Helping Poor Mr. Shirazi

HELPING POOR MR. SHIRAZI

My English teacher, Mr. Diogenes Tavoularis, thinks that the sun shines out of my ass. He’s moved heaven and earth to get me on a special program, a double period with him. One period is the regular sixth grade English class. The second period is Remedial English. Mr. Tavoularis has convinced everyone that I should spend an entire remedial period with him. He gave up his prep period, without pay or anything, just to work with me, one on one.
Mom listened to the idea, and first wanted to be sure that Mr. Diogenes Tavoularis was not some religious nut. She asked around and found out that actually he was a wide-eyed liberal, who was in the habit of attending the Greek Orthodox Church in Salinas twice a year, on Christmas and on Easter. Then she quickly agreed.
Mr. Walton, our principal, on the other hand, had other worries. He wanted to know if he’d have to do anything. When Mr. Tavoularis told him it’d be no skin off his nose, he shrugged and signed off on the idea.
So what’s an ace like me doing in a remedial English class?  Under Mr. Tavoularis’s strict supervision, I am writing a novel. Mr. Tavoularis has divided the Parable of the Prodigal Son into twenty-one sentences, and told me to write a chapter on each sentence. That’s what I do in Mr. Tavoularis’ Remedial English class, write a novel.
“Listen up, Beanstalk,” he tells me, rolling his small eyes in his fat face, “The Bible’s like an iceberg. In an iceberg, the ice you see on the surface is only one-seventh of the ice that’s underneath. In the case of the Bible, it’s even less. The Bible gives you just a bare skeleton. It’ll be your business to put flesh on that skeleton. Let’s take the first sentence, There was a man who had two sons. You’ll have to turn this into one, maybe two chapters.”
“I don’t get it, Mr. Tavoularis. How am I going to do that?” I ask.
“Using your imagination,” he winks at me. “Where did this man live? What was his profession? What did he, what did his two sons look like? Did one of them stammer maybe?  Did the younger brother have a girlfriend? Was there a mother? What did she look like? And if there wasn’t, why wasn’t there a mother? You can set the story two thousand years ago in Japan, last century in Italy, or now, in our days in Pacific Grove. Got it?”
“Yes, boss,” I say. I close my eyes and see things. The father first steps up and introduces himself, and he looks like a linebacker – massive body, hair cropped short, fierce yes. Right behind him, I see his two sons. The younger one, Prodigal, looks like a beanstalk; the older one doesn’t laugh, he cackles. “I think I’ll set the action today, on the Monterey Peninsula.”
“I was hoping you’d say so,” Mr. Tavoularis exults, “since writing about something you don’t know is a recipe for literary disaster.”

