Keeping it in perspective
June 16, 2005
[Phone rings, a litte after midnight in Cairo on June 16, 2005]
"Hello?"
"...Hello?"
"...Hey sis."
"....HEY! Baby! What's up habibi?"
[My sister is hopping up and down in the background, "No fair! He didn't remember MY birthday!"]
"Not much. I sliced my finger off."
"Oh, are you serious?? What do you mean you sliced it off?"
"I mean, at work (pizza shop, delivery boy) I was using the meat slicer, and I sliced my pinky."
"Um...how much of it did you slice off exactly?"
[Mother, who is already crying because she just came back from visiting my gran who was recently diagnosed with Alzheimers, starts panicking now, tears in eyes, yelling, "What did he slice off! What is it? Tell me. Just tell me!"]
[Very calm]"Baby, did you really slice it off OFF?"
"Nah, I just sliced the left side open. I only had to get four stitches. It's cool."
[Deep breath of relief. Put hand over phone, "Mom, it's just a cut. He had to get stiches, but he'll be fine."]
"Hey, why were you operating the slicer anyway? Aren't you just supposed to deliver the pizza?"
"Yeah, I dunno. We're all supposed to learn how to use this stuff."
[pause]
"Oh, okay. So...what's up? Why you calling?"
"Whaddya mean, why am I calling? Can't a guy just call his sister and shoot the shit?"
"Uh...yeah. Sure."
"I mean, what do you want me to say? It's okay, it's fine, if you don't wanna talk, it's cool."
"No no no. I just thought...there might be some OTHER reason you're calling me, now. At this time of night. On this day, that's all."
"What, Newgy, what is it? What do you want me to say?"
[Still a little confused as to whether or not he's messing with me]
"Well, I just thought maybe you're calling cause it's my birthday (not that I care about it or anything)?"
[Long Pause][Obviously thinking of a way to cover this up]
"Yeah, no, Newgy. It's still the middle of the day on the 15th here. Of COURSE I was gonna call you...TOMORROW. On your actual birthday. God."
[Pause]
"Oh, okay. Cool."
[Uncomfortable? short silence]
"Oh, yeah, okay. Cool. So how are you?"
"How old are you anyway?"
"Oh, um, 25?"
"Shiiiiit. You're OLD!"
"Yeah. Um. Thanks."
"No no no. It's cool though. I can't wait till I'm not a teenager anymore."
[bitter laugh]
"Yeah, don't be so sure."
"No really, really. It'll be cool. Lemme talk to mom."
"Yeah. Talk to mom. But be nice. Anyway, it was nice talking to you bro."
"Yeah, you too sis. Happy Birthday."
"Thanks."
In light of loved ones nearly losing limbs (brother, on several occassions), developing alzheimers (grandmother), being paralyzed by a stroke at the age of 30 (cousin), and various other horrible things...having not written a novel by the age of 24 (like Zadie Smith, whose White Teeth I just finished reading last week) or having written, produced, and recorded a 5-grammy-winning album by the age of 23 (Lauryn Hill, whom I've been listening to all day), or having not done anything remarkable really before this ripe, "old" age of 25 does not really seem all that bad.
Really.
Happy Birthday to me.
[kazoo] [limp flag] [confetti]