Unwanted Attractions

The tires of my third-hand jalopy of a Volkswagen screeched as I tore out of the university's parking lot. I stepped on the pedals so hard, it was a wonder the old clunker did not fall apart, right there in the middle of the road as I tore down the highway. My best friend Rahman, always said I drove like a mad woman, who had the hounds of hell after her. I always told him that he could not have been farther from the truth if he had tried. I drove as fast as I did because I liked the feeling of power it gave me as I flew down the roads. The last time we had a conversation/ argument, he asked me what sort of power I could get, from risking my own life and endangering the life of any pedestrian who was unlucky enough to be using the road at the same time as me. He had promptly answered his questions, saying that perhaps I meant the power of playing God, over the life of whoever was in the car with me. " Oh no." I had said with an exaggerated shudder. " The old man upstairs can keep his job. Why would I want to play at being someone with a bunch of self-contradictory, annoying rules?" " If my parents could hear you," he had said with a chuckle. " They would condemn you to a life of eternal damnation." " Just like they condemned me." His voice was a low murmur at the last sentence. I knew it had not been meant for my ears. He looked out the window, trying to hide the moisture in his eyes. Talking about or even mentioning Rahman's parents was a sore point for him. They were a bunch of religious fanatics, with fancy sticks shoved up their asses. [Not that I would ever mention the last part of the definition of Rahman.] They were a pair of uptight Muslims who had disowned Rahman and sent him out of the house earlier this year when they found out he was in love with another man. They had been so disgusted to find their son in what, according to them was an exceedingly immoral act. They had ordered him to put a hamper on his feelings for his partner, and any other man. Can you imagine what they think about loving us? A light switch you can turn on and off? When Rahman told them he couldn't do what they asked. They promptly disowned him and informed him that he was no longer welcome in their home.[ They were not going to live with such a great sinner.] That was after they described to him in great detail, the fiery torment he was going to face, as long as he continued his sinful behavior. They told him to come back when he realized his sins and confess them to Allah. Rahman had been devastated. He had crashed on our couch for a few days, before deciding to take his relationship with Sanjil to the next level, by moving in together. I could not have been happier for them. Sanji was a great guy, and he was perfect for him. They could not have been another couple as well suited as Rahman and Sanjil, anywhere in the entire country. They could not keep their hands off each other, they were always holding hands. They even finished each other's sentences. It was the sweetest thing. They did yearn for something as beautiful as they had but for someone with such a long track record of kissing frogs that failed to turn into princes. It did not look like that was going to happen any time soon. " I'll have you know that for as long as I have been driving, I do not have a single parking ticket to my name, no matter how crazily you say I drive." I had said trying to drag him out of the melancholic state, the thought of his parents had pushed him into. He smirked " That's because the police don't believe an old clunker like this can go as fast as you force it to go." He declared. " One day," he continued. " This poor car is going to get torn to pieces, and you're going to be left, sitting there in a squat, holding on to the steering." He finished. " I'll just have you put it back together for me." I had quipped. " That's assuming you can find all the parts," he had said slyly. "They are going to get blown away as far back as Cuba." We had a merry laugh and continued to laugh until I dropped him in front of their apartment building. I chuckled softly, as I turned on the radio and tuned till I found a station playing some good old eighties jam. I belted out the songs at the top of my lungs in my awful voice, mixing up the lyrics and not giving a damn. If Rahman was here, he would tell me that I had been born roughly a hundred and half years ago in an entirely different continent, as my voice was meant for one purpose and one purpose only. Being a town crier in one of the African societies we learned about in grade school. I always retaliated by swatting him on the arm, as I could not think of an appropriate comeback. The brakes felt a little stiff as I screeched to a stop in front of his apartment building, I would have to ask Rahman to take a look at that. "More like a nag and bully him into taking a look at it," I said to myself as I leaned over to take my backpack and the Chinese takeout I had picked up on campus out of the back seat. I got out of the car with my hands full and kicked the door shut.