’re not displeased” that sounded as a plot!
Being a shameful public servant the commander bowed his head bent down and picked up the pistols from the ground and handed it over to the three characters. Then the other three Alfa soldiers turned on the spectators with their riffles held backward and started to whip any one who didn’t disperse with their rifles butts.
From far I watched the guilty men driving off free and the poor bus driver lay on the ground bleeding. It is how the social and political system operate when people abuse the power.

My first six months in the neighborhood was kind of distressing. Being a new comer the kids ganged on me. Stole my marbles and roughed me up. Bullied by the boorish kids I avoided them and ran away.
I knew I had courage but didn’t know how to use it to my advantage. I was never tested before while living in Tripoli. In Tripoli we lived on Latifa’s street, a calm and quite neighborhood. Beirut was kind living in the jungle and only the fittest survived.
It became a habit and to some degree the kids took advantage of my weakness from the beginning and particularly I felt censured and contempt by Suliman the square bully. He was tall, skinny like a toothpick, sloe eyed and mean. He carried a slingshot and small rocks in his back pocket. As I witnessed he was a sharp shooter when he slew lizards and birds.

On Sundays I received my allowances in the morning hours. As soon my dad handed me the loose change I’m out the door rich and a happy big spender. A penny a piece, I stuffed my smelly socks with sweet treats and candies. I figured it was the best place to hide my bon vivant treasures. The city kids were greedy, never shared with me, but always noticed I have something in my mouth and when asked, “Give me some” I used a trick in pulling both of my pockets from inside out showing it was empty, assuring them it was my last candy so I could be left alone.
At that age I cared little about toys or marbles, but somehow when sweets melted in my mouth it triggered a happy supper booster feelings. I reckon that was not selfish, I was getting high on my own stash.

One Sunday walking out of the general store, taking few steps there stood Suliman with a menacing look next to a dirty face three foot midget blocking my way. Standing across their path guarding the bag of candies I just purchased. I sensed I was in deep trouble.
I didn’t have the chance to hide the candy or stuff them in my socks, but I was going to do that. I think Suliman and the big head midget followed me from the beginning. I tried to walk straight ahead of them, they moved with me in a stalking way, like a game.
I took off running and my heart started to race faster than my feet. Mid way to our building Suliman caught me by the collar of my shirt and shoved me to the ground snatching the bag of candy from my hand. I started seeing red, now he was messing with a raging bull. I stood up and slugged him with my southpaw fist, giving him an abstract Picasso profile, one sided swollen face and black blue eye. He stumbled and fell to the ground flinching with a cracked voice.
The candy bag fell out of his hand. I bent down reaching for it. The dwarf charged and bit me, sinking his teeth on my arm, snapped the bag fleeing swiftly with crooked arched legs.
Distracted I glanced back at Suliman. He looked fallen from a deck of card, a jack with one eye closed, in one hand gripping the slingshot, and the other hand in his back pocket reaching for a rock. Terrified, looking at the entrance of the building in which I lived on the third floor. Blazing as fast as a deer being hunted, I found myself leaping three row steps in one jump at a time, reached the third floor faster than a fly ball, and got inside our house.
I was alleviated, astound and reassured myself I was a contender. That was a reimbursement for all the past contingencies he forced on me. I wasn’t being vindictive, but enough was enough.

