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Down in the Dirt magazine (v107)
(the May 2012 Issue)




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Let’s All Relax Here

James Kowalczyk

    After the towers fell, anti-Muslim sentiment, despite Mayor Guiliani’s efforts to curb it, still permeated the city—like the stench of stale urine creeping through a subway station—invisible yet potent. Some New Yorkers didn’t understand that not every Muslim is a holy warrior waging holy war.
    I had been living on the Lower East Side for five years. My band rehearsed in Brooklyn, which meant 3:00 a.m. return trips home every Friday. I would stop at Ahmed’s, my local 24/7 “bodega”, for essentials like ramen noodles or stationery. He and I would talk music, politics, language and especially family (his favorite subject now that he was a father) sometimes until dawn. He was personable and foreign, a refreshing change from my routine encounters.
    His store was a potpourri of dried goods, homemade food, and typical junk food. It was so crammed that one had to walk sideways if there were more than two customers. The entrance was uneven, like a cave entrance. Inside, there was always the faint aroma of tamarind root, roasted almonds, and honey. Behind the counter, Ahmed was surrounded by cigarettes, candy containers, the lottery machine, and a plethora of cards, calendars, and black and white photos of Yemen on the wall, all arranged above, behind, and around him
    After 9/11, Ahmed and I hadn’t changed. He knew I wasn’t an asshole, unlike these guys on this one particular Friday at 3 a.m.
    As I walked into Ahmed’s store, I noticed that the lilting steel clarinets over disco rhythms that Ahmed always had playing were not on. I could hear talking in low hushed tones that suddenly stopped when the bell on the door rang as it closed behind me. I glanced at Ahmed. He glanced back, frowning and shooting a glance toward the back of the store where the voices had been coming from. The toilet paper was located in the back corner on a makeshift shelf above the soda and beer refrigerators. I grabbed as many rolls as I could carry. The two men pointed to six-packs of beer, as if deciding what brand to buy. The hum of the refrigerators grew louder. As I fumbled with the rolls of toilet paper, the newspaper fell. One of the guys held it up and read the headline aloud in a booming voice: “War Declared on Mujahadeen.” His friend approached the counter, hand behind back, and glared at Ahmed. “Let’s all relax here,” I blurted out. Both men looked at me, then at Ahmed. He had a curved machete in his hand and was pointing to a picture of his son. “I am not mujahedeen! This is my fucking jihad!” he shouted with fire in his eyes. The two men looked at each other, shrugged, and left the store. As I gave him a five dollar bill, I sighed and said to Ahmed: “Only in New York, man...only in New York.” He just smiled as he gave me my change.



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