Weird and Wild Nebraska
Zainab was racing through town on her tricycle trying desperately to get to John’s before he closed up shop. She uncharacteristically left her bike unlocked as she rushed in the store. The bell rang but John wasn’t around. She bent down to catch her breath when he entered.
“Hands where I can see ‘em,” John calmly but gruffly said as she rose.
“Subhanatallah, John. If you do that to me one more fucking time, you remember the eunuching, don’t you? Don’t make me get a real sickle now.” Zainab lowered her hands to waist height, grabbing an imaginary appendage with her left hand. She pretended to hold a sickle in her right hand. She made a quick movement as of someone removing an imaginary appendage in a circular fashion.
“Dang it, Zainab. It hurts every time you do that. I was just teasing you,” John said while wincing and crossing his legs uncomfortably.
“Jihadi Al-Kalimat,”she chuckled.
“I only know English. Do you remember that fact?”
“Yes. I’m not that dumb, ‘neurologically impaired,’ and my amnesia isn’t that bad anymore neither. It means my war of words. You do that shit again and I will use my words to destroy you. You know I can do it too. I just proved it. Again.” Zainab gloated over how powerful her words could be.
“Yeah. I remember. Painfully well. Can you see if that ‘bougie bitch’ is still out there?” John made air quotes over the bougie bitch. He appreciated the extra work but the city folks drove him to fishing frequently. Exactly at closing he would flip the closed sign and be at the lakes in 5 minutes. He would normally look himself to make a clean getaway but when he had company, they got the honor.
“At least the bougie bitches spend money and line your grumpy pockets.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“It most certainly isn’t. I just need a bottle of, ugh, Dorothy Lynch.” It was the salad dressing and everything else condiment Nebraskans either loved or hated. Zainab and Nebraska’s native son at least had their dislike of the sweet, bright orange concoction in common.
“You hate that shit.”
“I know. It’s too friggin sweet. It’s like Kool Aid. Yuck.”
“I’ve seen you down plenty of Kool Aid. Your precious sweet tea is the same amount of sugar as Kool Aid too.”
“They are beverages though. Not salad dressing. They aren’t the same-un.”
“I got your South going again. Dorothy does it every time,” John said with a wink.
“Oh, you hushin’. I just needin’ that crap for Miss Sue. I swearin’ she love it mo’ than po’ Mr Bob.”
John chuckled while checking his watch. He desperately asked, “Any bougie bitches?” again. When Zainab confirmed that the coast was clear, he leapt forward quickly flipping the sign. “It’s on the house. Lock up on your way out.”
“Bye-un, Mr John. Thank you kindly.”
“You are more than welcome, Miss Zainab,” John shouted as the door slammed behind him.
Zainab’s life had changed considerably since she had been dead for almost two decades now. Not literally dead but Zainab left DC permanently disabled by the Living Death, as ME/CFS is nicknamed. She lived with her parents in Georgia for over a decade.
Her beloved mom had Alzheimer’s, the maternal curse, when her daddy died. It was just before the pandemic. Mother and daughter had quite the adventure together before moving to Nebraska.
Zainab’s life became really wild in Nebraska, Mashallah. They were trafficked. Her mom was murdered. She lost everything including her memory; became homeless; got housed; and then waited for justice.
The whole time she did some pretty impressive stuff. The most important being successfully treating her ME/CFS with cannabis while being trafficked and bedbound. How else could she survive to become Senator Ali of Nebraska, inshallah?
Zainab grabbed the distasteful dressing and headed out. She locked the door; made sure it was locked; got on her bike; adjusted her helmet; and then checked the door again, just to be on the safe side. She was in a hurry but certainly didn’t want PD to blame any robbery on her foolishness. She had called them corrupt numerous times, among other unpleasant things. They were just getting to a more civil place and she didn’t want to ruin it.
Zainab got back on her bike and started heading for home. The hurricane force Nebraska wind was blowing her dress everywhere. She learned to wear pants or shorts underneath. She felt like an even bigger scandal during her first jaunt downtown. The busiest Saturday of the year and she tried steering with one hand and putting her other between her legs while excitedly pedaling her heart out for the first time in decades and apologizing for her Marilyn Monroe moment on Main Street.
The populace had gotten used to the wild amnesiac with her wild but true stories. It took time for some to believe her wilder ones though. Nebraskans can be quite similar to Georgians in their manners. Another wild Southerner she met while homeless was constantly reminding her of her South. It helped tremendously. She was sure that nobody believed her; thought she was off her rocker or intoxicated. Well, the intoxicated part might’ve been factual but people just patiently listened before telling her about themselves.