Other while, the next day, Suliman and two other kids followed me to school. I ran from them jumping over concrete fences, landing in people private yards and skipping other fences till I got home free while they chased after me. Luckily I made it back to my house and missed a day of school. That afternoon I went out to the front balcony. In front of our building, there were three huge Date trees high and parallel to our balcony. Suliman and his buddies were shooting small rocks from slingshots at the ripened dates, when the fruits fell from the trees, they pick them. To get even, I went to the kitchen filled a large bucket of water and from the third floor I aimed at them down below and poured it over their heads. They looked up feeling the shower draft and saw me. As soon they saw me at the balcony they turn their slingshots and discharged at me. The rocks flung over my head. I ducked to the floor evading the missiles.
They carried on every time I lifted my head standing on my knees. I should have gone in into the house, but I stayed on the balcony carefully inching my head to peek at then down under the date trees. Again they shot at me. I looked around and what do you know? There lay against the wall a two by four foot long piece of wood. I picked it up and retaliated throwing and twisting it as a boomerang. The bullies took off running and I watched my weapon swirling and landing on Suliman’s neck. He fell to the ground and my weapon had caught the lower part of his head. By now he was screaming and crying laying down on the ground holding his head with both hands in pain. Every one in the neighborhood came out as always when stuff happened, people gathered in front of our building, some surrounded Suliman and from above I couldn’t see if he was still conscious, for I felt static and afraid at the same time. Shocked what I did, I knew it was out of my control not to harm any body, I’m a passive person deep down.
Suliman’s mother started to shout and cuss at me while I stood on the balcony in shock. Hearing the commotions, mother came out to see what’s happening. Suliman’s father and big brother started to curse my mother demanding and challenging my father to come down and fight. My father was a peaceful man and that day he was at work.

Our neighbor nicknamed “Zaeem” lived on the second floor below our apartment. He stood on his balcony watching as others were looking from their balconies too. Zaeem intervened and started to scream at Suliman’s family standing below on the street,
“Watch your words and choose them carefully, the parent of the boy are my friend, peaceful and good people”
Defending my parents them added defending me,
“He’s just a kid acting up and you should understand that and shut up and get your boy medical attention”
Then lifted his hand, adjusted his Tarbouch and went inside his living room. Every one on the street hushed. His words were firm and the neighbors highly respected him for his status. Zaeem was head of the Zoning department, a force member of the town old settlers besides knowing the Maksoud’s are long rooted family who are not afraid and had a history of close and deadly feuding.

While all the commotion subdued, they lifted Suliman from the ground carried him to the back seat of a car and took him to a doctor.
That evening my father came home from work and learned the news. After dinner there was a town hall meeting, attended by my parents, the Zaeem and his sons, the catholic priest, the victim’s parents and some other noisy neighbors who felt important. Suliman’s parents were poor. My father paid the doctor bill and gave undisclosed amount for damages and suffering.
That night I expected a beating. I kept looking out the balcony. As soon I saw my parents and the jury committee approaching, I went to bed and started to snore, faking I was asleep, playing the game of a dead possum.
The front door opened and I hear footsteps and started to snore louder. I guess my parents decided not to confront me that night. I fell asleep.
Next morning I stayed in bed and covered my head under the sheet waiting for father to leave for work.
My father came into my room, gently tapping me on the head, briefly said,
“Johnny get up, I know you’re not sleeping, time to go to school”
Father knew all my tricks and tall tales. Being a patient man he was cool and collected and allowed me to speak and explain what happened. He understood I was defending myself, but discoursed not to take violent actions and cautioned me not to do it again.
I went to the kitchen and started eating my breakfast. Mother was peeling string beans while she sat across from me and kept looking at me and didn’t utter a word. I’m familiar with that look, quiet but disturbing and had all the signs of penalty written all over it.
My father believed me and gave me a sound and wise advice. Mother on the other hand for days kept shooting at me with words of guilt,
“Bad kid, and troublemaker”
I tried to explain it wasn’t my fault, but mother kept blaming me for instigating the fight. She did not realize how awful I felt being pushed and provoked. Anyhow mother has a short fuse, a country girl with a heart of gold.
I wasn’t worrying by mother’s taunting. I respected and feared my father, he never laid a finger on me, somehow his wisdom, calmness and silent looks delivered a serious message.
My maternal Grandpa had a volcanic temper. Calm on the outside when things are smooth, boiling on the inside with extreme explosive emotions. I’m not well versed in the study of behavior. Somehow I can pinpoint a concealing defect that contributed to the integral part of my early character from the genes on mother’s side.

