Hatem was initially in Kaiser emergency for almost a full day. He was admitted into Intensive Care and the staff began monitoring him. He was conscious, but was focussed only on one thing, getting a cup of coffee. He really didn't know where he was or why he couldn't get a cup of coffee. After that he was placed in a medically induced coma to assess the damage to his head and brain. It wasn't good.
He was at Kaiser for a couple of days before he was transferred to UCSF Medical Center on Parnassus in San Francisco where the best care could be given. Before his transfer, I got wind that he had only six months to live. It was heartbreaking news. And it was given without compassion by a doctor who seemed to care more about the correctness of his diagnosis than the feelings of the people who cared for Hatem. And there were many who cared about Hatem. People came in and out of his room continuously. I was there every morning and left every early afternoon.
Since I was now teaching in a dance studio above Thom's Natural Foods on Geary, I naturally left all the restaurant business to someone I thought I could trust -- Samar and Gabriela. They had been running the place since 2004, so I naturally thought they could run it without Hatem. But as the days wore on, I began to question that judgment. Nevertheless, I ignored all of those red flags and allowed Samar to take control.
"This is a blessing in disguise!", Samar would say again and again. "That man put me through hell. I'm glad he isn't here any more! He would just be in my way of me wanting to run the place."
A blessing in disguise. . . . . .
What was that? Hatem was laid up in the hospital with a life-threatening brain contusion and to Samar it was a blessing in disguise. But, because I had lost all connections with the restaurant after leaving it in 2003 to pursue my teaching, I kept my mouth shut. I didn't have enough information to make any decisions at that time.
Hatem lay in the hospital for close to six weeks. Samar ran the restaurant with Gabriela. I continued to teach dance at the studio location. My home in San Bruno, left to me by my mother, was mortgaged to the max. I wasn't seeing any income now. I knew that something was not right. Hatem was out of the picture for the time being and I began to get a feeling of uneasiness.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
10. Confusion
The next few weeks were filled with confusion and chaos. I had no clue what had occurred during the two-year's time I was not at the restaurant, and I could never have fathomed what was to be in store for me after. What I did know was the Hatem, my pillar of strength, my sole support, was in the hospital now in an induced coma.
During this time, I drove out to the place where Hatem was found. The story was that he had been driven to his house in the Sunset by one of his closest friends, had been dropped off at the foot of his home staircase which comprised of 16 stairs steps, and was left with a friendly 'see-you-tomorrow' goodbye. Hatem had been drinking and never drove anyway, so he had been in good hands. I climbed the stairs and noticed blood stains about half way up the stairs. Hatem's wife had told me how she had found him at the bottom of the stairs very disoriented. What she had concluded by those blood stains was that Hatem had climbed the stairs initially and had lost his footing. He had fallen all the way down 16 hard concrete steps, and had most likely hit his head on the sidewalk at the end of his wall. with a bleeding head, Hatem had tried to climb the stairs again and had fallen back again. He wife, concerned that he had not come home, had gotten up from bed and had ventured out of the house in the night. Sh had found him around 2:00 in the morning at the foot of the stairs lying on the sidewalk.
The horror of this story had sent shocks of adrenaline throughout my veins, and seeing the evidence in front of me now brought up a flood of tears. Guilt began to override the shocks, and I sat down and cried. How could this have happened to this person who had done nothing but good to everyone he came into contact with? Just the night before his accident, he has called me. Why had this had to happen?
Friends and family came and went, watching Hatem struggle through his induced coma made so that his brain could heal. It had taken a beating and we didn't know what kind of damage it may have done. We played a waiting game.
During this time, I drove out to the place where Hatem was found. The story was that he had been driven to his house in the Sunset by one of his closest friends, had been dropped off at the foot of his home staircase which comprised of 16 stairs steps, and was left with a friendly 'see-you-tomorrow' goodbye. Hatem had been drinking and never drove anyway, so he had been in good hands. I climbed the stairs and noticed blood stains about half way up the stairs. Hatem's wife had told me how she had found him at the bottom of the stairs very disoriented. What she had concluded by those blood stains was that Hatem had climbed the stairs initially and had lost his footing. He had fallen all the way down 16 hard concrete steps, and had most likely hit his head on the sidewalk at the end of his wall. with a bleeding head, Hatem had tried to climb the stairs again and had fallen back again. He wife, concerned that he had not come home, had gotten up from bed and had ventured out of the house in the night. Sh had found him around 2:00 in the morning at the foot of the stairs lying on the sidewalk.
