BEIRUT — The workday is over, and I’m standing in the driveway beneath my worn concrete apartment building, digging in my pocket for keys. A headlight flashes from the street to my left — a moped pulling up to the entrance. The driver, who sports a black balaclava and an AK-47, drops off his hefty, similarly attired passenger. Slipping a key into the lock of the gate to the lobby, I am acutely aware of this faceless gunman waiting impatiently behind me.
I pause. Shouldn’t he produce his own keys to get in? I opt for polite — he does, after all, have his hands full — and give the bars an extra push, allowing him to follow through behind me. He returns the courtesy by stretching the eyehole of his mask down and hooking it under his chin, revealing the clean-shaven young neighbour I met on the elevator one afternoon last month. He says hi, I say hi, and we both take a step toward our reflections in the mirrored wall of the small, Italian-made lift.
“Big day today, huh?” I ask as we start to climb.
“Yeah,” he replies blankly, rearranging his grip so as to hold both the AK and his extra banana clip more comfortably.