A week later I saw Suliman walking towards me and as soon he noticed me he crossed to the opposite side of the street, didn’t look me in the eyes lowered his head and walk straight ahead.
After that incident a hero was born. The kids in my neighborhood were stricken by my courage and assault on Suliman. I grew bolder and the smoke went to my head.

During the first year my parents enrolled me and my brothers in Jasmine elementary. My sisters attend a nun Catholic school. Through out, Ms. Jasmine the owner and the principle was a mean ugly woman. She looked like a drag queen without make up, frog likewise bulging eyes with sideburns and a fuzzy mustache. The look on her face frightened the living day lights, that the sun would recede when she was awoke.
When she punished students they would cringe, she used a thick ruler striking blows while your hand open until it swelled and puffed and if you were to be alone in her office she would smack you in the face and pull your hair. I endured couple of those unjustifiable reprimands and the third time she tried, it was her last scolding and the shame was on her this time. When she ask me to open my hand while standing in front of the whole class and raised her ruler to strike me, I grabbed the ruler and pull it out of her hand broke it in two pieces on my knee and threw it upward in the air. Accidentally one part hit her right eye and I took off with blasting speed.
That day a teacher came to our house and delivered a note to my mother from Miss Jasmine expelling me and my brothers from her school. My brothers had nothing to do with the situation but it got me a harsh whipping.
A week later after the incident I saw Miss. Jasmine in the store she had a black patch on her wounded eye with a string wrapped over her head and she looked like a pirate who suffered in a sword duel, I squatted and sneaked out of the store without her seeing me.

Well my parents enrolled us in a new school. Raising rumpus in the new school was less austere than Miss Jasmine’s school. I particularly remember the hillbilly teacher who disgustingly cursed student and called me names for not paying attention in class and punished me placing a cone hat on my head then physically forced me into a chair facing the wall while he slapped me from the back on my neck while he turned around asking my classmates to laugh at me. I felt ashamed though, I acted if I was happy and made faces behind his back clowning to cover my anxiety and my classmates laughed more.

For a week I picked my brain trying to figure out a way to pay him back and sure enough my imagination worked overtime when I remembered he always wore the same baggy white pant. I came to conclude that on Mondays he taught our first class at 8:00 AM. Sunday morning I got my allowance and right away I went to the general store and bought a bottle of China ink. The next day on Monday I was the first student who showed up in the schoolyard, I looked around and saw no one in school but a couple of teachers chatting by the water fountain I knew it was time to execute my plan. Swiftly I slipped into my classroom and emptied the ink bottle on the black cushioned seat behind the teacher’s desk and cautiously I turned to a ghost and left without any one noticing me.
The school bell rang right on the dot at 8:00 AM and all students proceeded to their classrooms. A minute have passed and our redneck teacher walked trough the classroom door with a smile on his face and greeted us,
“Good morning children”
Walked to his desk and sat down then got up, pick up a chalk and turned scribbling on the blackboard and what do you know? He had a black smudge on his derriere larger than the state of Texas and looked he had the runs and pooped his blackberry breakfast. Every one started to laugh hissing and the conpadre felt he was tagged and taint at the rear end, frustrated he straddled out the door. Since that incident he became fashion conscious and wore fancy black pants, his demeanor changed, his words sweeter than honey, remained fidgety and learned not to tamper with the beehive, who said adults cannot learn from children?
My art teacher at that school was more civilized. He had long hair, thick glasses, looked hipped and floating in the clouds. He taught our class an hour a week and usually in the afternoon. By then all the kids are yawning, tired and ready to call the day off. I liked art but how can you learn different techniques when our beloved art professor drew a figure of a rabbit in half a second and out the door for the rest of the hour only to come back the last minute before the bell rang. One time I complained and pointed out that for the whole semester again and again he drew the same rabbit and to my surprise he changed and drew a horse. What the heck I never complained any longer, it was a riot when he stepped out the classroom for all of us students chanted a rabbit and a horse and a horse and a rabbit. Looking out the window I use to see him behind the wall in the schoolyard looking nervous, twitching left and right while taking short hits smoking a pipe, I reckon now our stoned Michael Angelo was getting high on Hash and you could smell it on him.

