A Grave For Every Floor (Short Story, part 3 of 3)

Author's Note: The third and final part of my short story about a Dubai migrant worker. Read part 1 and part 2 here. Thank you for reading!

Today I felt pretty good all the way up to the evening prayer. I had decided not to pray, just like watching the horizon for a while, like mom used to do. Though mom had the ocean to watch, I just have an ocean of sand. Anyway, Karim sat down a few steps back. After a while, I noticed that he was crying, just weeping quietly at first but then really wailing. I asked him what was wrong, but he just kept sobbing. 

Eventually, I managed to make it stop by talking to him the same way that woman did once to make the Hulk calm down. Then he told me he couldn’t fake it anymore. That he wanted to go home.

Then you should go home, I said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll help you.”

He started crying again. “But they took my passport. I let them take it even though my brother said not to give it to them. He told me: whatever you do, don’t let them take your passport. But I let them and now I can never go home.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just held Karim in my arms while his body shivered just like that girl that I remember from long ago. 

***

 Today the heat got to me again. I think maybe I got a heatstroke. I must’ve been hallucinating. I was on a high floor to leave something, maybe on the 48th floor or something, as far as we’ve built. And behind a wall, I saw a man in a white thawb, but at the waistline there was a hole in it, and his erect penis was sticking out. He just stood there and watched the city -- there wasn’t a wall in that direction -- and masturbated. I watched him, petrified. After a little while, a thick, black sludge came out, and I turned around and walked down.

In the afternoon, the boss man called on me. He told me there wasn’t anything he could do. No one wants to work the ground, he said. Everyone wants shadow and wind. Think about me who has to stand here in the sun all day. 

***

Today, when we got back to the living quarters, Jaser stood at the door and patted everyone on the shoulder as they walked in. He didn’t say anything, but we got the message. 

He wants us to strike from next Monday. He’s gotten in touch with a European, he told me, a union guy who will help us.

But days are longer now. When we got back, I made puddles from the sweat in my clothes. What happens if there is a fight?

***

Friday. I wanted to take a walk to the made up lake, but I stayed in my room. Tanay was talking to his family for almost two hours. He cried and cried. Finally, I had to tell him to shut up. Everyone is having a hard time, Tanay, I told him. He started talking more quietly after that, but he didn’t stop crying.

***

It’s Wednesday today. I haven’t written for a month. It just doesn’t seem important now. I’ll make this very quick. 

Things are about the same as before. 

There never was a strike. Jaser doesn’t talk about it anymore, I don’t know why. A week ago someone asked him, and he just smiled and said that you have to choose your battles. 

Karim packed away his comics. He doesn’t talk as much as before. For a little while, I missed that, but now I just try to enjoy the silence. 

My tears have gone black, but I’m feeling okay. The bus comes at seven every morning, but it’s often late on Fridays. I haven’t seen any more hallucinations.

And in the evenings, when we get back to the quarters, I don’t feel the stench anymore.