Hot Pink in the City by Medeia Sharif

have
to do whatever it takes to replace that tape. We're back on the
subway. The subway has taken me underground and above ground, I've
seen darkness and light, we've stood on many platforms, we've been
through regular waist-high turnstiles and then the full-body ones,
we've walked through tunnels, gone up and down steps, we've
switched lines... I now feel like a subway-traveling pro, but the
journey isn't over.
    Brooklyn seems like an entirely different
city. The skyline is shorter and streets are more residential.
After walking ten minutes from the subway station, we're at the
last store on our list. The street is quiet, and all of a sudden
there's a loud burst of voices to the right of us. There's a school
across the street that children exit from.
    "What's that about?" I ask.
    "Summer school letting out," Nasreen says.
"My own school has similar hours. Thankfully I passed all my
classes and don't need anything this summer."
    I observe little kids rush towards parents
and older middle-school kids walk off alone. "I hope this is it," I
say, turning my attention back to the store.
    "Me too, or we're screwed," Nasreen says.
    The window displays cassettes and videos,
with signs about various imports. This looks like the most
promising place, so a small light ignites in me. I follow Nasreen
inside to see a wonderful sight -- there are rows of cassettes,
videos, and records. There are no groceries, no newspapers, and no
clothes. This is strictly an entertainment stop.
    "Hello!" a round man with a bushy moustache
greets us with a lilting accent. His stomach juts out of his body
as if he were pregnant, and he has protuberant moles on his face.
"Welcome to my store. How may I help you young ladies?"
    Behind him is another man sitting next to a
burgundy curtain. It's reminiscent of Omar's curtain, which reminds
me of what's waiting for us back home. The man looks like a
relative of the greeter, with the same round look and moles. His
thinning hair is greasy, wrapped around his scalp in a comb-over. I
don't like the way he's looking at us, especially at me. His eyes
linger up and down my body. I eyeball him back and then look away
from him. The nerve of that guy.
    "We're looking for Umm Kulthum tapes,"
Nasreen says, getting to the point.
    "Do you have any?" I ask.
    "Umm Kulthum? I love her! She's very
popular."
    "Yes, she is," I say. "So you have her
cassettes?"
    "Let me see what I have..."
    While he's searching, I look around. Even
though the relative-looking guy is creeping me out, I near the
curtain because I'm wondering if there's a selection behind there
as well.
    "No, do not walk through," the stranger
rasps, his voice harsher than the other man's. He continues to
study me from the top of my head to my sneakered feet.
    "Sorry," I say. It must be a backroom or
office of some kind. I walk back to Nasreen. We stand, watching the
first man search for Umm.
    The store is small, with narrow aisles, and I
imagine his large belly must occasionally knock things off shelves.
He proves me wrong, because he's quite graceful and knows where
everything is. "I have three records... but you said tapes... ah,
here's a tape." He pulls it out from underneath the register. It's
a bootleg, and when he pulls out the cassette from the holder it
even has a Sony label on it -- the tape we destroyed was Sony. I
swing my purse closer to my chest, because I'm ready to buy it. The
tape has to be mine. Even if it doesn't match the one we destroyed
song for song, it's better than nothing.
    "It's all her greatest hits," he says, ever
the salesman.
    "We'll take it," I say.
    "How much?" Nasreen says. Her purse is across
her body, like mine is, which is how she told me we need to wear it
in the city -- not the way I normally sling it on my shoulder as if
I'm at the mall. The city is dangerous. Normally I feel comfortable
around relatives and other Middle Eastern people, because those
people are like me, from the same fabric so to speak, but these men
unsettle me.