Thou Shalt Not Bare False Witness
By Nicole Melnick
After a month of starting over again, after learning what starting over again meant, Danielle sat nervously at the front desk of the North Hollywood motel where she worked and lived watching the CCTV screens. All 13 of them, including a camera fixed on her position at the desk and one on the crack house across the street. “Funny,” she thought to herself, because she had practiced how to look hard and high on something when she was young and walking the streets of her bored hometown, the state’s capitol, alone. She really thought she pulled it off well. It wasn’t her appearance, she mused. It was an energy. A certain, “nobody had better fuck with me today,” vibe that may or may not have been responsible for the fact that she had never been fucked with. It was empowering. Her training began there. She would come to need it.
That was only five years ago, when she was just 18. That was before she was a mother and would do anything to keep her little family together. That was before September 11, 2001 when Danielle and her prophetic husband, Michael, along with their 18-month-old daughter in tow had a parallel apocalypse in Oaxaca City. They were both still processing Oaxaca, 9/11, the faces of “the gods” above the great pyramid Monte Alban and cascading like a waterfall in explosive plumes over the twin towers before they did their free fall. Prophetic because no sooner had the three of them gotten to safety when Michael pauses, looks over the valley of Oaxaca, mountains being kissed good night by the sinking sun, and exclaims, “I just saw the face of Jesus turn into a mushroom cloud!”
After they left Oaxaca with their lives intact Danielle felt a spiritual protection that can only come to someone who had fallen to their knees in begging God to spare them. More importantly to find them pure and holy. For only God and the devils who play with the lives of the meek and innocent know exactly what happened that day. But the gods were angry if they were to believe their own eyes. The cacophony of sounds that came from the network of indigenous markets, the most humble people of the second poorest state in the United States of Mexico had awakened something within the 23-year old’s soul like a distant memory that seeps into the foremind from the subconscious of something that has yet to happen.
One thing was certain. The motel was a trap and their only hope at the same time. The last stop before sleeping in the car. No way. She was going to have to put up with the abuse of her bosses and some of the clientele of the 100 rooms built in 1924. Despite it all, Danielle, Michael, and their daughter, Ananda, were enjoying each other and making the best of it. The place had a pool, perfect for the hot months ahead, and a small kitchen for everyone to share. Danielle loved it. She felt that she was amongst the real people. The salt of the earth. The only people you can really count on when you are down and out because they have been there. There they were in the San Fernando Valley, which they insisted that they never would find themselves except to visit Michael’s parents.
Being at this place again but in her own country, her own state, but with the same people essentially gave her great comfort. A large and cheerful painting of Jean Harlowe was the only other thing to look at while manning the desk. That was the only reminder that the hotel was just an old Hollywood pit-stop and still was. Only for the manual labor of the industry and the occasional actor that has not made their mark yet. She had just come back from chasing an easily 350 lb. gangster out of the building after he snuck into the parking area gate. It was just a little more than she usually had to deal with. The worst part was yet to come, putting another call into the proprietor of the semi-transient population hotel.
“Everything is fine, Mr. Pilphard, sir. Don’t worry. I got him out. I don’t think that he wanted the police called out here to pick him up.”
“Did I or did I not tell you before that we are the police at this hotel? It is your job to make sure that the police don’t have to ever come to this “hotel” because of some God damned piece of shit cholo looking to score or whatever else. I spent a lot of time and energy changing this establishment from the meth lab and brothel that it was. Do me a favor,” his voice turns to from a roar to a whine, indicating he was going to drive the final screw to Danielle’s head. “Why don’t you just quit now if you can’t handle it?”
The whole concept of starting over again was now intrinsically connected with her job there. Danielle knew that if she lost this job, not only would they not have the money to pay every week, but it was just a matter of time before they too were “packed out,” meaning that when the three of them left the building, the other “hotel” managers would come and very quickly and carelessly throw all of their belongings in heavy duty garbage bags and place them on the street. They would be placed on the ‘DNR’ which stands for Do Not Rent. She had the job of packing out hotel patrons many times before. It was something so antithesis to her nature that she cried more than once during such proceedings, apologizing as secretly as possible if the patron happened to return while the pack out was ongoing. She even vomited as a result of anyone thinking she was part of such a travesty. There weren’t that many places for people to go. Families to go. Not pay by day or week, no deposits, refrigerator and TV in each room kind of places. Many times, patrons, almost always getting packed out for something she was sure they were innocent of, or some erroneous reason, told Danielle that they understood it wasn’t her doing it. They got that she and her family were no different than they were. Residency tenuous at best despite working for the place. Pilphard didn’t look favorably on anyone or any thing.
