النرجيلة

Sphinx is, by and large, ephemeral.

A small hookah bar located near Tyson’s mall in Virginia, the mood in Sphinx changes as frequently as the perfumed smoke that swirls through the air: no two nights in Sphinx will feel the same.

There is one facet of Sphinx, however, that is immutable. It doesn’t matter whether one is Black, White, Indian, or Asian... only the bar’s Arabic patrons get the soft, cushy seats in the rear of the bar where the light is most dim.

I once crossed the line separating the bar, and immediately felt the almost psychic weight of a dozen dark eyes bearing down upon me. I didn’t stay long.

***

Mr. Rayyan is almost as changeable as the bar he runs- one moment he’ll be grinning as he brings out the glowing coals of shisha for the hookahs, and the next he’ll be glaring from the back of the bar, a cloud of smoke all but obscuring his swarthy visage.

If Sphinx is the macrocosm, Mr. Rayyan is the microcosm.

Arabic himself, Mr. Rayyan drew the invisible line that separates the restaurant in two: he’ll take your money, but in the end it comes down to his people and the rest of the world.

***

Kumbayah is a foreign concept at Sphinx.

Perfumed smoke may fill the air, and glittering lights may shine, but it’s all a facade under which the rot of racism and segregation, the truly immutable qualities of Sphinx, are hiding.

One wonders if the rest of Virginia is the same.





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