The Voice at 3 AM

This girl at the Taj – you know the waitress not one of the belly-dancers – I’m there because of her. It’s been a few nights now of walking past the place and seeing her in there taking an order or leaning against the entrance. I’ve finally managed to romanticize lust into something I can justify walking in there for.

I’m in and nobody’s telling me where to sit. This woman – hot enough I suppose – is dancing to the vaguely Arab music. The whole thing unsettles me, so I do what every sane man does when he’s unsettled: I head for the bar. I lean toward the bartender, who’s as vaguely Arab as the music I’m about to shout over.

“Double Glenfiddich on the rocks.”

He pauses and looks around, considering. “It’s the one over there, the green bottle,” I suggest helpfully.

“Hey, man. I know Glenfiddich. Okay?”

“Sorry, sorry. I was in a place down the street last night. I ordered one. She said they didn’t have it. Served me some blended swill. Then, I spotted that lovely green bottle ...”

“I can forgive you then. Just don’t know how much I got left.” He shakes the bottle. “You can have the rest. To make up for last night. You want water with it?”

Do I want water with it? I’ve never seen a belly-dancer in person before. It’s not doing much for me – kinda like a stripper only without all the shame. But, that waitress is leaning against the wall next to a hallway. She’s shaking her hips in rhythm with the music and she’s got some bead like things wrapped around her waist. It’s enough to make me gulp sipping whisky.

My drink's emptying faster than is convenient and I need an excuse to stay longer. I lean back to my friend behind the bar and bark something indicating my interest in smoking.

“What would you like?” he asks.

“What do you recommend?”

“Well, we have many flavors, but apple is best – it’s traditional.”

Apple it is. I’m not really expecting much here. There’s no THC in it, and until recently I’ve never had much reason to inhale anything but air unless it’d get me high. Meanwhile, I still can’t figure out what it is about this girl.

She’s cute. But not that cute. Too tall. Too thin. Tonight, her hair’s down. Which isn’t really my thing. Haven’t met many girls I didn’t prefer in a ponytail. Suppose there’s something Freudian there, but I’m a little busy trying not to stare at her to delve into it. Fortunately, the bartender vaults into the restaurant grabbing some broad out of her cushioned, pseudo-Arabian Nights booth and gets her to dance to the music now that the real belly-dancer’s taken a break. The tourist gets into it. Her friends join in. The bartender runs back behind the bar and gets some belly-dancer garb to make them all feel ... however.

Some costumed schmuck brings out this 32” water pipe and gives me a hose with a hard plastic condom on the end. I brush off the Freudian angle again. Inhale deeply. Exhale calmly. Not bad. Not bad at all. A few puffs later, I find myself trying to blow smoke rings. I’ve spent the last week or so smoking Cubans in my hotel room learning to do just that – and I’ve gotten pretty good at it. But, the consistency’s entirely different here. I get the trick of it though. You’ve gotta start the exhale first. Then, gather the smoke in your mouth before blowing it out.

Some guys might do this in hopes of getting the waitress’ attention. Of getting anyone’s attention, but this isn’t a thirteen-year-old girl’s birthday party and blowing smoke rings just isn’t going to impress anyone. It’s noticeably an affectation, but that’s fine by me. There are few things purer and more worthwhile in this life than affectation for affectation’s sake.

I smoke for a while. She takes a few orders. Brings a few drinks. Mostly, she just leans against that wall. Here’s where the night ends. Or, where it used to. Half of me’s already out that door on my way back to the Eleni Palace manned by a thirty-year-old boy who smiles a bit much for my comfort. I’m on the verge of handing the bartender my credit card and trying to finish his bottle of Jack. Blackouts make for better endings than straight lines home.

Fuck it though. I head over. Smile confidently but let my voice falter the slightest bit. “I don’t really have an opening line.”

“Sure you want one?” Her eyes aren’t quite engaged yet but she’s smiling. A friendly rejection.

“One that works.”

“Not the least bit worried that these guys are my Muslim family? That they might not be too happy with you laying your infidel hands on me.” Smile’s gone, but she’s actually looking now.

“Nah.”

“How brave. Uncharacteristic of an American.”

“What gave me away?”

“The accent’s obvious.”

“Everyone else’s been asking if I’m German or British.”

“They’re Greek. I’m not. We Muslims are taught to know our enemy.” If it’s sarcasm, it’s dry. Real dry.

“Muslim, huh? Not a very good one, if you are one at all.”

She breaks ranks a bit. A real smile accompanies, “So, if a girl’s not wrapped up like a burn victim, she can’t believe in Allah?”

“No, darling. If y’all are Muslim, you’re that fun, secular brand. Your bartending friend’s pretty familiar with his booze (got fine taste in Scotch too). Plus, good Muslim girls don’t shake their hips where a bunch of drunk infidels can lust after them.”

“The darling didn’t work so well.” Dry again. But, not stern. Not pissed. I don’t think.

“Fair enough. I’ll go with princess next time around. When do you get off?"

“When the place closes.”

“Clever.”

“I’ll go with ‘after you’ve left’ next time around.” Oh, I’m home.

“It’s getting hard to tell when a girl’s being coy and when she’s really not interested.”

“I’m guessing you always assume coy.”

“Safest way to go.”

“Speaking of going. I do have to get back to work.”

“Give me your number. That way, I can finish my drink, and you can go back to leaning against the wall.”

“You have a phone that works here?”

“I’ll find one."

“Or, you could just stop back here ‘round 3:30.”

She’s a bit too honest here. Almost sounds excited. Nearly vulnerable. Like not too many guys really ask her out, are really interested in her. I don’t trust it. She’s too good looking to still be vulnerable at her age. I head for the Saloon Café because it’s got a pool table and Scotch, and I got two hours to kill.