(Almost) Weekly Writer at Work: Necee Regis

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Writers' Work-in-Progress showcases the work of new and long-published authors. This is what their first pages look like now—perhaps the published versions will read exactly the same, perhaps they will be quite changed. That part of the mutable beauty of writing—always a work in progress, until the book hits the shelves.

The Spirit Wrestler (work-in-progress)

by Necee Regis

Five minutes. That's how long it takes to bump Mona from her comfort zone in Istanbul. One minute she's tooling along, happy to be released from the confines and stale air of a jumbo jet. Moments later, as she shuffles along to passport control in the wake of her friend Katya, she's jostled by a hundred other travelers all racing to be first in line. Bump.

At the baggage carousel, a woman snatches her suitcase before she can reach for it, arguing over ownership until Mona folds back the flap on the leather tag where her name and address are clearly printed for all to see. Bump bump.

And now, sweet Jesus, if this cab driver doesn't stop speeding while jabbering on a cell phone and grinning at Katya in his rearview mirror, they'll all end up at the bottom of the Bosphorus, no doubt. Mona read about a woman in Florida who drove her rental car into a canal, and broke a window to escape. She considers her thick-soled pink and white sneakers and questions their ability to shatter glass. She shakes the image from her mind.

The four-lane road hugs the water's edge. The traffic heading out of town is a bumper-to-bumper mess, while the inbound side is crowded but moving, and the driver zips along like he's in a racecar at Daytona Beach. Mona reaches for the overhead seatbelt strap, and then pokes her fingers in the vinyl crevice at her side.

"Excuse me." She leans forward. "Do you have seatbelts, you know, the part that's supposed to be in the seat?" The driver continues chattering in Turkish as if she hadn't said a word. Does he understand what she just said?  She thought he spoke some English when they got in the cab.

Mona turns to Katya for support but Katya swivels to the window and cranks it open, allowing hot humid air to flood the car. Her friend's blonde hair is pulled severely into a bun, and she's squeezing her fingers as if they've fallen asleep. They're both groggy after their trans-Atlantic flight but Katya seems particularly distracted. It must be hard to return here without Carter.

The taxi speeds past the unfamiliar landscape, so different from her home in Virginia. A leafy canopy provides shade for shirtless men and young boys who balance fishing poles atop a powder blue railing in a park where families gather round hibachis, fanning flames beneath sizzling kabobs. The air holds the moistness of the sea, charcoal, singed meat, and exhaust fumes. Mona breathes it all in. She's on vacation. Her first without Scott and the kids. And she's finally—at least for one week—living the life she fantasized about in college, traveling with Katya to exotic locations and studying Byzantine art. She's not going to allow a crowded airport or one crazy Turkish cabbie ruin this experience.

"We're really here! Isn't it amazing?"

Katya nods. "I love this city. It's—"

Before she can elaborate, the driver snaps his phone closed and twists round to speak to Katya. "You are sisters?"

"No. But in school we pretended to be sisters and everyone believed us. It's our blonde hair and blue eyes." Katya loosens her bun and tosses her hair till it settles about her shoulders.

Is Katya flirting with this sleazy guy? The driver's black hair is so heavily gelled and slicked back it doesn't budge in the wind. Mona chuckles at her friend and gathers her own long tresses, coiling them neatly behind her.

"You have beautiful hair. Very beautiful. Your first time to Istanbul?" he asks Katya.

"I was here eight years ago. With my husband."

Mona's eyes dart to Katya's wedding ring. It seems she hasn't given up on her marriage yet, despite Carter's recent move from their apartment. Katya shared some of the story about their separation, including a woman she referred to as the Yoga-Witch, though she avoided discussing details and Mona, as usual, didn't pry, though she hopes that Katya and Carter can reconcile. For better or for worse. That should mean something when you say it but it isn't taken seriously these days. People switch partners as easily as they change shirts on a hot summer day.

"Your husband is lucky man," the driver says, his smile spreading like butter on hot toast.

"My husband is a shit." In one motion Katya twists the ring off and flings it toward the sea. It glints for a moment at the height of its arc but Mona doesn't see where it lands.

The driver stops smiling.

Mona opens her mouth to shout—what are you doing?!—but the words get stuck and she says nothing, staring at the indentation on Katya's finger. It's like it's still there, an invisible ring pressing into the skin.

[image error]Bio:  Necee Regis is a frequent contributor to the travel and food sections of The Boston Globeand The Washington Post. Her writing has also been featured in the Los Angeles Times,American Way Magazine, Spirit Magazine, The Globe and Mail, and the literary journal, Tin House. Excerpts from her first novel, Glitterbox, were published in Gulf Stream: New Voices From Miami (2003) and in Hacks: 10 Years On Grub Street (2007).