The horror of this story had sent shocks of adrenaline throughout my veins, and seeing the evidence in front of me now brought up a flood of tears. Guilt began to override the shocks, and I sat down and cried. How could this have happened to this person who had done nothing but good to everyone he came into contact with? Just the night before his accident, he has called me. Why had this had to happen?
Friends and family came and went, watching Hatem struggle through his induced coma made so that his brain could heal. It had taken a beating and we didn't know what kind of damage it may have done. We played a waiting game.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
9. The News
I was awakened from a deep deep sleep. The phone was ringing and it was the next day -- early the next day. My first thought was of who could that be at this time of the morning? It was or seemed way too early to get up, and I never got up before 10:00 AM. In fact anyone who knew me knew that I didn't get up before 10:00 AM and also knew not to call me before then.
I reached for the phone and saw a name and time stamp on the caller ID and answered. "Hello?"
"Hi, Sue," I heard a familiar voice, "this is Hatem's wife."
In a split second, I was puzzled. What? Who? Why? It's amazing how a lifetime of questions and feelings pass through several seconds without answers. "Is everything OK?" I asked with worry exploding through every word. Hatem's wife almost never called to talk to me, especially on my private cell number and especially at 6:30 in the morning.
"Hatem is in the hospital." I was numb. Hospital? What do you mean hospital?
"What?" I sat upright having been jolted out of the fuzziness of slumber. "The hospital? What do you mean? What hospital?"
"He fell down the steps outside of the house and is in here with a brain contusion." A contusion?! Just the word sounded ominous.
"Where are you? I'll be right over."
She had called from Kaiser Permanente on Geary. I was in a daze. To this day, I still don't remember the drive from San Bruno to the hospital. But I do recall calling Samar and telling her what I had just learned. It seemed the right thing to do at that time as she was working closely with Hatem in the restaurant, and I had be absent from that aspect of my business for so long. I figured because of her affiliation with and knowledge of the restaurant, she should know as well.
I arrived at the emergency area of the hospital and immediately looked for the Emergency room and hastened toward that part of the hospital. What now? How could this have happened? Just three months before, Hatem had been diagnosed with Stage 3B lung cancer with only a few months left to live. Even with this grave diagnosis, Hatem had continued to smoke against everyone's wishes. Unending shot glasses of brandy and unending cigarette chain smoking. That was Hatem. But for all intents and purposes, he had justified all of that by saying that he had been admitted into a cancer pilot program with experimental drugs. He had thought of himself as invincable. That, also, was Hatem.
And now, on top of all of that, he was in the hospital with a brain contusion.
I saw his wife immediately. She stood up and walked out of the room to meet me.
I reached for the phone and saw a name and time stamp on the caller ID and answered. "Hello?"
"Hi, Sue," I heard a familiar voice, "this is Hatem's wife."
In a split second, I was puzzled. What? Who? Why? It's amazing how a lifetime of questions and feelings pass through several seconds without answers. "Is everything OK?" I asked with worry exploding through every word. Hatem's wife almost never called to talk to me, especially on my private cell number and especially at 6:30 in the morning.
"Hatem is in the hospital." I was numb. Hospital? What do you mean hospital?
"What?" I sat upright having been jolted out of the fuzziness of slumber. "The hospital? What do you mean? What hospital?"
"He fell down the steps outside of the house and is in here with a brain contusion." A contusion?! Just the word sounded ominous.
"Where are you? I'll be right over."
She had called from Kaiser Permanente on Geary. I was in a daze. To this day, I still don't remember the drive from San Bruno to the hospital. But I do recall calling Samar and telling her what I had just learned. It seemed the right thing to do at that time as she was working closely with Hatem in the restaurant, and I had be absent from that aspect of my business for so long. I figured because of her affiliation with and knowledge of the restaurant, she should know as well.
I arrived at the emergency area of the hospital and immediately looked for the Emergency room and hastened toward that part of the hospital. What now? How could this have happened? Just three months before, Hatem had been diagnosed with Stage 3B lung cancer with only a few months left to live. Even with this grave diagnosis, Hatem had continued to smoke against everyone's wishes. Unending shot glasses of brandy and unending cigarette chain smoking. That was Hatem. But for all intents and purposes, he had justified all of that by saying that he had been admitted into a cancer pilot program with experimental drugs. He had thought of himself as invincable. That, also, was Hatem.