*****
“Do you know what I saw today?” I say, helping myself to the salad.  “In Mr. Shirazi’s house?”
“What? What didja see?” my sister grins at me over the table.
“Nah… Nothing,” I change my mind.
“Well, what did you see?” Dad asks me. “Ernst, if you start off on a story…”
“No… I don’t want to get Ginger going...,” I say. “You know how she is. With her stupid jokes… She makes fun of everything.”
“Me?” Ginger makes an innocent face. “Me, make fun of everything? Whatever gave you that idea?” 
“Enough of that, Gin,” my mother says.
“Well, what did you see, son?” Dad smiles at me.
They’re all nice, of course, and I love them, but of the whole lot, I only entirely trust Dad. I once read a story where the main character was described as “having his heart in the right place”. And I thought, that’s Dad. His heart is in the right place. He doesn’t always get things right. He was a linebacker in college, and he’s remained a linebacker all his life. In all he does. Three yards and a cloud of dust, that’s my Dad. But at least he tries. And despite his huge shape and his deep frown, he’s kind.
“Actually,” I say, “not inside the house. Outside it. They have a round table, with lots of chairs around it, and that’s where we usually sit and eat lunch. And yesterday Baba Danoush was sitting right next to the entrance with five or six young men around him. And just as I came in, one more young man came running. He was late or something. But before he sat down, he first went to Baba Danoush and kissed his hand, and only then did he take his seat at the table, on one of the chairs. And… I don’t know… I kinda liked that somehow. I just don’t know why…”
“What the heck’s happening in that house?” my brother Trevor cackles. “Are they a bunch of fags getting together and having… fun?” he flexes his right wrist.
“Hey,” Ginger joins in, “maybe Ernst liked that because he’s gay, too, and all he needed to come out of the closet was seeing a bunch of queer Iranians kissing each other’s hands… Maybe this Baba Ganoush guy is teaching the young perverts how to… you know, like each other…”
“To begin with, his name is not Ganoush, but Danoush. And he’s not gay! You see,” I turn to Dad. “She’s evil! She tears into everything. That’s why I don’t want to bring up anything nice when she’s around.”
“Both of you,” Mom says, casting my darling siblings a glance that could boil cheese. “You’ll apologize to Ernst right now, or I’ll make sure that you’re grounded for the entire weekend.”
“OK, OK,” Trevor cackles. “I’m sorry, little tall brother. I shouldn’ta jumped to conclusions.”
“Me, too,” Ginger smiles sardonically. “I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Of course I know Ernst’s not gay. We all know he goes to that house ‘cause he’s in love with Niloufar.”
I don’t know about other families, but man, oh, man, it’s hard to be the youngest in my family. If I don’t show my fangs from time to time, my darling brother and my loving sister will gladly cut me to shreds. Age has got something to do with it - I’m twelve, Ginger is almost sixteen and Trevor is an ancient seventeen – but age is not all. They’d try to tear into anyone who comes their way, no matter what his age is.
“Is that true, son?” Dad smiles at me, and gently socks my shoulder.
“Well,” I look down at my salad, “yes and no. Actually, for your information, Gin, I go to that house first and foremost because my best friend, Sirvan, lives there. But it’s true that I like Niloufar a lot. You oughtta meet her. She’s very nice. They’re all nice,” I say after a little bit of thinking.
“Hm,” Mom ponders. “How old is this girl, this… Niloufar?”
“A few months older than Gin,” I say. “But she’s very different.”
“How’s she different?” Mom stares down at me. “Are you implying that you consider this girl to be… better than your own sister?”
“I didn’t say she’s… better,” I beat a hasty retreat sensing the minefield I’m about to step in. I know darn well that the safest way to get on my mother’s bad side is to say something, anything, bad about her offspring. A few teachers at school got the sharp end of my mother’s tongue, when they had the audacity to criticize Ginger’s snarly ways. “I simply said that Niloufar’s nice. She never laughs at people. I mean, she never mocks them. She doesn’t cover her face in make-up. She hasn’t shaved her eyebrows or pierced her tongue … And you should hear how she plays the piano…”
“Yeah, but she shaves her moustache regularly, I’m sure,” Ginger snaps at me. “Does she go around wearing that stupid… what dja call it, that rag that covers all their faces, like all other Arab girls?”
“Oh, shut up, Ginger,” I say. “You’re so ignorant, it’s not even funny. Iranians aren’t even Arabs. They’re Persians.”
“Like the rugs?” Trevor giggles. “Help, somebody! My brother’s in love with a rug!”
“What’s the difference?” Ginger shrugs. “All their women are… how can I put it… humble and brainless-like. Persians, Arabs, what’s the difference?”
“Your sister plays the violin,” Mom observes.
“Used to,” I snap back. “Before she started shaving her eyebrows… And piercing her tongue. She hasn’t touched that violin in six, seven months…”
“Anyway,” Dad wisely steers the conversation away, “there’s… how many of them… five? How can they live in that small house?”
“I… can’t tell you that,” I shake my head.
“Are you going to keep secrets from your family now?” Mom asks me sternly.
My mother’s a lawyer, and she has a thousand ways of making you squirm. I’m squirming now.
“Why don’t we speak about something else?” I say. “Why don’t we leave the Shirazis alone?”
“You started it up!” Ginger points out over her shoulder. “With that guy kissing Baba Ganoush’s hand.”
“We certainly will,” Mom says, “right after you answer your Dad’s question. I certainly hope Mr. Shirazi doesn’t teach you to keep things from your own family… Because if that’s the case…”
“Mom, Baba Danoush sleeps on a cot in the garage!” I almost scream. “And, yeah, it’s cold and its damp and it’s illegal. But Mr. Shirazi has an understanding with the owner. He is building a new wing to the house in exchange for lower rent. And when that’s ready, Baba Danoush and Sirvan will move into the new wing. OK? Satisfied, everyone?”
“When does this Shirazi guy have time to do all that?” Dad grimaces in appreciation. “I thought he had a job…”
“In the evening, when he comes back from work. We, me and Sirvan, sometimes go and watch him, and sometimes give him a hand.”
“Why was that so hard to tell us?” Mom thinks aloud.
“Because they receive me in their house, they feed me every day, and they treat me like family. And I don’t want to pay it back by beating the drums around town about how poor they are, or what’s going on in their house, that’s why.” 
“And you’re right to think so, Ernst,” Dad says, smiling and nodding at Mom over the table. In the twenty years they’ve been together Mom and Dad have developed some sort of a sign language, I swear. This kind of smile accompanied by a nod, for example, means, Give it a rest, honey. So my mother, who might have had some more questions, gives the Shirazis a rest. “When’s your next game?” Dad changes the topic. 
“Tomorrow at five,” I make a face.
“Oops. I’m not sure I can make it,” Dad seems worried. “We’ve got a big meeting at the store in Pacific Grove.”
“I’m not even sure I want you to make it,” I say. “We play Greenfield, and they’ll probably kill us. They’re the team to beat this year. I’d rather you didn’t witness the massacre.”
“I’ll try to make it, though,” Dad shakes his head, but he’s not convinced.
From the mumblings going on between Mom and Dad I’ve gathered  that the upper management at the Builder’s Depot store chain have a strong suspicion that there’s an inside gang robbing the Pacific Grove store blind, thousands of dollars worth of merchandize a day. And in all such cases, Dad, who is the district manager, runs over fifty stores, needs to quietly call in the internal detectives, and install secret cameras to catch the thieves on tape. And the only day when they can do it is on a Sunday, when the store closes early. 
Catching the thieves is a pretty hard thing to choreograph. The store managers can’t get wind of this, since the big shots at Builder’s Depot don’t know if the store managers are in on the thieving. So Dad needs to summon them all to a fake meeting and keep them occupied and away from the store until the detectives have done their job.  He needs to be there, I know that.
Continuation at www.babelink.us