Forty-Seven Toy Guns
Beirut
Jamil's job: make the mannequin children look happy holding AK-47s.
Plastic AK-47s. Important difference. Maybe.
Nine years old. Night shift at City Centre because school kept closing for "weather." Weather meant explosions but saying explosions was negative for retail.
This one mannequin wouldn't stop talking. Gen Z model. Dressed in real military uniform, size small. Who makes military uniforms size small? Don't think about it.
"Wrong grip," it said.
Nobody else heard it. Just Jamil.
Father managed the mall now. Used to manage a hotel. Hotel became sky one afternoon. Now: mannequins.
Blue tarp where the roof got holes. Made everything look underwater.
Found a doll someone had fucked with. Bullet casings glued on for fingers. Brass knuckles for age 3+.
The talking mannequin: "That's me."
"You're not a doll."
"Not anymore."
Arranged five mannequins. Circle. Each holding different weapon-toy. The littlest one got the drone controller. Drone hanging on fishing wire. Forever about to strike.
"Why circles?" mannequin asked.
"Looks like playing."
"We are playing."
"No. You're selling."
"Same thing here."
Houston
Aunt Rania's gallery. Jamil's photos on walls. Americans walking through, sipping wine.
"Is this Afghanistan?"
"No."
"Iraq?"
"No."
"Where?"
"Tuesday."
"What?"
"It's Tuesday somewhere."
Woman bought three. Son's playroom. So powerful.
Cousin Marcus owned forty-seven toy guns. Counted them. All orange or blue or green. Nerf mostly. SuperSoakers. Laser things.
"Let's play war."
"How?"
"You know how."
Different rules. Marcus's rules: respawn at base, melee attacks allowed, capture the flag. Jamil's rules: don't run straight, corners are death, stay away from windows.
"Why windows?"
"Snipers."
"We don't have snipers in Houston."
"You don't know you have snipers until."
Until.
Marcus shot him with foam. Jamil dropped. Stayed down.
"Get up. You have two lives left."
"Nobody has lives left."
"It's a game."
"Where I'm from—"
"This isn't where you're from."
Fair.
Rania building something in the back. Wrong thing from wrong parts. Real helmet on mannequin child. Toy gun with real ammo belt. Bicycle with mounted—something. Couldn't tell what.
"This is horrible."
"Thanks."
"That's not a compliment."
"Here it is."
People loved it. Photos. Selfies. Kids pointing: want that one mommy want that one.
All of them. They wanted all of them.
Marcus gave him a gun. Orange. "For when you go back."
"Why?"
"So you can play normal."
Normal. Orange gun for normal.
Beirut Again
Plane descent. City looked like broken teeth with gold fillings.
Father: "How was America?"
"Orange."
Mall. Dark. Mannequins in their circle. One had fallen. Toy gun to its own plastic temple.
"I'll fix—"
"Leave it."
Home. Put Marcus's orange gun on shelf. Looked wrong. Looked American. Looked like what safety would look like if safety was a color.
The talking mannequin had told him things:
"Same factories make both."
"Both what?"
"Tuesday weapons. Thursday toys."
"That's not—"
"Check the tags."
Did.
Made in China. All of it. Mannequins, toy guns, real guns, the tarp over the bomb holes. All from the same place.
The orange gun on his shelf. Marcus owned forty-seven. Jamil owned one. Felt like enough. Felt like too many.
What's the difference between toy gun and real gun?
Orange.
What's the difference between child soldier and child playing soldier?
Tuesday.
What's the difference between Beirut and Houston?
Forty-seven toy guns.
No.
Forty-six now.