And now, on top of all of that, he was in the hospital with a brain contusion.
I saw his wife immediately. She stood up and walked out of the room to meet me.
Monday, June 18, 2012
8. Fast Forward - March 2007 - The night was overcast and cold
March 2007
The night was overcast and cold. I was headed home. Teaching four classes a day was a rewarding but tiresome job and I longed to crawl into bed. Tomorrow would see another four dance classes beginning at 1:30 PM and ending at 9:00 PM while my little restaurant ran under the hands of people I trusted. I had stayed a little longer than usual, sweeping the floor and straightening up.
The wind hit my face as I opened the studio door onto the bright lights of Geary Boulevard and I headed down the sidewalk toward my car. It was beginning to sprinkle and I didn't have an umbrella. Unlocking the door I climbed in and sat in the front seat for a while, watching the cars drive by with their lights glaring in the wet bustling night. The sidewalks were starting to close down as restaurants and businesses were letting out their last customers. I wondered how the night had gone at Al-Masri but I knew would soon know. Hatem always called after closing time to tell me.
I turned over the ignition and pulled my little green Toyota out into the street. Droplets were splashing off the windshield. Another 20 minutes and I would be home.
10:15 PM and the phone rang. "How did it go?" I asked in anticipation turning onto Sunset Boulevard. It had been a long four years since I gave up control of my restaurant to Hatem, who in turn had handed it over to Samar's management -- something I was not at all comfortable with since I stepped out of the restaurant kitchen and into my dance studio above Thom's Natural Food Store on Geary Boulevard. But I had, in those four years, pulled together an intricate one-year curriculum which far surpassed any I had taken, and I knew I was onto something. And, I was producing quality dancers. After all, Samar was one of those dancers as was her sister, Gabriela. Hatem had allowed Samar, against my wishes, to run my restaurant. But, as ill at ease as I was in that decision, and as many times as I questioned his judgment, Hatem always seemed to know how to convince me into thinking he knew what he was doing. And it always sounded legitimate and true.
"We had a full house." was his answer. His voice was weary-sounding but happy.
"That's great, Hatem!" I sighed a huge sigh of relief and smiled to myself. The money was finally going to come in, I thought, and I began to get a sense of security, feeling that my house would soon be rid of its refinances and second mortgage loans. It had been a along time coming -- too long for my taste. My dance school was growing and the restaurant was now making money. All would be well....
...or so I thought.
The night was overcast and cold. I was headed home. Teaching four classes a day was a rewarding but tiresome job and I longed to crawl into bed. Tomorrow would see another four dance classes beginning at 1:30 PM and ending at 9:00 PM while my little restaurant ran under the hands of people I trusted. I had stayed a little longer than usual, sweeping the floor and straightening up.
The wind hit my face as I opened the studio door onto the bright lights of Geary Boulevard and I headed down the sidewalk toward my car. It was beginning to sprinkle and I didn't have an umbrella. Unlocking the door I climbed in and sat in the front seat for a while, watching the cars drive by with their lights glaring in the wet bustling night. The sidewalks were starting to close down as restaurants and businesses were letting out their last customers. I wondered how the night had gone at Al-Masri but I knew would soon know. Hatem always called after closing time to tell me.
I turned over the ignition and pulled my little green Toyota out into the street. Droplets were splashing off the windshield. Another 20 minutes and I would be home.
10:15 PM and the phone rang. "How did it go?" I asked in anticipation turning onto Sunset Boulevard. It had been a long four years since I gave up control of my restaurant to Hatem, who in turn had handed it over to Samar's management -- something I was not at all comfortable with since I stepped out of the restaurant kitchen and into my dance studio above Thom's Natural Food Store on Geary Boulevard. But I had, in those four years, pulled together an intricate one-year curriculum which far surpassed any I had taken, and I knew I was onto something. And, I was producing quality dancers. After all, Samar was one of those dancers as was her sister, Gabriela. Hatem had allowed Samar, against my wishes, to run my restaurant. But, as ill at ease as I was in that decision, and as many times as I questioned his judgment, Hatem always seemed to know how to convince me into thinking he knew what he was doing. And it always sounded legitimate and true.
"We had a full house." was his answer. His voice was weary-sounding but happy.
