Bob frequently railed against people of color and foreigners—except Germans, Scandinavians, and the Dutch as he assured me.
Driving one of his beat-up trucks, plastered with peeling old NRA stickers, meeting up with his biker buddies, he smoked chains of cigarettes. Bob saw no need to check in with physicians as “doctors don't really know what they are doing, except pushing expensive pharmaceuticals." Without fail, he insisted that he knew what he was doing.
His small but beautiful, yet badly neglected house from the 1920s got sold for near nothing, gutted, and rebuilt, and a large Bangladeshi family of taxi drivers from New York City—men in jeans, cousins, grandparents, children, and more relatives—bought it for a high price and moved in, telling me that they could never buy such a beautiful home in New York City for that price.
Like Bob, they refuse to wear masks. Unlike Bob, they firmly believe they will survive by praying five times a day. They even showed me their prayer rugs.
Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.