Friday at last. Pay day for some. The start of the weekend for many. A day of prayer for people of certain faiths, like Muslims. Good Muslims are at the mosque, doing their Salah or prayer. Aziz Ali, a Somali brother who is Muslim by birth, is nowhere near the mosque. This brother is hanging around downtown Ottawa, trying to pick up chicks at the Rideau Shopping Center.
"Not interested," said the tall, slim black chick with short hair in the University of Ottawa sports jacket, after Aziz accosted her at the local branch of the Freedom Mobile Store. Aziz nodded, acting cool, even though the stinging rejection made his heart wince. He watched Miss Slim Thick, as he thought of her in his mind walk away, that fine butt of hers looking damn good in those yoga pants.
"Win some and lose some," Aziz said to himself while stroking his goateed chin. Six feet two inches tall, slim and fit, with smooth chocolate skin and slick, curly dark hair, Aziz is a fine specimen of Northeast African masculinity. The brother has been told more times than allowable how damn fine he is, and sometimes it gets to his head. Still, he looked almost dejected as he made his way past Nordstrom, toward the escalator.
On the afternoon in question, Aziz wore his trademark, all-seasons, well-worn black leather jacket over a blue silk shirt, black silk pants and black Timberland boots. He'd finished his overnight shift at the TD MBNA Call Center in Gloucester, Ontario, gotten a good six hours of sleep and then went to Rideau, his stomping grounds. Too bad he wasn't picking up anything.
Aziz knew that with the female of the species, timing and presentation are indeed everything. In his twenty-something years, he'd been with ladies of all hues, from college girls to middle-aged housewives, and everything in between. Even the best hunter can be eluded by shrewd prey, this much Aziz knew for sure. The brother was so preoccupied he didn't notice a pair of lively, amused green eyes following him as he made his way down the packed escalator.
Aziz headed to the food court, which was the very last place a brother should go to holler at women. Women tend to be alert, and a bit self-conscious, when dining in public, especially when by themselves. A pickup artist has his work cut out for him if he wants to come at them in that specific locale. The gals who are dining with friends will band together against even a mildly intrusive male, and the gals dining by themselves usually have issues. Not a good mix for a pickup artist like Aziz...
"Whatever," Aziz said to himself, as he ordered some food from Manchu Wok. There were several young women in line behind him, some of whom were wearing Carleton University gear. The thought of Carleton University, his alma mater, made Aziz smile. Two years ago he graduated with his bachelor's degree in Computer Science, and somehow ended up working at a call center for sixteen bucks per hour. Life is funny that way.
Aziz briefly glanced at the gals in line, and shook his head. One of them, a tall, blue-eyed and curvy blonde, was standing awfully close to a short-haired, tattooed, kind of tomboyish South Asian gal in urban gear. Miss Tomboy was glaring defiantly at Aziz while possessively grasping the hand of the alluring blonde. Behind them, a short, slim Chinese gal was typing on her cell phone. This isn't my day, Aziz thought sourly.
"Thank you," Aziz said to the short Asian lady, after using his BMO debit card to pay for his grub. The young man looked for a seat, and finally found one after searching for some time. An older white couple got up, vacating a pair of seats near the edge of the Rideau Shopping Center food court. Aziz sat down, and out of a habit, closed his eyes before attacking his meal.
"Bismillah and bon appetite to me," Aziz said to himself as he looked at his meal. Pulling a Pepsi can out of his backpack, Aziz opened it, and took a sip. It was warm, the result of having been in his bag for hours. Whatever, Aziz wasn't going to buy another can, not here at the mall, where they charged almost as much as they did in movie theaters. Thanks but no thanks, a brother has to be smart with his cash.
"Salaam, brother," came a feminine voice, snatching Aziz out of his mid-afternoon funk. Aziz looked up, and found himself facing a vision of beauty. Before him stood a tall, curvy, red-haired and green-eyed young woman with freckles all over her alabaster skin. It took him a moment to recognize his former classmate, Deshi "Deedee" Sheripov, the Chechen immigrant gal with whom he butted heads, once upon a time.
"Hello Deedee, my, it's been a while," Aziz replied, and Deedee smiled as he hastily offered her the seat opposite him. The young woman sat down, and began to steeple her fingers while a nervous Aziz looked on. Deedee looked quite beautiful in a long-sleeved black T-shirt featuring Ice Cube, ankle-length drab blue dress and boots. Most of her lovely red hair was tucked under an ebony fedora hat which suited her just fine.