"That's great, Hatem!" I sighed a huge sigh of relief and smiled to myself. The money was finally going to come in, I thought, and I began to get a sense of security, feeling that my house would soon be rid of its refinances and second mortgage loans. It had been a along time coming -- too long for my taste. My dance school was growing and the restaurant was now making money. All would be well....
...or so I thought.
Monday, March 19, 2012
7. Hatem placed his first painting on his easel
Hatem placed his first painting on his easel. I sipped from a hot cup of coffee. His piercing eyes watched as my eyes rested on a large rectangular canvas depicting abstract lines and vibrant colors amidst rough textures and complex forms. Lines that squiggled and curved, ended abruptly in arrows. Other lines stopped with yet more lines intercepting them. Splashes of color pitting against color jumped off the canvass and into the room as Hatem explained the meanings of his artwork. "Sick....sick....." Old expired credit cards glued to the canvass and incorporated into the hues and textures of his artwork made up several of his paintings as he explained his distaste for banks. "Sick....sick...." Floating spheres with no shadows questioned Einstein's theory on everything. And each time between explanations and premises as he swapped one painting for another and then another came his puzzling chant, "Sick....sick...."
"Why do you keep saying 'sick, sick?" I finally asked. I could see that he had been waiting for me to ask that question. "Because", he said, "It is all in the mind." "Huh?" I piped. "Because nothing matters but our mind. If we don't mind, then it doesn't matter. People are starving. People don't have a home. Intelligent people have ended up living in the park with only their sleeping bag. The Chinese don't assimilate; they come to America and they are still in China. The Russians, who had nothing but Chernobyl, come to the USA and their minds are blown up. The Jews, who hold the highest positions in this country teach their children the importance of education. The Banks who control the money in this country aren't regulated anymore because the government is corrupt."
Who was this man? What was it that caused me to want to find out more about how he thought? How he saw life? Painting after painting, I sat there trying to discern his explanation of his art.
"What makes art art?" I questioned.
"I paint what I know." It was an incongruous answer.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Take Andy Warhol. He was not a true artist. He didn't paint what he knew. He was a graphic artist. He took photographs of Campbell tomato soup cans and of Marilyn Monroe and put color on them. That's not art. That's graphic design. Take someone like Miró or Picasso or Salvador Dalí.....those were great artists!" I sat there listening. "Someone commissioned Picasso to do a great piece of art. Picasso asked them, 'what is your budget? So they told Picasso the amount of a small fortune. Picasso accepted but first he asked for the money, so they gave it to him. Picasso then took a piece of paper, drew a picture on it, and then gave it to them. 'There is your great piece of art', Picasso said"
It was an introduction to a world and a mind over which I will never forget.
"Why do you keep saying 'sick, sick?" I finally asked. I could see that he had been waiting for me to ask that question. "Because", he said, "It is all in the mind." "Huh?" I piped. "Because nothing matters but our mind. If we don't mind, then it doesn't matter. People are starving. People don't have a home. Intelligent people have ended up living in the park with only their sleeping bag. The Chinese don't assimilate; they come to America and they are still in China. The Russians, who had nothing but Chernobyl, come to the USA and their minds are blown up. The Jews, who hold the highest positions in this country teach their children the importance of education. The Banks who control the money in this country aren't regulated anymore because the government is corrupt."
Who was this man? What was it that caused me to want to find out more about how he thought? How he saw life? Painting after painting, I sat there trying to discern his explanation of his art.
"What makes art art?" I questioned.
"I paint what I know." It was an incongruous answer.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Take Andy Warhol. He was not a true artist. He didn't paint what he knew. He was a graphic artist. He took photographs of Campbell tomato soup cans and of Marilyn Monroe and put color on them. That's not art. That's graphic design. Take someone like Miró or Picasso or Salvador Dalí.....those were great artists!" I sat there listening. "Someone commissioned Picasso to do a great piece of art. Picasso asked them, 'what is your budget? So they told Picasso the amount of a small fortune. Picasso accepted but first he asked for the money, so they gave it to him. Picasso then took a piece of paper, drew a picture on it, and then gave it to them. 'There is your great piece of art', Picasso said"
It was an introduction to a world and a mind over which I will never forget.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
6. Mother was living in San Bruno, California, at that time
Mother was living in San Bruno, California, at that time. She was in her late 70's. I
would visit her occasionally but for the most part I left her alone. It had always been that way, and I had always thought she wanted it that way. She was a very independent woman and had passed along to us the meaning of independence as we grew up. But I would always make it a point to visit her at least once a month and on the major holidays like her birthday or Easter or Thanksgiving. As for the Christmas holidays, she always spent that with her grandchildren in Madison, Wisconsin.