“Sir, I assure you everything is fine. I did not call the police. I called you. I trust your judgement in these tense situations. You must have been in law enforcement yourself?
“It’s none of your G-d damned business, missy. You don’t ask me one God damned question about my personal life. Do you understand?
“Yes, of course, sir. Forgive me. Yes, I can do everything you ask of me. Count on it.”
She hangs up the phone still shaking from head to toe. She didn’t know if she was built for this, but she didn’t have a choice either.
She lights a cigarette and takes a slow drag, wishing that she was instead doing her rhythmic breathing exercises to steady her racing heart.
Six months later, Danielle was surprised that she managed to barely hang on to her job, but also felt as though she had come to be relied on. The head manager, Vickie Grimes, was sick off and on, respiratory issues, and she needed someone trustworthy to take on more responsibility around the hotel. The ancient and humongous hot water tank was leaking, and they feared it was about to blow. Vickie had asked Danielle to take over watching the desk while Danielle’s husband did Vickie a favor and took her to the Saturn dealership to pick up her new car Mr. and Mrs. Pilphard had helped her purchase.
Up walks the young and happy couple from Georgia there on honeymoon, to greet Danielle, if they could just keep their hands off each other for two minutes. Khadija and Kwame, 18-year-old kids, always laughing and playing, seemingly without a care in the world. For someone wearing full Muslim attire, and Khadija’s face fully covered with a black burka., it was refreshing. Muslims had much to worry about. Hate crimes were on the rise since 9/11. Being so young, they seemed to be in their own magical world where their love and new life together was all that existed. Danielle perked up and greeted them warmly, like old friends.
“Hello my friends. It looks like you have been out enjoying Los Angeles as well as each other as usual. Do anything fun?”
“Yes, girl! We went to Universal Studios and saw the Bates Motel and Jaws and lots of other stuff.”
“Then I took my baby to the beach just in time for sunset,” Kwame quickly added, grabbing her waist from behind and kissing her excitedly on the cheek.
“Well,” Danielle smiles, “at least this isn’t the Bates Motel and Tony Perkins doesn’t live here. I am sure of that.”
They all said their goodnights and the couple walked hip to hip up the staircase. Danielle looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. Her shift would soon be over, and she would be relieved. To her this was the best part of the day. Michael was a writer and student, the proverbial night owl. With their daughter fast asleep and Danielle fresh off the night shift, they partook of the sole pipeful of ganga for the day. Climbing into the bathtub and blowing smoke through the bathroom window, they smoked quickly and quietly, if they knew the coast was clear.
“They called me ‘Comandante.’” Michael recalled with great honor. “They knew that we escaped the trap set for us by climbing the mountainside with our baby. Don’t forget that they called you Mary! They saw my interview in La Jornada renouncing my American citizenship. They probably even knew that you refused to talk with Mark at the consulate. They all know he’s just a little too ‘perfect’ to not have been a CIA post. It’s a political hotbed. They probably feel it like I do. Oaxaca is ripe for an uprising. We spread seeds and gave the people courage to plant the seeds when the time is right. You heard the radio broadcast. They called us the “Little Guerillas.” They liked our chutzpah for organizing “La Brigada De Los Ninos.” It’s filthy because the government is not providing the necessary services to the people working hard every day just to survive. The teachers are right on, rallying in the zocalo every morning at dawn.”
“Don’t forget about when you silenced the entire zocalo when you tore into that fascist German for his racism. It was like the voice of God when you said, ‘You are next, motherfucker. Alemania is next!’ The people couldn’t believe someone finally called the pig out! Guys like that should stay home if they aren’t going to be respectful to the people and culture where they are foreigners. You could hear a pin drop. Of course, it was more effective having treated all the servers in the restaurants like worthy human beings. Tipping nicely too. Europeans in Mexico think the can get away with murder. Kind of like Old Ironsides, Mr. Pilphard.” Michael’s face changed from an excited but tense to enraged.
