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A few nights ago, I was sitting around the living room, reading Woody Allen's short play, Death Knocks: a schlubby middle-aged man receives a visit from the Dark One, who is clumsy and cranky. The man convinces Death to play a game of gin-rummy, and Death agrees, despite the absence of any fun snacks in the apartment. As I read it, I wondered what it would be like if Death visited an Arab woman in Dearborn, Michigan, home to the biggest population of Arabs outside the Middle East. I present you with my short homage to Allen's play: Death And the Sheesha.

Umm Ali: Oh, who is zat? Why my batio door is open?

Death: It's me, Karima, let's go.

Umm Ali: Karima? No one calls me that. I'm Umm Ali. Where your manners?

Death: Sorry. Umm Ali. Time's up. Come with me.

Umm Ali: Where we going so fast?

Death: Where do you think?

Umm Ali: But my hair is not blow dried and I am wearing house clothes.

Death: Your dress is pretty and your hair looks great. Let's go.

Umm Ali: No, no, Um Ali not gonna leave the house looking like maid.

Death: I don't know what maids you've hired, but you look nicer than one.

Umm Ali: Okay mister, I come with you, but ferest I blow dry my hair. Here, have some pistachios.

Death: Mmmm, thank you. Okay, I'll give you five minutes.

Umm Ali: Five minutes, I thought you say my hair look good? I only need two minute, and khalas, I be ready for you.

(Death eats entire bowl of pistachios)

Umm Ali: Eat more! You ate nothing!!! Here, have some hummus.

Death: No, really, I'm fine.

Umm Ali: You're fine, what is fine? Eat I said, eat!!!

(Death eats hummus)

Umm Ali: And here's some stuffed bebbers and some spinach bies. Eat.

Death: Yum, I like these pies. Say, are you ready?

Umm Ali: You see my dress? I look like a belly dancer, I can't leave house looking like this, I will bring shame to the family.

Death: Well, I think you look very respectful.

Umm Ali: You are wearin' a black cloak! You look terrible! And so skinny, just bones bones bones! Eat!

Death: Really, Um Ali, I'm not hungry anymore.

Umm Ali: Hunger? Who says anything about hunger? I am telling you eat, blease, don't insult me!

Death: Okay, okay, but hurry, I've got another appointment down the street in less than five minutes.

Umm Ali: Really? With Mister Majeed?

Death: No, why?

Umm Ali: Let's take him with us, anyway.

Death: But it's not his time.

Umm Ali: Why not? I say he come with us. He's such a son of a dog.

Death: What did he ever do to you?

Umm Ali: He always get better satellite dish and point in my house's direction to rub in.

Death: Are you ready? I'm stuffed.

Umm Ali: Look at me! I am stripper in this outfit- give me a chance to put on nice clothes. I am pressing my ensemble now.

Death: Please-hurry.

Umm Ali: Why you don't eat some dessert? Here, have some baklava.

Death: Thanks, but I can't possibly-okay, two.

Umm Ali: Two? Oh, I curse the day I was born. You want to come to MY house and only eat TWO baklava? How I will show my face?

Death: Okay, okay.

(Emerges from her room five minutes later)

Umm Ali: So?

(Death says nothing, lies on couch)

Umm Ali: Hello? I need combliment now! Look at my ensemble.

Death: Very...nice.

Umm Ali: What? You are sleebing now? I thought we are late?

Death: I..can't...move. So...full.

Umm Ali: I make you tea.

Death: No! No, please, I, I can't put anything else in my mouth.

Umm Ali: Well, you are ready to go or nat?

Death: Not yet. Just need a second.

Umm Ali: Okay, let's watch satellite.

Death: I just need a few minutes to digest.

Umm Ali: You're so skinny, your body need to adjust to bigger meals.

Death: Oh, god.

Umm Ali: I play for you some Arabic soab obera, yes?

Death: Okay, anything, I just need to rest.

Umm Ali: I will show you all the terrible nose jobs these girls get to look like American stars.

Death: It just falls off in the end anyway.

Umm Ali: Exactly.

Death: I'll take that tea.

Umm Ali: I thought so. I have some ready. Here.

Death: Thanks.

Umm Ali: Want smoke sheesha with me?

Death: Sure. Why not.

Umm Ali: What flavor you like? I have bineabble and beach.

Death: I'll take the peach.

Umm Ali: Okay, let's smoke.

(Death and Umm Ali drink tea and smoke Sheesha.)

The End

 

Randa Jarrar, A Map of Home, childhood, Arab-American, writing, Penguin Books, fiction