Mother was resilient. She had survived the Great Depression, World War II, a broken toe, a broken arm, a shattered knee cap, and the premature death of my Father in 1974. As a family she had followed my father and had boldly taken us all to Spain where we had spent four and a half years and then to Bangkok, Thailand where I had grown up from 1960 through 1969. We had all returned to the United States in 1969 where I experienced culture shock in a foreign land to an extent I will never forget. After the death of father, mother also lived through a multi-arterial bypass, breast cancer, and heart surgery.
My older brother, Billy, whom I really didn't know very well, was living in Taluca Lake, California, when Gabe walked out of my life, and my younger sister, Mary, whom I considered my best friend, lived in Chico. My sister, Judy, whom I had always admired and wanted to emulate growing up, had moved to Madison, Wisconsin years before soon after her wedding. All were married, and, although Billy and Mary resided in California, neither of them visited mother often. In fact, Billy had at one point decidedly stopped communicating with her. Why he stopped, we didn't know, and years later mother would send an email to all my siblings including my brother asking why her only son had stopped speaking to her. Sadly, she passed away before she would never get an answer. So, I had taken it upon myself to at least call her once a week to make sure she was doing okay.
Mother was resilient. She had survived the Great Depression, World War II, a broken toe, a broken arm, a shattered knee cap, and the premature death of my Father in 1974. As a family she had followed my father and had boldly taken us all to Spain where we had spent four and a half years and then to Bangkok, Thailand where I had grown up from 1960 through 1969. We had all returned to the United States in 1969 where I experienced culture shock in a foreign land to an extent I will never forget. After the death of father, mother also lived through a multi-arterial bypass, breast cancer, and heart surgery.
My older brother, Billy, whom I really didn't know very well, was living in Taluca Lake, California, when Gabe walked out of my life, and my younger sister, Mary, whom I considered my best friend, lived in Chico. My sister, Judy, whom I had always admired and wanted to emulate growing up, had moved to Madison, Wisconsin years before soon after her wedding. All were married, and, although Billy and Mary resided in California, neither of them visited mother often. In fact, Billy had at one point decidedly stopped communicating with her. Why he stopped, we didn't know, and years later mother would send an email to all my siblings including my brother asking why her only son had stopped speaking to her. Sadly, she passed away before she would never get an answer. So, I had taken it upon myself to at least call her once a week to make sure she was doing okay.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
5. My first impression of Hatem was one of wonderment
My first impression of Hatem was one of wonderment. Who was this fellow? The amazing stories that came out of his mouth seemed nothing more than sensational and, although red flags were popping up all over the place, intrigue and curiosity got the better of me. In every story, I knew, there is always an element of truth. I wanted to know the mind of this man.
I agreed to visit Hatem at his Outer Sunset studio on Twenty-third Avenue two weeks from the day he showed up at the restaurant. I really wasn't in any hurry. The stories he had offered about parts of his life had been curiously thought provoking yet questionable at best. And, to be honest, at that time, something underneath and inside my psyche seem to say that I shouldn't go to the meeting. It was a small voice – a red flag, but I knew I was going to go. Nothing else and nobody around me were telling me not to go, and, after all, I had known this man for over ten years. What could be the harm?
Hatem continued to call me daily prior to our meeting with his interesting stories that were both funny yet dubious. I laughed at most of them. I couldn't understand where or how he could have achieved three black belts. His thick black hair just didn't seem to relay an age ten years older than me. How could he have been a soldier in Egypt's six-day war? Did he really take down a band of thieves in the Mission? Who were the Black Scorpions? Was he truly the Egyptian four-star military general he said he was? What exactly was his role as a dignitary with or spy for with the Egyptian Consulate? Was he really affiliated with the Egyptian mafia?
Two weeks passed by with more stories. I was in awe! A professed doctor of psychology with a Ph.D., Hatem's compassion for the homeless and for the lessor privileged along with an ability to understand and explain the general mindset of different ethnic groups kept me listening. This was the side of him that seem true and real. It was what kept me intrigued. No one had ever presented a perspective on life to me the way he was doing. He had answers for almost everything, and for the things he didn't have an answer for, his answers were, "we will see" or "we are monitoring that".