Danielle and Michael shared a bond that was beyond friend, family, or lover. It was intense and magical from the very beginning. She, being 27 years his minor, eagerly learned from him all the worldly, if not sordid and outlandish things that he had picked up from the cast of characters he came across as a labor organizer and representative. He was born for it, but Danielle often mused what it would have been like if he had gone into his first love which was film. He would have been a great actor, director, screen writer. It almost happened too. His family always compared his great looks with that of Tyrone Power. His mother’s uncle married the sister of the founder of Fox Studios, William Fox. Aunt Malvina was the acting and speech coach for all of Fox Studio’s main stars, from Clark Gable to Loretta Young. The Golden Age of Hollywood. Michael’s other great uncle was assistant director of 33 films at Fox Studios and his grandfather ran the Fox Studios commissary as well as a restaurant across the street from Fox where the main attraction was Chop Suey and discreet tables for couples to meet on the regular and hush hush, like Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn. Michael was expected to learn a different career, so that he didn’t have to rely upon the waxing and waning opportunities of Hollywood, then he could, with the family blessing, pursue whatever career he imagined within the industry. He had a lot of practice in theater growing up. Then he was counselor at a summer camp for the boys of the Hollywood elite, and he put on a great show with the kids for their parents to feel as though it was money well spent.
To put it mildly, no matter what Michael was doing, he did it as though he were speaking to a crowd of a couple thousand people and he wasn’t shy of confrontation. He spent 6 months in L.A. County jail where he turned 21 years old. Trumped up charges of “inciting to riot,” when he led the Vietnam War moratorium on campus of his university. Michael was one of the best labor organizers in California history. He and his fellow comrades organized all the psychiatric technicians of the California State Hospitals for the Criminally Insane. Along came Governor Ronald Reagan and closed them overnight. It was painfully obvious the entire state over, but especially the crowed downtown areas. People talked to themselves and yelled at demons, fighting with their own demon fire as to not be outdone by their “adversary/adversaries.”
He had a deep seeded hatred for the oppressors of the world, and now especially for the one that was responsible for Danielle breaking down in tears, time to time. He was her wild eyed, do anything, say anything, speak truth to power above all else hero. He only knew what Danielle told him about Mr. Pilphard. He knew that, even after getting off work at midnight, Mr. Pilphard had sent someone to pound on their door at 6 A.M. only to get chewed out. She did try to spare him from some of the more painful details, but he knew just as well as she did that they were, for the time being, going to have to bare down and endure Pilphard’s meltdowns towards themselves and all the other hotel dwellers.
In a way, it was part of passing the reigns to Danielle, just like he explained to her was his intention. He could not wait to see her “all grown up.” She also had since she could remember a heart for equality and justice, truth and unity. She knew from an early age that her pain for others ran deep. Deeper than most. She just wondered if she could ever rise to the strata of people like her husband, with their flawless ability to speak and captivate the multitudes. She was shyer and not so quick to be the center of attention. In fact, she disliked attention and she detested confrontation, but believed in Malcom X’s maxim “by any means necessary.”
Early one morning Vickie, the ever-faithful minion of Mr. Pilphard, came to ask Danielle to come to the office immediately, a little short of breath and a demeanor of composure, covering up panic. Danielle readied herself promptly and followed Vickie down the long hallway to the office.
“There are two detectives from the Los Angeles Task Force on Terrorism here to ask you some questions about a couple that you rented to.”
“What couple?” Danielle couldn’t imagine who the Terrorism Task Force would find suspicious. Then it struck her just before Vickie gave her the answer. Khadija and Kwame. She kept her mouth shut and waited. All she could say in reply was, “what on Earth do you mean?” This was not good news. She nauseously walked to the office with Vickie and the detectives were waiting patiently and asked to speak with her alone in the back office.
“Hi, Danielle,” he asks as he simultaneously extents his hand in a handshake and pulls out a chair. “Please sit down. My name is Detective Leonardo Gonzales and I am with the Los Angeles Task Force on Terrorism. We were called here today by the manager Vickie Grimes who was notified by one of the guests here that she overheard a bomb threat. Did you rent a room to Mr. Kwame and Mrs. Khadija Abdullah”?
“Yes, I did. They have been staying here for about 2 weeks now, here on their honeymoon from Georgia. They have never exhibited anything unusual whenever I have been around them or talked to them, which is more than anyone else here. Who is accusing them?
“A 13-year-old girl. Amber Wilson. She said that she saw them outside at the back of the building doing something strange on the stairs, and she said that they talked about bombing the building.”