For many reasons I do not remember now why I was sent by teachers to the principal office of Mr.Habib.
Mr. Habib had an unusual way applying punishment. He kept me after school hours, handed me an apple or a pear for dinner, gave me a book and three ball pens, one red, one black and one blue. And the punishment was to write a full page and the first word must be in black and the second in red and the third in blue until I was done. And through my years in that school the pages grew from one to two and sometimes it was five and more. Mr. Habib sat on a chair reading a book waiting for me to finish my assignment and when I was done he checked it, and if two words following each other had the same color by mistake, he made me rewrite that page from the beginning.
Now I’m sixty years old. The other day I was chatting with mother on the webcam. She mentioned and boasted how neat was the caliber of my hand writings she had saved in a keep box at the old house. I guess I owe Mr. Habib for his elaborate punishment.

Shibly became my best friend from the neighborhood. Two years older than me. He lived on the second floor across the street opposite to our building. I lived on the third floor and my bedroom balcony overlooked his balcony. We chatted and struck friendship. We became best buddies. We attended different schools but hanged together on the streets. The kids in the neighborhood feared Shibly. He was a street fighter, quick to the punch and a slick boxer.
With time, I was forbidden to hang around Shibly, my parents witnessing how disrespectful he was to his parents and how rude and roguish behavior towards the neighbors. He was portrayed as bad character and a gamin. My parents thought his ill influence might rub on me too.
I avoided talking to him in the presence of my parents. Our friendship became stronger and the longer time we spent on the street our characters got bolder and we terrorized the neighborhood, beat other kids who try to mess with us and hanged in pool halls were wise guys gambled carrying concealed guns and razorblades.

Out of school early summer on a Sunday afternoon, Shibly and I were minding our business leisurely playing pool. Five kids older started to push us and demanded that we give our table so they could play. When we stood our ground and refused them the pool table. One of them punched Shibly in the face, two more joined in the beating and the other two ran towards me. Swinging the billiard stick I caught one of them in the head. All turned towards me leaving Shibly charging at me. I knew if I was to stay still I was going to be beaten then I took off running and climbed the stairs to our house. Grabbed the butcher knife from the kitchen and ran back towards the pool hall to defend my best friend. That day my father was playing a game of backgammon with a neighbor in our veranda, both ran after me when they saw the knife in my hand and the steaming look on my face and in a minute the whole neighborhood was chasing me trying to stop me for doing something regretful. Lucky for me I was stopped from committing a crime. Boy did I have a fool’s temper.
Witnesses from the pool hall vouched for me and explain that it was the other kids who instigated the fight. Father was upset and that day forbid me to show my face in the pool hall and never again for the rest of my life to speak to Shibly or I will be sent to a boarding school for the whole year and will not be allowed to live with my family, away from years to come. That summer I was taken from the streets and every day I went with my father to the hardware store to keep me away from troubles and learn his trade.

At the hardware store in Ras Beirut I rode the bike. Father provided three bicycles for his employees. For me it was pleasure time to take one for a ride in the Hamra district. Busy in our store, cutting mirrors and glass, building wooden custom drapery frames with rail rollers. Plus all the picture framing and customers drop in for purchases. Some were local carpenters, plumbers and residents, mostly Westerners.
Ras Beirut was the nerve center of foreign affairs and the highest sought area for foreigners to live, high rise buildings of all shapes of design and architecture.
The high couture and designer shops, jewelry stores, foreign banks, sidewalk cafes, art museum and almost the location of foreign Embassies including The American and British embassies, the oldest American university outside the U.S., the American university of Beirut and the English women’s college. And last but not least the rich Arabs from the desserts and the Gulf Emirates with money piled up like sand dirt.

