I paid attention the first time I heard it because of the word “Arabian,” but “warehouse eyes” frustrated me for two reasons: (1) A noun (“warehouse”) modifies another noun (“eyes”), which is grammatically poor, and (2) what does “warehouse eyes” mean? It does not present a logical visual analog for the listener.
So I asked Rebecca what “warehouse eyes” meant, and she said, “It’s a metaphor. But sometimes it’s just about the sound.”
I listened to the rest of the song, although it frustrated me that a musician could write something that he wants to be indecipherable, but then I remembered that Pollock’s paintings frustrated me initially before I adopted new strategies for viewing them. So I listened without analyzing the meaning in my conventional mode. And the fifth time he sang it, I suddenly had a mental tableau of a warehouse with two lighted windows, and even if my analysis was not parallel to Dylan’s original plan, his method now seemed like a slightly more valid way to write a song.
By the time the song was over, all our clothing was on the floor. I told myself it was incorrect behavior for Ramadan, but my body defeated my brain.
The CD changer switched and soon the song “With God on Our Side” played, and I continued listening. Like Lennon, Dylan was arguing that religion had caused many wars and made people act foolishly, e.g., “And you never ask questions, when God’s on your side.” Lennon and Dylan assumed that all religious people don’t evaluate what their religion tells them to do, when in fact some of the most thoughtful people I know are the most religious, because religion focuses not exclusively on spirituality but also on morality, which many people forget to consider.
And then I considered where I was: in bed with an American female, with both of us naked. I didn’t feel the way I did with Melissa, when it was as if I had committed a major crime, but possibly that was not a positive development. I remembered what Mr. Schrub said about how every day there are shifts that are so small you do not identify them, and finally you become a different person without even recognizing it.
I was truly not doing Ramadan this year.
“I should go home,” I said. She didn’t respond, so I exited the bed and replaced the white sheets partially over her body. “I am planning to be at the mosque all day tomorrow and will need to retire for a full night of sleep.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Usually guys want to leave after.”
I didn’t want to explain why I wanted to leave, but I also didn’t want to make her feel bad, and I heard her incorrectly and thought she said “Usual guys,” so I said, “Well, I am an unusual guy.” It didn’t make her laugh, although I was uncertain if it was because (1) the logic of the joke was flawed from the launch; (2) she was not in the proper mood to laugh; or (3) it was merely humorless.
I told her I would call her soon, and left before I further damaged our relationship. It was a long subway ride home, and whenever the doors opened, the cold air entered the train like a strong punch to my body. The whole time I was thinking how I could instead be warm in bed with her, but I couldn’t go back. It was like wanting to return the suits after I purchased them. Once you make a significant decision, it is difficult or sometimes impossible to reverse it.
I was afraid that if I called her she’d still be upset with me and I would say other foolish things, and she would wonder why she had consented to be with me originally, and then reject me. I also wondered why she was with me. I didn’t possess the very handsome face of someone like Jefferson (although I knew Rebecca wouldn’t want to be with someone like Jefferson), or the knowledge base of music and movies and original clothing like her male friends, and I made many foolish errors in conversation, and now I was causing problems in other ways.
But some of it was possibly her fault, e.g., she didn’t truly consider how I might feel about seeing her during Ramadan. And in fact most Americans I had met only thought about my religion in relation to food or alcohol, not about the spiritual areas. I walked around my living room in a rectangular pattern, and the more I thought about this, the more upset I grew, and I decided to write an email. It wasn’t to Rebecca, however:
Mr. Ray, I am responding to Mr. Schrub’s request about a contract he has for me to sign. Can you please tell him I am available to meet him at his earliest convenience?
big in = popular in
warehouse eyes = an example of a metaphor that may not have a directly logical meaning
JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: DECEMBER 13
Rebecca didn’t contact me the remainder of the weekend, and on Monday I avoided her in the office. In the morning I received a response from Mr. Ray that Mr. Schrub could meet me that afternoon for lunch. I was nervous of course, but I also felt confident that my epidemiology proposal would intrigue him.
The restaurant had an Italian name and was in the Financial District, so I walked there. Every table was full of business-people, but it was also very quiet and partially dark even though it was lunchtime.
I waited for Mr. Schrub at the bar and ordered a Coke, and in ten minutes he arrived and the main guard led us to a long table in a private section behind a door. Most of the eaters watched him as we walked past but pretended not to, and I felt their eyes observing me as well, and although attention usually makes me feel uncomfortable, now I felt stronger and sexier.
“I already arranged to do the chef’s menu,” Mr. Schrub told me. “And I made sure your food is vegetarian and otherwise appropriate.”
I reminded myself how much he had given me and that he was considering my needs and how luxurious the room we were in was, with paintings of apples and pears on the wall and a very white tablecloth that was simultaneously rigid and soft, and I told him I appreciated it.
Our waiter was probably the same age as Mr. Schrub, although he looked older. After he gave Mr. Schrub the wine menu, I said, “I have a new idea relating to Kapitoil.”
He put down the menu. “George said you hadn’t come up with anything.”
I felt foolish that Mr. Ray had said that, and it validated my fear that they were less impressed with me now, so I quickly explained how the epidemiology program would work and how my test results were robust so far.
Then, to conclude on another positive, I said, “I believe its applications are something your wife would find especially intriguing, as it can significantly enhance quality of life in the Third World.”
“How would you develop the program if, as you say, you don’t know much about epidemiology?” he asked.
“I would write the concept and reveal the algorithms for Kapitoil in an academic paper and release it to the public.” I turned my eyes to the wallpaper’s complex repeating pattern design of flower petals. “This means we would lose our monopoly on the program and it would no longer be valuable on the oil futures market.”
The waiter returned. “I don’t like to talk business over good food,” Mr. Schrub said quietly to me. “We’ll discuss it after the meal.”
He continued looking at the menu, and after 20 seconds the waiter said, “We have an ’88 Chianti that perfectly complements chef’s menu.”
Mr. Schrub didn’t look up from the menu, but his facial muscles compressed and he said, “If I wanted a recommendation I would have asked for one.”
The waiter’s face was already pale, but it seemed to turn paler. “I apologize, sir,” he said.