She wanted to ask if they understood what she had said but got lost in their lives and stories. Theirs were far less terrifying than hers about people killing her mom and still wanting her dead. It was easier on those with heart conditions too.
Just as she rounded the corner she saw the smoke shop and remembered that she needed a few gummies. She left her bike out front with her helmet before bursting through the door.
“Say your prayers, terrorist scum,” Zainab shouted to Ali once he clearly saw her and she realized they were alone. She didn’t want to get any Fremonters killed or anything.
“Salam, sister. How’s things?” Ali asked.
“Good. I’m having Mr Bob and Miss Sue over for dinner tomorrow, inshallah. I…”
“Had to get the good ol’ Dorothy. Sue would indeed tan your hide if you forgot.”
Zainab smiled, “Yeah.” Whenever she introduced herself with her last name or mentioned her Islamic faith, people would invariably mention Smoke Shop Ali being cool. It was embarrassing that she did indeed know the only other Muslim in a town full of churches that anyone seemed to know. She had met plenty more but only Smoke Shop Ali was ever mentioned. It was weird.
“Zainab, you okay?” He gave her the same queer look the entire time when they first met. Muslims around other Muslims say much with little.
“Oh, sorry. Two packages of anything that doesn’t taste horrible.”
“No ass flavors. Right.”
“Right. I ha-, strongly dislike it to begin with. It doesn’t have to taste any worse than necessary.”
“You will need one for the ride home. Do you want me to open it?”
“Yes. Shukran. Um, thanks.” She started chewing and trying to swallow the gummy she removed from the opening.
“You want water, juice, anything?”
“Nope. The taste will eventually fade. Oh, fuck it. Faygo.” She dove into the refrigerator looking for anything she liked and emerged with a Red Pop. Rock n Rye was apparently not popular enough in Nebraska amongst the ICP fans. She opened it and guzzled the sweet nectar that eventually drowned the taste of the gummy. “Hamdulillah wa Mashallah.”
“Better?” He asked while accepting her payment and smiling at her horrid reaction.
“I will be. Just give me a minute and I can go home, inshallah.”
“Inshallah. Nothing on the investigation?”
“No. Inshallah soon but I’ve been saying that for years now.”
“Inshallah.”
“Well, masalam, Ali. I think that I have achieved enough equilibrium to go home now. Have a great day!”
“Masalam.” Ali shouted as she headed out the door.
Zainab slipped past another customer heading in. She overheard him ask Ali who she was and laughed. She wasn’t small town famous after all.
As she pedaled home on turbo, she remembered the day they met. It was only a few months ago but a lot can happen in a short time. It was weird and wild but Nebraska can be like that. Zainab blames it on the wind. You have to be a little weird and wild to cope with it. She’s still learning. She’ll figure it out, eventually. She’s got the help of her fellow weird and wild Nebraskans to show her the ropes.
Their first meeting proved just how weird and wild Nebraskans are. Zainab was homeless and in her iconic Dorothy dress when she dared to buy some much needed gummies. As her case manager and friend, Miss Hope later noted, “You’re going to be married and stop being a Muslim if you keep wearing your Dorothy dress.” Zainab was well endowed and had received plenty of hookup offers already. She had to send her old Abdel Halim Hafiz movie posters in an attempt to prove that her Dorothy dress was acceptable clothing for Muslimas. Plus she was boiling in the Nebraskan heat and Nebraskans just saw her as any other White American. Nobody would notice, right?
As she was about to open the door she noticed that they’d be closed tomorrow, the same day as Eid Al-Fitr. What were the odds of a Muslim owning a smoke shop in Fremont, Nebraska? Apparently good since Ali’s cousin Mohamed owns another and Zainab was about to find that out during the holy month of Ramadan. Allah’s sense of humor again.
“Hello,” Ali said in a chipper Midwestern accent.
Zainab wanted to laugh at the Pakistani American and herself. She tried desperately to seem like a respectable Muslima even harder than he worked at keeping up with the Nebraskan boy talk.
“Hi. Umm. I need some gummies. What do you have?” she asked sheepishly.
He walked over to the gummies and pitched his products while mentioning the effects of each. “It all depends on what kind of high you’re looking for really.”
“I have a neurological disease that cannabis helps. It isn’t to get high.”
“Sure. What kind of effect are you needing then?” He gave her a nonjudgmental look that said she really didn’t need an excuse. It is legal. She quickly went into medical speech trying to defend her honor that really didn’t require defending but instinct took over.
He remained calm and bored looking as she gave the longest and most detailed explanation possible in medical terminology and lay speech. “Well, we have several varieties. I would suggest starting with a low dose first until you get used to it.”
“I’ve been doing this for over three years. Give me about 1,000mg. I’m just going back to the shelter and passing out.”