A drawing pen and artist pad was provided to our foreign customers, father did not speak other than his own language and by drawing the item wished to be purchased, some drew pictures of hammers, locks and nails, other foreigners practiced Arabic for specific demand and that was an easy sale for all the establishment since our employees were not bilingual.

The following summer somehow I didn’t heed my father’s wishes not to hang with Shibly. Again we started from what we left over the past summer and this was the last mischief we committed when the law was still on our side and we didn’t get prosecuted, we were under age and it was the last magic trick we pulled together.
That day we walked further east to the country side of town, while walking Shibly was explaining how we would climb the wire fence down the lemon grove and pick some lemons and sell them so we could have a bank roll for the whole summer, go to the movies and ride the bus and be able to pay entrance fees at the Saint Michel private beach club and order from the menu lavish sandwiches with ice cold drinks.
The idea of having such luxury was enticing since the allowance I received weekly wouldn’t be sufficient to pay for a bus fair one way and the few times we had a chance to swim in the private beach clubs is when we walked for hours sweating by the heat of summer’s sun and by the time we reached the coast sneakily managed to climb the concrete fences and hide mixing with the rich crowd on the beach and always on the lookout not to be caught by the beach guards.
I posed for seconds then I questioned Shibly,
“Why some one pays for lemons?”
I never figured Shibly’s plot until we reached the lemon grove, there he stood and said that three days ago he was listening to a news broadcast on the radio and the announcer said people were paying ten times for lemon and that summer lots of people fell sick to Influenza and people panicked and started buying lemons. Then Shibly hinted it was a golden opportunity for us to get fat and fetch a good under market price since no cost came out from our pockets. At that age we didley had two pennies that made a ringing sound. We looked around us, nothing but fields with rows of lemon trees full with lemons hanging from the branches. On the closed side of the fence there was a three wheeler metal cart for the use of lemon pickers and there were none, no person in sight, it was noon time, the sun was hot and maybe the people were at lunch, for we could have unloaded third of the crops on a truck if we had driver’s licenses.
The farmer was holding on his lemons, waiting for the price to go up as Shibly explained.
Then the lucrative idea came to him. He said couple of days ago while walking, accidentally the lemon grove appeared, and he remembered how much the prices of lemons had soared, then it downed on him and thought what an opportunity to make money. By the time I was convinced I uttered,
“Lets get busy”
Shibly jumped the metal fence, and me on the outside helped in bringing the metal cart beyond the fence, then I jumped and joined Shibly as we picked the lemons from the trees and threw them into the cart outside until it was full to the top. We climbed back to the street rolling kilos of natural organic lemons while people looking at us, we kept going as nothing had happened and no questions asked.
Reaching the neighborhood Shibly stopped and sold the lemon to the man who owned the general store and on top asked him to keep the cart.
We spend the rest of the afternoon as planned, we saw a movie at cinema Lebnan, each gobbled down couple of Falafel sandwiches, two large bottle of coke and topped it with candy bar for dessert and before the sun was ready to give in walking back after an afternoon of good times, a crowd gathered in front the street of our buildings and I saw a jeep with two policeman talking to Shibly’s father, and there stood the store owner who bought the lemons and the angry man who owned the lemon grove demanding money and justice. I stalled back and hid behind the wall peaking as Shibly kept walking toward the crowd. As soon Shibly got close I saw my father standing with the crowd watching Shibly’s father whipping my partner in crime.
I never figure out why Shibly kept walking straight when we first saw the crowd before any one noticed us. I slipped like a cat from behind the wall, took the back road, curved into the other entrance to our street and in a lickety split I got inside our building and got into the house.
I sat in my room acting with a book in my hand. My father stormed inside the house and I heard him calling,
“Johnny where are you?”
I came out of the room holding the book and said I was reading. My father was kind of angry looking at me, some how I slipped through the cracks.
After Shibly was getting licked his father paid for damages to the lemon owner. Luckily no one saw me while I slipped back undetected. That day my father warned me,
“The day I see you talking to Shibly, you wish you were never been born”
I knew he meant it and I gave up my friendship with Shibly, I realized I’ve been in enough trouble, the look on my old man face this time was for real and I didn’t want to upset the apple cart and trespass again. I guess I was moving forward with a slow mature pace. And I thanked god no one mentioned my name or accused me of any wrong doing, I reckon Shibly didn’t spill the beans and kept my name out of it, for sure he was a real good friend and I was real to him too.

