Imagine, if you will, being a thousand miles from home, on a mission to get a vehicle out of an impound lot situated in a place which the local police officers refer to as “the gates of hell” in the middle of the desert.
Kirsten and I were asked to make the three hour road trip in the cab of a flatbed tow truck while Kirsten’s sister and brother drove ahead in the rental car in order to get to the hellish impound lot before closing time.
I was uncomfortable with the whole situation.
No.
I was terrified of the whole prospect. I had a hunch that it was unsafe. Something in my gut said “Don’t do this, Jennine. You’re going to regret it.”
But there’s no “I” in team so I reluctantly agreed.
The tow truck driver was a middle eastern looking man with a thick accent. Kirsten tried to reassure me.
“He has a nice smile.”
Yeah. So does Osama Bin Laden.
I got into the cab of the truck and very subtly plucked a hair by the root from the top of my head and placed it in on the floorboard so that if anything bad happened, they would have DNA evidence placing me in the truck. Gil Grissom would have been proud.
The very moment we began driving, Kirsten began the interview process, not out of fear, but her signature curiosity:
“Sooo…You’re from Jerusalem?”
Shut up, Kirsten! He could be a Muslim who hates women. Don’t aggravate the man!
“No. I’m from Jordan.”
I wonder if Jordan has terrorists.
“Ohhh REALLY! What brought you to the US?” Kirsten purred with delight.
“I don’t know. I like here.” he said in broken English.
“Did you come alone or with family?”
“I come here alone.”
Yeah, I’ll bet you came alone. Terrorists never travel together.
“What did you do in Jordan before coming to the states?”
“I sold cars.”
Yeah. And if my aunt had balls she’d be my uncle.
This kind of questioning went on for for a good hour before I was finally brave enough to ask a question of my own.
“Will you teach me a swear word in Arabic?” I asked with my hand firmly gripping the door handle.
“I do not understand.” he answered.
“You know, when you were back in Jordan using a hammer and the hammer hit your thumb as you were pounding, what came out of your mouth?”
Kirsten piped in.
“She wants to know a curse word in Arabic. Like damn it or crap.”
“Oh.” he said with a blush washing over his olive skin, “I do not use those words.”
Kirsten elbowed me and whispered “Yeah, Jennine. We’re driving with a terrorist who refuses to use bad words. I think we’re going to be okay.”
I released my grip on the door handle and sunk into my seat feeling embarrassed and silly.
Little did I know that it wasn’t me who was supposed to be afraid. It was this man who was driving three hours with one woman who cannot stop asking questions and another who asked him to betray his faith by cursing for an obnoxious American.
The driver finished the entire trip with his hand firmly grasping the door handle.
