It’s really warming up, he thought to himself as he crossed the street. Ten minutes - I should be able to make it. He stepped up on to the curb and waited patiently in line.
This guy has the best chicken wrap in town. The line was short and in no time he was greeted by the foodcart vendor.
“as-Salaamu ‘alaykum, ya shabaab. Kayfahaluka?”
“al Hamdu lillah, q’ways. Atiyniy ad-dajjah ‘alaa ar-Ruwl wa hut ‘alayha honey mustard. Shukran.”
The man smiled back and turned his gaze to the next woman in line. “You know this young man?”, he asked.
“No”, she smiled towards the tall man. “Should I?”
“This man”, proclaimed the vendor with a broad smile, “he speaks perfect Arabic”. Brandishing a toothy grin, as if he had had some hand in it, he turned his attention to the grill. The tall man shook his shoulders at the woman, smiled and rolled his eyes upward. She giggled in return.
“You know”, said a boy’s voice from within the cart, “the Arab way is the best way”.
The tall man had to stoop down to look under the awning of the cart to see where this curious voice came from. A boy of perhaps seventeen stood next to what appeared to be his father, wrapping sandwiches as they came off the grill. “What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”, asked the tall man. The boy kept wrapping his sandwiches but never took his gaze off the tall man. “You want some pork on your sandwich, man?”
The vendor turned from his grill, his look a mixture of outrage and embarrassment, “hey, man. You can’t talk to him like this. He’s Muslim, you know! Brother, I’m sorry. This my son”, he apologized, trying to keep his voice low, though it was apparent that the woman in line could hear him clearly. “He’s born here you, you know.”
“Right…”, replied the tall man slowly. “No worries.”
The woman gave the tall man a pensive look and then placed her order.
—
“Okay, finish his order”, instructed the vendor in a stern voice to his son. “Hadha ibniy…, ya’aniy, laa tahkiy ‘arabiyyah”, his voice soaked full of lament. “Wulida hunaa.”
“I was born here”, retorted the tall man hotly. “What’s that got to do with it? Wa lastu ‘arabiyyan. I’m not even Arab.”
The vendor licked his lips nervously and nudged his son. The boy began wrapping the sandwich with a grin on his face. “You want some bacon bits on here?”, he quipped.
“Look, boy. Just wrap my damned sandwich or there’s gonna be some trouble, okay?”. He leaned in real close, imposing his considerable bulk inside the awning, face to face with the boy, who was now swallowing slowly. “Don’t start no S. H. - won’t be no I. T. Got me?”
“Yeah, man. Sure. Here you go, sir. Ma’a salaam”, he offered up weakly.
The vendor looked out from his hot grill and gave the tall man an apologetic smile, “wulida hunaa, akhi. Born here”, he said, shaking his head and then turned back to his grill.
Passing the woman in line the tall man said, “the chicken with provolone and honey mustard is really to die for”, he said, chuckling under his breath.