By the time I reached the age of fourteen, I spent little time on the street in my neighborhood, and the cause of my friendship with Shibly kind of cooled off. I met other friends from a different school and we started a new crew changing and growing in a different phase of things. I started playing sports and became fettle. I Began reading foreign literature and was exposed to the west, listening to western music, expanding my knowledge with an open mind exploring the modern trends of the outside world.

Shibly remains my good old childhood friend. He once saved me from drowning in deep water when I got caught in under water rip current, when we headed too far deep in the sea. I swallowed salt water while the current twisted me from under and pulled me to the deep bottom, and thin sand blew in my eyes, luckily a small boat noticed Shibly hanging and holding my arms while he screamed and waved his arm for help. I was transported to the shores on the boat. I guess I owed him one for saving me from drowning.
When my brother had seen Shibly recently at age sixty two, he asked to forward his regard and my brother said he cried at my old man funeral. We were kids and shared times on the street hooking, climbing fences and talking, some times about existing spirits and things, hanging on the corner of the street at night and in summers we sneaked and climbed the roof top of our apartment on the third floor, watching east the rising hills burning in a time of disturbance.
I grew my neighborhood and every time I passed by Shibly and others we saluted and I stayed at other neighborhood never again to hang with Shibly or any one close to my surrounding. I started reading books and was sent to the mountains most of my summer vacation, away from school, the city and the neighborhood.

The following year 1962 at puberty age, I was emerging into maturity and teenage generic convergence syndrome. My thinking was going clockwise, ticking slowly into adulthood. I was more orderly and respectful to others, exercising to control my temper and impatience, projecting and demonstrating an image to my peers as a salesman of good behavior. Deep inside masking my anger and obedience perpetually, persuading in disguise and yielding with verbal felicity with an instinct wit of a fox.

School ended that summer in early June like every other year. That summer I was given a choice by my parents either to work for dad at the hardware store to learn his trade or enroll in summer school. This was the ideal situation to keep me off the city streets from raking havoc and misbehaving. My answer was neither work nor school. I preferred to stay home in the city were I resided and hang with friends.
Anyway I had no choice in the matter. My parents had the upper hand and the final say, my democratic offer was refused on the ground of guilty as my parents reminded me what I did the subsequent summers. It sounded as if I was recalled to hear the verdict in front the parole board, while they pulled my rap sheet for all the misdemeanors on my past records. My petition for freedom was denied and my parents refused to hear my supplication that I’m a changed person, suppressing I was a threat to society.
I was forbidden to stay in the boisterous city that summer. My parent decided to send me to the mountains under the guardianship of my grandparents and my uncle Gibran who was the principal of the village school, and I be tutored by him considering that year I was behind in school with poor grade in English.
That school year my parents enrolled me in a new school and for the first time in my life they switched me from French to learn English. My dad thought English is the future and the money language and it is for the best that the boys in the family learn it. But as far my sisters concerned, they will continue their study at the Catholic Sacred Heart nun school.

That year the new school frustrated me. I have been studying French since kindergarten along with my native tongue Arabic. All of a sudden I felt a heavy load on my shoulders to learn a new language. It took a toll on my advancement at this point of my years of study. I was angry and defiant. I found myself challenged and I became defensive. I was fourteen years old, sitting in a classroom with kids half of my age it made me look a dummy and retard. I guess back then it was the reason why I was rejecting school and played hooky until the school reported my absence to my parents.