When a Door Closes

It’s Sunday evening, November 1, 2020, the last day of a short weeks’ holiday from classes and I’m just finishing a two-hour weekly English tutoring session with a teenage brother and sister that I’ve been giving lessons to for about two years (less 6 months this year during the Corona virus lock down). We’ve finished the lesson and they’re competing with each other doing the hangman game, when I get a call from the superintendent of the high school where I’ve been teaching for just two months now. As my two learners are busy I answer.

           “Hello Si Abdelilah, Al Salam Alaykoum, hope you had a nice break. You’re calling about this week’s schedule?”

           “Alaykoum Salam Si Ali, in fact, Si Mourad has charged me to tell you that we’ve done a restructuring of the teachers and I’m sorry to tell you this, but we won’t be needing your services anymore. We’ve decided to let you go.”

           “I’m sorry Si Abdelilah, but it’s not your job to inform me over the telephone like this, the day before classes resume. Why didn’t Si Mourad call to talk to me himself? It’s the director’s job, not yours. This is not professional at all.” My tone is becoming harsher as I speak. I can’t believe what’s happening.

           “Yes, I know that it’s not my job to inform you, but I have to follow instructions. I’m very sorry, it’s nothing personal. It’s just Si Mourad’s decision. I hope that you’ll be able to find another job soon.”

           “Find another job!? It’s two months into the school year! You know very well that no one is hiring now! I’ll probably be out of work until next September! I have a family to support! This is not any way to treat a person! And what about the students! Did you even take them into account? I’ve done two graded assignments for all of my six classes and I brought them all home and graded them over the holiday! All the grades for more than a hundred students are on Excel spreadsheets in my PC. The students did all of this work, and nothing will come of it! Now it’s the students who will pay the price of your decision! You can’t tell me I wasn’t doing a great job!”

           “I’m sorry Si Ali.” Abedlalih’s soft voice is filled with sincere sadness.

           “I’m coming in to pick up my last pay tomorrow, do you hear! Tomorrow! I won’t wait. You’ve fired me, not ‘let me go’, I hate euphemisms!”

           “The accountant won’t be in tomorrow, I’ll put your request in to Si Mourad and I’ll contact you when your pay is ready. Maybe you can pick it up Tuesday.”

           “Tuesday. No later. I’m sorry for going off like I did. I know it’s not your fault. Si Mourad is a coward. He should have spoken to me himself.”

           “Good night Si Ali, again, I’m very sorry for you. Trust in Allah, he will provide.”

           “I know that very well, and I do place my trust in Allah, but that doesn’t mean that what Si Mourad did was correct. Good night, Salam.”

           The children had stopped their game when my voice became angry, and now they’re staring at me with concerned and questioning eyes. I don’t know how much of my words they understood, but probably most, as they’re good students. I breathe deeply and speak calmly to them. “I think you understood, that was the high school where I worked. I’m jobless now.”

           “But why? It’s not fair!” They chime in amazement.

           “I don’t know. (I have an idea why but don’t say it) You know that there is always a reason for everything. We’ve already discussed this. There is a master plan, and even if something hurts us, we have to believe that Allah knows what is best. It’s time for me to go now, I’ll see you next week Insha Allah.”

           I’m cursing Mourad as I walk in the street before catching a cab home. As soon as I walk in the door I say to my wife “I got a call from the school. It’s already finished, they fired me.”

           “Why?” (obvious question) she’s concerned and can see that I’m angry. Our 4-and-a-half-year-old son comes running up and I take him in my arms and kiss him.

           “I love you.”

           “I love you too dad. Ten lots of one-hundred thousand ‘epuals’ one million!” (sik)

           “That’s right! I wish I had a million!” He runs off to play again as I turn to answer my wife. “In fact, it was the superintendent who called, and I thought it was about the week’s schedule. But then he told me that he had been charged to inform me that they had reorganized the schedules and that they didn’t need me anymore. I’m sure it was because of my invoice. I’m sure that when Si Mourad saw the invoice that amounted to 9500 dirhams for 3 weeks, he surely said to himself that a Moroccan teacher would be a lot less expensive.”

           “But he was the one that negotiated the rate with you!”

           “Yes, but I was only supposed to work 12 hours a week and they ended up giving me 18 hours a week. He was probably already looking for another solution without my knowing, you know how most Moroccans are, they’re never straightforward. If he would have come to me to say that finally it was too expensive, perhaps we could have worked out a solution. But that would be to admit that he had poorly calculated the rate he agreed to pay. Moroccan bosses never admit they’re wrong. You know that, Si Amir is the only boss I ever had here who was strong enough to apologize to me. Most of the men here think that apologizing means you’re weak. That reminds me, we still owe him 3000 dirhams.”