“Well, Detective Gonzales, I just have to tell you that I believe she has made the whole thing up. I have seen Mr. Abdullah helping Mrs. Abdullah do pull ups on the stairs, if that is what she is referring to. But I could almost guarantee that they said no such thing about bombing this building or any other building. They are 18-year-old American kids from Georgia, in love and on their honeymoon, staying in the only affordable place around. They are lovely, kind, and normal people, who are also Muslim. I have spoken to them numerous times, and I can’t point to anything suspicious about them in the slightest. I work here 8 hours a day, 6 days a week, so I have a lot of interaction with them as well as all the other patrons. I think the little girl, Amber, is a bored and ignorant child who wanted to invent some excitement.”
She tried to sound emphatic and not fanatic. She had her own reasons for wanting to stay under the radar, but she could not tolerate these young people being put under the microscope of the likes of a terrorism task force. She wanted to ring Amber’s neck. She hoped that somehow, miraculously, they would not question the couple directly, but that would be too much to hope for, she supposed.
“That’s pretty much what we figure too. We asked her questions about what she says she witnessed, and she did not sound very credible. Well, Danielle, thank you so much for your time. You have been very helpful to us. If you ever have anything to add or have any questions, don’t hesitate to call us,” taking out a card from his suit pocket.
She thanked him and left the office stricken with grief. It would have been worse had Detective Gonzalez not agreed with her, but she also felt Kwame and Khadija’s world of youth, innocence, and love being incinerated at the mere suggestion of them being terrorists. Thou shalt not bear false witness against they neighbor. What ever happened to that?
Danielle waited in the office during her regular shift on pins and needles. Kwame and Khadija would be coming through that front door, but she knew that it wouldn’t be the usual small talk. What did they already know? What would she tell them? She wanted to say how disappointed she was that there could be such ugliness and lying, especially from a child. September 11, 2001 had a devastating impact on the psyche of the American population. It was a justified fear like the American people have never known before. The Muslim community was especially vulnerable, as they would be looked at, threatened, and brutalized by the xenophobic mob and law enforcement alike for being one among a billion brothers and sisters who proudly proclaim that there is no G-d but Allah and Mohammed (A.S.) is His prophet. She wanted to say something that erased the whole affair from their memories. That was of course impossible. There was no way of avoiding the trauma.
The couple came through the front door into the lobby, Khadija walking full speed ahead when she zeroed in that Danielle was the one on duty. She was crying and her body seemed to be pulled down lower to the ground or like she had been through a grinder of inhumanity. Danielle looked at her lovingly, sympathetically in her deeply beautiful but devastated eyes crying out for help through her burka, then Kwame, and first assured them both that she was asked to talk with the detectives and from the bottom of her soul she knew that everything was now okay. Then she told them from the beginning everything she knew and how if nothing else, they had a friend in her that would go the distance to defend them. That gave them some comfort and they thanked her and went quickly to their rooms to talk about going back home to Georgia, unsure if they were even allowed to leave the Los Angeles area. Were they now on a list of people who would be forever suspected of being terrorists? Would they be safe on the streets? At the Studio Lodge Hotel?
Danielle went back to their room at her shift’s end. Michael greeted her with a hug and kiss and wiped the tears from her face.
“What happened sweetheart? Did you talk to them? Are they okay? What are they going to do?”
All she could answer was convulsions of harder tears and a tightening of her grip on him.
Two days later they came to tell Danielle that because of what 13-year-old Amber had done, they were getting dirty looks from the other guests and they didn’t feel at all safe. They were given the option of returning home and they would be leaving in the morning.
“Thank you for everything, Danielle. You were the only friend we made out here. L.A. isn’t really our thing. Something wrong with people out here. I gotta get my baby home. It’s been very nice to know you. Take care of yourself.”
“I will pray that nothing like this harm you or any innocent people ever again, Insha Allah,” Danielle said softly with her head bowed.
“Mashallah, sister!” Khadija exclaimed, surprised to hear the tongue of her faith spoken by a young Caucasian woman. “I will always remember you with love. God willing, we will meet again. In Islam there are 29 hadiths that talk of the return of Jesus, we call him Isa (a.s.), and Imam Mahdi (a.s.) for the day of reckoning. We all have a lot more in common than most people will ever know.”
“Amen sister. You are talking to a Jew who looks to Jesus for guidance, so I appreciate you sharing that with me. We are all of Abraham. All I know is that I look as deeply into all this ancient knowledge our ancestors guarded with their lives to pass on to us. There is so much access to information in the tech age. People must try and understand where we are all coming from and that we are all reaching for closeness with the Creator. To me that is the greatest thing. Salaam malaikum my friends.”
To be continued…
