Lunch with Desire (Dez-i-ray)

As always, I walk past the security guard as I leave the centre for my midday break.

“Enjoy your legs!” he shouts at me, after I’ve passed.

“Sorry?” I turn my head back towards him. I didn't catch what he said.

“Enjoy your legs, nay?”

Enjoy your legs. We seem to have reached a new level of intimacy. In a way, I respect the guy for repeating it to my face. Brave. I know women don’t generally show bare legs here but I thought a skirt that fell below my knees would blend in. Apparently not.

My co-worker Desire catches up with me as I leave the 7-11 on the corner. I’ve just put an incredibly chewy candy in my mouth and I literally can’t say hello. I point to my frozen jaw and I wave hello to his face, 10 inches away. He gets it and laughs, tipping his whole body back and balancing on one foot. This makes me laugh as well, and I probably drool.

Desire is from the Democratic Republic of Congo, or DRC. Miriam (hey Mirm!) and I always joke that the more war-torn Congo becomes, the more peaceful adjectives get added onto its name. The Tranquil Oasis of Congo, The Serene Diplomatic Safe Haven of Congo, etc.

Desire usually greets me in French and I hold my own for a few sentences and then devolve into English. He speaks gently and softly, and carefully. Silences are ok with him.

“Where are you going?” he asks me, as we fall into stride together.

“I was going to get a hot mug of something at this place.” I point to the nameless coffee shop/fast food restaurant ahead. I’ve been going there to plan my lessons and have time alone. It's been a long morning and I’m craving time to myself right now, but I feel like I should invite Desire to join me.

“Oh yes, I was also wanting to get some chips.” It sounds more like “chups.” They are having them here, yes?”

“Yep they have chips. Join me.” I tip my head in the direction of the restaurant.

I order a cup of coffee (I am quitting tomorrow!) and Desire gets coffee and a plate of French fries with ketchup and salt and vinegar. My coffee comes with a tiny little star-shaped cookie.

After a bit of work-related venting (not surprisingly, we feel the same way about Antonia), I ask Desire which area of Congo he is from - the part with the war? Be more specific he says. This prompts him to defend the Congolese.

“What happens here, killing for nothing, for R5, this would never happen in Congo. That robber would get chased by everyone else who saw it. They would beat him up.”

“Really. Wow, so people hold each other accountable?”

“Yes! Of course!” His eyebrows raise as he cuts into the stack of fries with his fork.

“People kill people there, but this is because of the war. Never for a cell phone. First of all, that’s not yours!” He means the cell phone.

“Huh.”

“People would never pull that kind of shit in Congo.” Sheet.

We move to the subject of 9-11 (naturally).

“Why is your country having so much fear about terrorists?” he asks.

“Well, a lot of it isn’t based on anything, but 9-11 did happen.”

“No, no. This is done by the U.S. government.” My dad hates this kind of thinking. I’m not a fan of it right now either.

I ask Desire where he heard this and he says he read it. I ask him if he really thinks that kind of large-scale deception is possible.

“Yes! You know that all the Jews, none of them went to this Trade Center on 9-11.”

“No, Desire, that is not true. That is an untrue thing you read.” I don't want to risk losing this in translation.

I tell him I am Jewish.

“Oh, pleased to meet you!” Desire’s face beams and he clutches my upper arm as if greeting a long-lost friend. I’m the first Jew he has met.

“I think now that I have a Jewish friend, maybe I will be rich!” I laugh because I don’t know what else to do.

Desire wants to know everything about Judaism, from customs to why we are all rich.

“I have to ask you something, and I hope you do not mind. I need to know - how can you tell Jews from just regular Americans?”

I do my best to fill him in, in the most politically correct way I know, and I remind him about the Jews in Africa. I don’t want to get too academic though. Desire tells me about a Jewish music group whose name he can’t remember, made of Jews of all colors. He thinks they are good and I tell him I will google them.

Desire leaves me to plan my lesson.

“I am excited because my new Jewish friend will bring me good luck!”

I salute him as he walks out the door.