“Okay. So this isn’t your first rodeo then. We have blue raspberry, peach and melon.” She wanted to laugh at his cowboy accent but bit her tongue.
“Blue raspberry is too artificial and fake peach is nasty. I’ll take the melon.”
“Oh, crap. They took the last melon and left the box.” he said with slight frustration.
“Sorry. Employees.” Zainab rolled her eyes and smiled before continuing, “Georgia Peach then.” She wanted to laugh at Allah’s wicked sense of humor. She was trying desperately to keep the South out of her mouth while he was talking like a South Asian cowboy to a covert Muslima in a Nebraskan smoke shop of all places. “The Georgian is definitely coming out now,” she noted.
“Oh. You’re from Georgia then?”
“Well, no. I was born in Detroit but lived in Georgia for over a decade. It sneaks up on me sometiming.” She grimaced before saying, “Seein. It ain’t gonna stop nowin.”
“Wow. What brings you to Nebraska?”
“Well, I came here with my momma who had Alzheimer’s.”
“That’s nice. How is she?”
“Well, she’s dead. Murdered actually.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Hopefully they caught her killers.”
“Well, not exactly. We were trafficked. They stole over half a million and now I’m homeless, disabled and fucker than fucked while they are still free in the area and want me dead. So, it’s horrible. Sorry.”
Ali looked at the man with her and made sure nobody else was around before talking, “I just want you to know that this is a safe space. I have a gun and know how to use it. The police are just down the street. You’re safe here.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I truly do,” she said while smiling at his adorable Rambo talk.
“Of course. I don’t play with that stuff. My friend who works here is cool too. It’s a truly safe space.”
She smiled before asking the all important question, “I noticed that you are closed tomorrow. Any special reason or are you normally closed?” She desperately wanted to know before handing him her debit card with Zainab Ali on it.
“It’s just a holiday in my country. We’ll be open the next day if you need anything.” He shrugged his shoulders believing that she didn’t know the holiday. He wanted her to feel safe and comfortable though.
“Eid Al-Fitr.”
He smiled while giving her a queer, questioning look, “Yeah. You know it?”
“Salam alaykum. Ana Muslima. Err, I’m a Muslim. I’m sorry for not wearing hijab during Ramadan,” she replied while handing him her card to pay. She sheepishly wanted to cover her Bavarian barmaid chest but figured pride would be much better served. He was selling intoxicants and had slot machines. A bit of skin shouldn’t be a big deal but she’d been mistaken before.
“Alaykum salam, sister. I’m cool.” He still looked at her as if he didn’t believe she was Muslim but did at the same time. She knew the words but she sure didn’t look nor act like one.
“I figured, considering where we are but thanks.” She was relieved to not get a lecture. He was a fair, honest and respectful Muslim. She couldn’t be happier nor more relieved. Nebraska though?
“Where were your great grandparents from?” Zainab asked smiling. She knew better than to even hint at someone’s citizenship or status, especially during Trump’s ICE raids.
“I’m from Pakistan. What about you, besides Detroit?”
“I am very American. I have an ancestor who fought in the American Revolution on the American or rebel side. I also have a three times great granddaddy who fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. They can’t all be perfect. My ancestry is from the UK, Germany and Prussia. I was actually a Christian. I converted to Islam just before 9/11. Lucky me.”
“Wow,” he said while handing her card back.
“By the way, I’m Zainab.”
“Ali.”
“That’s my last name. Easy to remember, inshallah. The amnesia and PTSD are still fucking with me, though.”
“I noticed on your card when I ran it. Do you have pictures of your traffickers?”
“I actually do on my website, drsy.org. Drsy is my lesson in Arabic. I found it appropriate.” She pulled out her phone and brought up the website. Ali smiled as she continued, “I am impressed that I didn’t speak more Arabic. I have had full on conversations with non Arab Muslims who looked confused and reminded me that they don’t speak Arabic. It’s embarrassing.”
Ali chuckled as she brought up the photos and handed him her phone. “Do you mind if I zoom in?”
“Not at all.”
Ali paid close attention; studied their faces; and asked plenty of questions. When he had satisfied his curiosity, he asked, “Can I jot down that website?”
“Sure. If you have any questions, my contact information is listed at the bottom.”
As Zainab was leaving another customer entered. She turned around for a final parting warning, “Be careful. As a Muslim you know just how dangerous human traffickers can be. Masalama.”
“Yeah. Masalam.”
Zainab wondered if she ruined his reputation by outing him as a Muslim. She soon learned that the famous Smoke Shop Ali was open about his faith, Hamdulillah wa Mashallah.
Until next time. Masalam.
Min sadiqatuk Drsy.
From your friend, Darcy.
