Basima means smiling in Arabic. Therefore, bringing joy to people’s lives.

She made Salman happy. Or so she thought. Their home was filled with good smells from her cooking, good spirits from their prayers, and good laughter from the children. Basima means smiling. The mother of two was always smiling.

They owned a small store on Hunts Point. Sold falafel, halal meats, pita bread, lottery tickets, and non-perishable items, but no alcohol. Basima did not allow it. She saw what it did to people; stumbling around Hunts Point, lying on the sidewalks, throwing up in alleys. She told her husband she wanted no part of that; the demise of a fellow human being. Reluctantly, he agreed.

The store closed at 10:00 p.m. With little traffic, Salman made it to their house in Queens in a half-hour. And there would be Basma smiling when he walked through the door. A wife waiting for her husband. He’d kiss her and then check on the two children asleep in their beds under Scooby-Doo sheets and Cinderella blankets.

Hunts Point. It either eats you up or you eat it up. Days become routine.  Pushers, pimps, prostitutes, junkies, crackheads, crazies, all of them in and out of your store all day and into the night. Some stole from Salman while he would steal from them; trading food stamps for cash can  be very lucrative indeed. Easy money. It makes one want more. One can want too much. Temptation was always there.

Temptation killed Salman. Somehow, the father of two took to being a john. He became quite fond of the cheap blow jobs from strung out white girls, black chics, Puerto Rican women with slow drunken accents, and dark mascara. 

Salman was falling deeper and deeper into the world of infidels. Godless people who had lost their way. And this would be the death of him. The American streets filled with shit killed the father of two and husband to one loving wife, Basima, who always smiled.