Arabian Nights

I needed to repost this old blog entry simply because the memory of these events makes me down right giddy.

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Our senior year of college, Catriona got a job teaching Saudi Arabian exchange students how to speak English (and a bunch of other paperwork). As a result we became rather intertwined with the group of Saudi Arabian men she taught. We really don’t know how old they are … something about calendars being bumble-fucked in the middle-east (much like everything else in the middle-east or the US government) … but they were somewhere in their mid to late 20s.

As predicted, we end up hanging out and drinking with them at their apartment, and I develop a small crush on Durka. Durka spoke slightly better English than the rest, and did things like make me tea and compliment my eyes. Needless to say, I end up sleeping with him …. In his roommate Durka-Durka’s room. Durka-Durka just so happens to be dating Catriona, and they are downstairs on the desk socializing.

After the happening, Durka and I go downstairs …. And Durka-Durka leads Catriona upstairs to repeat what I had just accomplished. Whoops. Before they get back, Durka and I are back in the house in another’s roommate’s room (Maybe he didn’t really live there, I don’t know).

For a while we all end back up on the porch, celebrating April 20th, as only Arabs can. I’m certain there were some more events that evening … But eventually my birthday rolls around in August, and I find myself sitting on the stoop of Catriona’s apartment with the Arabs discussing why the beer was in the crisper of the fridge. Apparently Durka^3 (who had taken a break from doing the Samba) was convinced only oranges went in the crisper.

Catriona moves away … The Arabs scatter across the country. Except for the one that should be deported. Somehow it turns out he’s an American citizen. I think someone fucked up somewhere.

Spring ’07 rolls around and I find Catriona and I sitting in the Arabs apartment again. Durka^4 turns out to have a son (Little Durka) who appears to only play with Playboy magazines, matches, lighters, and a Star Wars mask. He crawls up on a desk chair, picks up a lit cigarette, and starts smoking. At this point, all there is to say is … CHILD IS SMOKING. None of the Arabs are alarmed. Catriona and I leave the house. We have yet to return.