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Desert Storm Trooper

It was hot and humid. The usual for Khobar in August. I was standing on the sidewalk in front of my favorite Thai restaurant cursing that stupid shop keeper for not being able to break a 500 Riyal bill. His attempting to find another shop with change had delayed my getting in the restaurant before prayer call. In spite of racing through the streets, I hadn't made it. Now the door was locked. This was the Isha prayer, the last and the longest of the day. It would last for a half-hour. I was disgusted. No, I was pissed. I should be used to this but it was still foreign. I was one of the thousands of western expats working in the Middle East. Few of us equated the sacrifices to 'cultural experiences' or 'career objects'. We were here for the money. And the whole country shutting down six times a day while the faithful prayed was a pain in the ass.

I was glancing up and down the street trying to decide what to do. There was no sense in trying any other restaurants or shops, they were all closed. If you could get in a restaurant before or even during prayer call, they were pretty good about letting you stay. It was my usual plan for my infrequent trips to town. "Fuck!" I muttered and kicked the curb. Just walking was out of the question. I was sweating like a racehorse as it was. I didn't really want to go back to the Shoula mall. That place always filled up with cigarette smoke during ...

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