I was working for a printer writing ad copy, helping with layouts and learning the mechanics of the printing process. In other words, I was the lackey. One of my jobs was to make beer runs during the day. Next door to the print shop was Friendship Grocers, owned by a Mr. Musaad Habib. Everyone called him Uncle Habib, his son Mohammed (Moe) ran the business, Uncle an his cronies sat at the back of the store drinking tea and smoking strong cigarettes. Moe was always in a hurry; answering the phone, waiting on customers, stocking shelves and when he made deliveries his beautiful wife would step in. I liked Moe, he was a busy, happy man, always smiling and in a perpetual good mood. I saw Moe every day because beer was a necessary fuel of the tropical printing business. I called him Moe and he always addressed me as ‘My Friend’.
Seemingly there was a network of Arab businessmen throughout the Caribbean and the shelves of Friendship Grocers were filled with delicacies and oddities from many islands. Whenever Uncle Habib had to deal with sources outside the Muslim cabal he would enlist my help with English letter writing. Our biggest coup was securing sole distributorship of ‘El Presidente’ beer from the Dominican Republic.
At this time my relationship with a beautiful American girl was failing because I worked all the time and I worked all the time because my relationship with the beauty was failing. During the week I was the night manager of the local Pizza Hut and on weekends I was a chef at a friend’s restaurant. Moe was impressed with my seeming productivity and wanted me to find him a second job. He bussed tables and washed dishes at the restaurant on weekends.
Moe being a good Muslim did not drink but he always had a ready supply of excellent hashish, thanks to connections within the cabal. I drank beer at all three jobs but the hash clicked off my taste for beer and the respite from alcohol envigorated me. “Oh, so that’s why Moe is smiling all the time.”
Eventually I quit all the niggardly jobs and took a Chef’s position on St. Thomas. Now instead of working all the time at three little jobs I worked all the time at one. I found a girlfriend more beautiful than the last and my good friend Moe kept me supplied with large chunks of fine Afghani hash.
Many years later I bought a small house near my father in south Kansas City. My backyard neighbor was a Muslim man named Mr. Aziz. I called him Aziz and he refered to me as ‘My Friend.’ He was a refugee from Sadaam’s Iraq, he owned a limouisine service and lived in a big house filled with five kids and a nice fat wife. Aziz dreamed of returning to his home country. After Bush brought down Sadaam, Aziz began planning his return. He sold the limouisine, sold the house and prepared the kids for a transition. “Aziz, won’t your family be in peril in a war torn country?” I asked. “No, my friend” Aziz answered. “We have friends in the Shiite community and I have much experience dealing with Americans. I will be part of the new Iraq.” Aziz loved this country, he worked hard and made a good life for his wife and kids but a refugee is always at a loss. He returned in 2004 and weathered the worst of the sectarian violence. He is still a businessman and a member of the new government. Aziz loved George Bush and we oftened argued but he was my friend.