           “You know he’ll never ask for it. He knows you’ll pay him when you can. Don’t worry, Allah always cares for us, we’ll get by.”

           “I know that, Love. And at least I’ll have lots of time to write my third novel for NaNoWriMo. Our smiles warm and comfort each other. “FAMILY HUG” I call out and our son comes running for our all-too-frequent (but never-too-frequent) ritual.

           I’ve already done the outline and quite a bit of free writing on my new autobiographical fiction novel so the next day I start in vigorously, it’s called “From the Rockies to the Windy City” and it covers my childhood in a religious sect in Chicago. Most of it is based on real events, but as I’m 60, the events are all but clear in my memory so it has to be fiction.

           I have one client, Sofiane, who I owe a lot of time to, he paid me upfront for 120 hours of one-to-one coaching in January, we did 30 hours before March and then the lock down came. In September He called me to resume, so even while working at the high school I made time to do 5 hours a week with him. I contact him and tell him the news, and that it’s good for him because I’ll be able to see him every weekday. He’s the CEO of a real-estate company just 3 years younger and we get along wonderfully, in fact, we hit it off from the first meeting. It’s a real pleasure to see him and we discuss everything knowing that no one will ever know what words were spoken, and it’s nice to have an ear other than my wife, and a boomer that knows all of the same old songs.

There’s only one other young man that I’m giving lessons to besides the teenagers I see on Sundays. He does one 2-hour session per week to prepare for the IELTS exam and pays me at the end of the session, as does the mother of the two teenagers.

            On Tuesday as I’m stepping out the door, my wife says “Keep calm, don’t make a scene.”

           “You know I won’t make a scene, but you know how transparent I am, I can’t hide my anger, and they’ll see it in my eyes. Don’t worry though, I won’t say or do anything I might regret.”

           I go and collect my pay, in cash, and sign for it. Of course it’s the superintendent who called me to tell me I could come, and he deals with me. He iterates that he’s sorry and that it’s Allah’s will. I tell him that even so what Si Mourad did was not correct, not the way of Islam, and not professional. I repeat quite frankly that the director is a coward not to tell me himself. On my way out the door I cross the director, and walk past him as if he didn’t exist. It’s the only way I can keep myself from exploding.

           Writing occupies most of my time, and I’m averaging about 2,000 words a day, editing as I go. I know that’s not the way you’re ‘supposed’ to do it, but sometimes, for me, it’s actually easier, I write about 500 words then go back and edit, I’ll do a final edit at the end of course. My writing comes into form something like a scanner that’s printing a picture.

           After a week filled mostly with writing I decide that I should probably start looking for a job, and start searching and sending out job applications. On November 11^th I decide to take up LinkedIn’s “free for a month” premium offer. The same day I get a call in the afternoon when I’m in my one-to-one session with Sofiane, but it’s not from any of the applications I’ve sent out. It’s my old boss Amir, the one that I owe 3000 dirhams to.

           “Si Amir, Al Salam Alaykoum, I’m in a session right now, but we can speak if it’s quick.”

           “I’d like to talk to you. Can we fix a meeting?”

           “Sure, when are you free?”

           “How about Friday?”

           “After the Noon Prayer would be good.”

           “Sounds good, 3 o’clock then?”

           “3 o’clock on Friday. See you then Insha Allah.”

           Turning to Soufiane, “That was one of my old bosses, I really appreciate him, I worked for him from 2012 to 2014, he wants to talk to me.”

           “He wants to offer you a job?”

           “He didn’t say. He just said he wanted to talk. I can imagine he’d like me to come back and work for him again. Native speakers who are also good teachers are rare, and he knows I’ve been working freelance.”

           “Why did you stop working for him?”

           “I had too much work. Business was booming and we were all overwhelmed with work. I started every morning at 8:30 and finished every evening at 9pm. I was killing myself, and I was on a fixed salary, so I didn’t get paid overtime. It was a good experience; I learned a lot about teaching, and I loved it, but it was just too tiring. Anyway, I don’t know if he’ll agree to pay me the hourly rate I charge now, but perhaps we’ll be able to negotiate a deal. He’s a good man, I like him and we’ve always kept a good relationship. The language Center is one of the best known in Casablanca, it’s been around for more than 2 decades, and it’s less than 5 minutes’ walk from my place.”

           “Destiny my friend. You need work now, and you might have it, Insha Allah.”

