work any given day.”
They were at a stop sign, and Charlie took a long look at Zeitoun. “Then there’s you. You have the perfect excuse. All you have is a bike, and the bike has a flat. But you’re carrying your bike on your back. You’re the only guy I’ve ever known who would have done something like that.”
After that day, things moved quickly forward and upward for Zeitoun. Within a year, he had saved enough to buy his own truck. Two years later, he was working for himself and employing a dozen men.
At noon Zeitoun made his way to the Islamic Center on St. Claude—a humble-looking mosque and community gathering place downtown. Though his siblings worshiped in a variety of ways, Zeitoun was perhaps the most devout, missing none of his daily prayers. The Qur’an asked Muslims to worship five times daily: once between first light and dawn; again after midday; at mid-afternoon; at sunset; and lastly an hour and a half after sunset. If he found himself near home during the afternoon prayers, he would stop, but otherwise he prayed wherever he was, on any job. He had worshiped all over the city by now, at job sites, in parks, and in the homes of friends, but on Fridays he always stopped here, to meet friends for the
jumu’ah
, a ritual gathering of all the Muslim men in the community.
Inside, he first washed in a ritual cleansing called
wuduu
, required of worshipers. Then he began his prayers:
In the name of God, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful:
Praise be to God, the Lord of the Heavens and the Earth.
The Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful.
Master of the Day of Judgment.
You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help.
Guide us to the straight way;
the way of those whom you have blessed,
not of those who have deserved anger,
nor of those who are astray …
Afterward he called Kathy.
“It’ll be a Category 3 soon,” she said.
Kathy was at home, checking the weather online.
“Coming at us?” he asked.
“They say it is.”
“When?”
“Not sure. Maybe Monday.”
Zeitoun dismissed it. Monday, to him, meant never. This had happened before, Zeitoun noted, so many times. The storms always raged across Florida, wreaking havoc, and then died somewhere overland or in the Gulf.
Kathy’s call waiting went off; she said goodbye to Zeitoun and switched over. It was Rob Stanislaw, a longtime client and friend.
“You leaving or are you crazy?” he asked.
Kathy cackled. “‘I want to leave. Of course. But I can’t speak for my husband.”
Rob had a similar predicament. His husband, Walt Thompson, was like Zeitoun—bullheaded, always feeling like his information was better than what anyone else had access to. Rob and Walt had been togetherfor fifteen years, and had been close with the Zeitouns since 1997. They had hired the Zeitouns to help with the renovation of a house they’d bought, and immediately the two couples had clicked. Over the years they’d grown to depend on each other.
Walt’s family was in Baton Rouge, and it was likely that Rob and Walt would go there for the weekend, he said. Rob and Kathy agreed to update each other throughout the day.
She was about to take a break from the internet when something caught her attention. A news item, just posted: a family of five was missing at sea. The details were few—two parents, three kids aged four, fourteen, and seventeen. They had been sailing in the Gulf, and had been expected Thursday in Cape Coral. But when the storm came, they’d lost contact. Family and friends had notified the Coast Guard, and boats and planes were searching as best they could. That was all anyone knew for now, and it looked bad.
Kathy was a mess. Stories like this just wrecked her.
Kathy called her husband. “Rob and Walt are leaving.”
“Really? Walt wants to leave?”
Zeitoun trusted Walt’s judgment on just about everything.
Kathy thought she might have her husband tilting her way. “Fifteen inches of rain, I hear.”
Silence from
They were at a stop sign, and Charlie took a long look at Zeitoun. “Then there’s you. You have the perfect excuse. All you have is a bike, and the bike has a flat. But you’re carrying your bike on your back. You’re the only guy I’ve ever known who would have done something like that.”
After that day, things moved quickly forward and upward for Zeitoun. Within a year, he had saved enough to buy his own truck. Two years later, he was working for himself and employing a dozen men.
At noon Zeitoun made his way to the Islamic Center on St. Claude—a humble-looking mosque and community gathering place downtown. Though his siblings worshiped in a variety of ways, Zeitoun was perhaps the most devout, missing none of his daily prayers. The Qur’an asked Muslims to worship five times daily: once between first light and dawn; again after midday; at mid-afternoon; at sunset; and lastly an hour and a half after sunset. If he found himself near home during the afternoon prayers, he would stop, but otherwise he prayed wherever he was, on any job. He had worshiped all over the city by now, at job sites, in parks, and in the homes of friends, but on Fridays he always stopped here, to meet friends for the
jumu’ah
, a ritual gathering of all the Muslim men in the community.
Inside, he first washed in a ritual cleansing called
wuduu
, required of worshipers. Then he began his prayers:
In the name of God, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful:
Praise be to God, the Lord of the Heavens and the Earth.
The Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful.
Master of the Day of Judgment.
You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help.
Guide us to the straight way;
the way of those whom you have blessed,
not of those who have deserved anger,
nor of those who are astray …
Afterward he called Kathy.
“It’ll be a Category 3 soon,” she said.
Kathy was at home, checking the weather online.
“Coming at us?” he asked.
“They say it is.”
“When?”
“Not sure. Maybe Monday.”
Zeitoun dismissed it. Monday, to him, meant never. This had happened before, Zeitoun noted, so many times. The storms always raged across Florida, wreaking havoc, and then died somewhere overland or in the Gulf.
Kathy’s call waiting went off; she said goodbye to Zeitoun and switched over. It was Rob Stanislaw, a longtime client and friend.
“You leaving or are you crazy?” he asked.
Kathy cackled. “‘I want to leave. Of course. But I can’t speak for my husband.”
Rob had a similar predicament. His husband, Walt Thompson, was like Zeitoun—bullheaded, always feeling like his information was better than what anyone else had access to. Rob and Walt had been togetherfor fifteen years, and had been close with the Zeitouns since 1997. They had hired the Zeitouns to help with the renovation of a house they’d bought, and immediately the two couples had clicked. Over the years they’d grown to depend on each other.
Walt’s family was in Baton Rouge, and it was likely that Rob and Walt would go there for the weekend, he said. Rob and Kathy agreed to update each other throughout the day.
She was about to take a break from the internet when something caught her attention. A news item, just posted: a family of five was missing at sea. The details were few—two parents, three kids aged four, fourteen, and seventeen. They had been sailing in the Gulf, and had been expected Thursday in Cape Coral. But when the storm came, they’d lost contact. Family and friends had notified the Coast Guard, and boats and planes were searching as best they could. That was all anyone knew for now, and it looked bad.
Kathy was a mess. Stories like this just wrecked her.
Kathy called her husband. “Rob and Walt are leaving.”
“Really? Walt wants to leave?”
Zeitoun trusted Walt’s judgment on just about everything.
Kathy thought she might have her husband tilting her way. “Fifteen inches of rain, I hear.”
Silence from
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