The day finally arrived. It was clear and sunny out with a crisp breeze blowing. I climbed into my car and drove across the park headed toward his studio. I was early, so I parked a block away for the remainder of the time and checked my makeup. I didn't want to appear too anxious. At precisely 10:00 AM, I drove up to a house, parked my car, and walked across the street. I was nervous yet excited. Before I could reach the sidewalk, Hatem strolled out of the door and met me in the middle of the street. "I like that" he said with his crooked grin. "You are on time." "Of course" I answered with a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Didn't we agree to 10:00?"
Hatem led me into the house and down a couple stairs and into the garage where I saw numerous canvasses turned away and propped up against the sides the walls. Storage containers were placed around strategically and tubes of paint lay scattered about. At one end of the area was a makeshift table that comprised of a large door-like plank that sat atop a small refrigerator at one end and a small plastic chest of drawers at the other end. The refrigerator was decorated with a felt-tip line drawing of a headless nude. Although the entire garage was painted in gray, the concrete floor held the remnants of spray paint patterns. The walls, too, saw splatters of pigment. There were two old easy chairs on one side of the garage and in the center of the floor in front of the two chairs stood a large looming wooden easel that seemed to overpower the entire area.
"Please sit down". Hatem said breaking my thoughts. I took the chair next to me, and Hatem began. "would you like some coffee first?"
I agreed to visit Hatem at his Outer Sunset studio on Twenty-third Avenue two weeks from the day he showed up at the restaurant. I really wasn't in any hurry. The stories he had offered about parts of his life had been curiously thought provoking yet questionable at best. And, to be honest, at that time, something underneath and inside my psyche seem to say that I shouldn't go to the meeting. It was a small voice – a red flag, but I knew I was going to go. Nothing else and nobody around me were telling me not to go, and, after all, I had known this man for over ten years. What could be the harm?
Hatem continued to call me daily prior to our meeting with his interesting stories that were both funny yet dubious. I laughed at most of them. I couldn't understand where or how he could have achieved three black belts. His thick black hair just didn't seem to relay an age ten years older than me. How could he have been a soldier in Egypt's six-day war? Did he really take down a band of thieves in the Mission? Who were the Black Scorpions? Was he truly the Egyptian four-star military general he said he was? What exactly was his role as a dignitary with or spy for with the Egyptian Consulate? Was he really affiliated with the Egyptian mafia?
Two weeks passed by with more stories. I was in awe! A professed doctor of psychology with a Ph.D., Hatem's compassion for the homeless and for the lessor privileged along with an ability to understand and explain the general mindset of different ethnic groups kept me listening. This was the side of him that seem true and real. It was what kept me intrigued. No one had ever presented a perspective on life to me the way he was doing. He had answers for almost everything, and for the things he didn't have an answer for, his answers were, "we will see" or "we are monitoring that".
The day finally arrived. It was clear and sunny out with a crisp breeze blowing. I climbed into my car and drove across the park headed toward his studio. I was early, so I parked a block away for the remainder of the time and checked my makeup. I didn't want to appear too anxious. At precisely 10:00 AM, I drove up to a house, parked my car, and walked across the street. I was nervous yet excited. Before I could reach the sidewalk, Hatem strolled out of the door and met me in the middle of the street. "I like that" he said with his crooked grin. "You are on time." "Of course" I answered with a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Didn't we agree to 10:00?"
Hatem led me into the house and down a couple stairs and into the garage where I saw numerous canvasses turned away and propped up against the sides the walls. Storage containers were placed around strategically and tubes of paint lay scattered about. At one end of the area was a makeshift table that comprised of a large door-like plank that sat atop a small refrigerator at one end and a small plastic chest of drawers at the other end. The refrigerator was decorated with a felt-tip line drawing of a headless nude. Although the entire garage was painted in gray, the concrete floor held the remnants of spray paint patterns. The walls, too, saw splatters of pigment. There were two old easy chairs on one side of the garage and in the center of the floor in front of the two chairs stood a large looming wooden easel that seemed to overpower the entire area.
"Please sit down". Hatem said breaking my thoughts. I took the chair next to me, and Hatem began. "would you like some coffee first?"
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