When I get home I tell my wife about the call, and that we have an appointment to meet on Friday at 3. The next two days we spend wondering and imagining what Si Amir is going to propose. We speculate that it could also be about doing teacher training for the Teacher’s Knowledge Test, as he had asked me to prepare a curriculum and plan for such a program, but it had not materialized because of the lock down.

The day of the meeting comes, I wear a suit and tie and polish my shoes, like the old school. I’m prepared to start teaching for him again. As I go out the door I say to my wife “No need for me to mention the High School, I worked there less than two months, it’s not important.”

“You’re right.” she affirms with a smile.

“Si Ali, come in, would you like a coffee?” (during the two years I worked for him he always offered me coffee like I was a guest, and rarely did the same for any of the other employees.) How’s Imane, how’s the boy, everyone’s alright? That’s good, Thank God. Health is what’s most important.”

After we go through the socializing that this culture demands, when I sense that he’s ready, I start in.

“I imagine that you need a native speaker?”

“It’s good to have native speakers, but I need you for something else.”

“It’s the TKT exam preparation course then, right?”

“That’s part of it, but there’s more to it than that. I know that you worked a long time in Sales and Marketing before you became a teacher.”

“Yes, more than 20 years in France. I even ran my own company.”

“I also know that you love teaching, but have you ever thought about going back into Sales and Marketing?”

“I must admit that with the current situation, I’ve been sending out job applications for anything I’m capable of doing. I have a family to support.”

Just then his wife joins us, she has a say in most of his business, and she’s sharp. I continue…

“Last year when I prepared the curriculum for the TKT, you asked me if I could also do the marketing and communication for the project, and remember, I said that I couldn’t do both the teaching and the sales development.”

Amir’s eyes are moving back and forth between his wife and me as he speaks. “As you probably know, we’re opening a new center soon, and I have too much work. I need someone to run this center. We need a Director. And you have both the Business experience and the knowledge of teaching we need for the position. The number one criterion for our clients is the quality of the teaching, and someone needs to make sure that our teachers are giving satisfaction. We’re sure that you are up to the challenge.”

I’m taken aback, I wasn’t expecting this at all. They notice the sudden change; I was calm and now the astonishment surely shows on my face, as I said before, I’m completely transparent. I’ve never been able to hide my feelings or emotions (my biggest drawback in negotiations).

Amir says kindly “Take a couple of days and think about it. But don’t take too long, we need to act. Do you have any questions?”

“What about the pay?”

“You would have a fixed monthly amount and a part based on results.”

“Can you send me a written proposal detailing the job description and the proposed pay?”

“Yes, we can discuss the details more after you’ve thought about it. Can we meet next week? How about Monday, same time?”

“That will be fine.”

When I get back home I’m too excited for words to express. My wife sees through me like usual. ”So, tell me about your interview, it went well I see!”

Our son comes running up to greet me at the door “I love you dad!”

“I love you too Islam diali, habib diali, FAMILY HUG!” We do our threesome ritual and he runs off to play as we sit down to talk.

“They want me to be the Director of the Center. I never imagined it. But if I accept, I’ll have to stop all of my other activity. It will take all of my time. Still, it’s incredible.”

“You deserve it my love, ‘Mister Director” (in French). What about the pay?”

“Fixed salary and a percentage of the results. Amir said he’d send me a written proposal, we’ll talk again Monday. You know what I’m thinking?”

“Of course I do, if you hadn’t been fired from the high school you would have refused the job, I know you, you wouldn’t have let the school down, even for a higher salary. You had to be fired, it was your destiny. When a door closes, it’s because Allah will open another.”

The same evening I read the weekly reedsy short story prompt and it strikes me that I can write one of the 3 remaining chapters on my novel as a chapter at the same time as making it a short story, the prompt is “Start your story with someone admitting a secret and end it with someone telling a lie.” I’ll have to skip a chapter, but that’s fine, I have my outline, I kill two birds with one stone and submit “On the Lam” on Tuesday the 17^th.

When I meet with Amir Monday he makes me realize that I can no longer work as a salaried employee, so that we will have to make a consultant contract.

Saturday the 21^st, having not yet received a written proposal I write one and send it.

I finish my novel and do I final edit before uploading the text for the e-book on Sunday November 31st, which is finally a novella, because it has just 36,600 words.

I meet with Si Amir Monday and Tuesday and we’ve settled. I’m to start work Wednesday.

Friday December 11^th, I see this reedsy short story prompt “Write about someone getting a job offer they never would have thought to apply for” and it gives me an idea: I just lived this story, and it will be the 1^st chapter of my next memoir, but this time, written as the story plays out in my life. No outline, no plan, who knows how the story will end?