The worst and ugliest sound – unrelenting, electronic beeping, steadily screeching – eeeh – eeeh – eeeh – eeeh – eeeh… Ugh, please stop, he thought, reaching his arm out into the darkness to slap the top of the alarm. Somewhere on top of the clock was the relief button. Ahh yes, relief.
Silence. His consciousness sunk back down into the warm enveloping waters of sleep. What was he dreaming about? What was that precious piece of unfinished business left unresolved a few moments before? Ahh yes, there it is again. So perfect, so peaceful, so EEEH! – eeeh! – eeeh! – eeeh! – eeeh!
“BLASTED!” he said outloud while his arm reached from the protection of the covers and his hand slammed down again on top of the stupid clock… Silence… Relief again. The clock did not care. It had no feelings. His brain went back again, searching for that place again, that place he had ju… EEEH! – eeeh! – eeeh! – eeeh! – eeeh!
“Good God! SHUT UP!” he shouted and his hand shot out and slammed on top of the clock inadvertently hitting the snooze button for the third time. Or was it the fourth? Fifth? He lost track. It happened over and over. He felt golden warmth on his face and wondered what this useless battle was. His brow wrinkled as his eyes struggled to the top of his face, blinking continuously, grappling to see what this was all about. And there it was. The sun… it was smiling in. Laughing, taunting, saying smugly: “The day has begun and I have beat you to the morning prayer”.
- - - - -
And so it was as the day rolled on. He worked through the morning up until the afternoon. Work was busy, unrelenting, but satisfying. He was proud of the fruits of his labor. Customers satiated with pizza slices dripping with an intoxicating mixture of cheese and meat and tomato sauce – and sandwiches shaped like submarines, charging off into battle, firing torpedoes at hunger. Yes, it was a worthy profession. A worthy cause – saving skinny people… he chuckled to himself thinking about it as he wiped down the countertop. All praise is for God who gave us halaal pepperoni. Serving pork would have been against his faith… FAITH?! He looked up at the westward window and there was the sun, smiling in, laughing, having cheated him again of the noontime prayer.
- - - - -
The day had been productive but tiresome. He entered his apartment upon returning home. He slipped off his shoes and sunk into the easy chair. It was the only chair he owned. When his mother discovered the absence of furniture in his humble home she insisted on at least imposing this one relic from the basement of her house. It was old, but comfortable.
As he wondered what he should do to make the most of his evening, it was almost as if the cushions were swallowing him. He struggled against its comfort. He waged war almost. His arms stuck to the sides. He pushed and stood up, but the cushions did not let go. Like a forsaken lover, she clung to him, begging him not leave. He resisted and pushed her away, but she clasped her hands around his ankles while he trudged toward the bathroom.
Wudu. He needed to make wudu. He turned the faucet, but the water was too hot, then it was too cold. It was taking too long. He could feel the sun setting in his mind somewhere. There was Jiminy Cricket sitting on the edge of the medicine shelf. His legs were crossed and his hands held his folded black umbrella across his lap.
He closed his eyes tight and opened them again, then blinking at his conscience as it said, “Cut these strings with your wudu… make the afternoon prayer and you’ll be a real boy…” He splashed the water on his arms but it went all over the floor.
“Don’t leave even a fingernail width dry,” said Jiminy. Splash, swish, swash… he could not seem to cover all the space on his arm with enough water to quench the thirst of his sinful soul.
“You’re going to miss the prayer,” said the cricket again. “Don’t succumb to excessiveness.” True, he thought. And he swaggered back and forth holding himself up with the wall, until he finally made it to his prayer rug in the hall under the stairs. In the hall? Under the stairs? Why is my prayer rug out in the hall under the stairs? Why isn’t it inside my apartment? He asked himself.
As he approached the rug, he noticed the sun setting outside the door. No time. He had to pray here. He stood at the edge of the rug and made the first takbeer. He felt his legs moving and realized that for some reason he could not stand still. A crowd had gathered, talking, amazed, wondering what he could be doing. He staggered as he tried to stand there and remember the surah, but he kept messing up the words. Finally he fell down in sujood, he heard a gasp from the crowd. He pawed around on the ground trying to stand back up, but he could not. Instead he rolled over on his side and stared up at the crowd… But there was no one there! It was dark and quiet. He was on the floor in front of the chair his apartment. And the afternoon sun was gone. The thief had left with the day’s fortune.
- - - - -
He raced down the stairs and jumped in his car. It was nearly time for the night prayer. At least he would make one prayer on time and in the mosque today. Just then he remembered something. The sunset prayer! Had he really forgotten? In his haste to make it to the mosque on time for the night prayer he had overlooked it. He was at a stoplight. He looked around himself.
For a moment he considered getting out of his car and praying right there on the ground. But the light turned green. He shook his head. He would have to make it when he entered the mosque. Perhaps he would have time before the final call to begin with the group. He turned into the parking lot and parked his car. As he got out he looked up for the moon. It had already set. He could imagine the crescent like a half-cocked smile, sarcastically wondering where his day’s prayers had gone. But at this moment he turned and saw two people, standing outside the mosque raising their voices. “I don’t pray in a second group,” said the one. “But is it forbidden?” queried the other. “It is not what the companions used to do,” retorted the first. “Really? What how do you know that?” the other asked. “I heard it on a tape,” said the first.
He approached in wonderment at why these two were arguing about a second group prayer while they were missing the first, and then at the top of the steps the doors opened and brothers streamed out. They were talking as they walked, some wearing thobes, others in office clothes, but all intent on leaving as if the prayer was over. Our poor subject looked at his watch. What is going on? he wondered as he struggled to see the hands of his timepiece in the half-light. Rather than pointing at the numbers, they appeared to be pointing at him! And the face of the clock was… well, it was laughing! The audacity of the thing!
He stormed up the stairs and waded through all the looks, until he stood in front of the bulletin board which callously announced the new group prayer times for the coming week.
- - - - -
Somewhere living in the foul stench of his arrogance, a crimson trickster chuckled to himself at the whole spectacle. Having pledged allegiance to his own misdeed ages ago, he imagined himself proven right once again. “All in a day’s work,” he grinned to himself. “All in a day’s work”.
Then a poet replied:
Oh, what the ignorant fool did not know,
That the pen is lifted for three:
The insane, the sleeper, and the forgetful,
So said the Messenger, the Mercy to Humanity.
Last update : 02-07-2003 10:29
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