Oakland Noir

by Jerry Thompson

  He replied to Michael T.’s e-mail: You really believe this shit? Or is this an academic exercise?

  Gholam never received a reply.

  A few days later when he went to eat lunch in the plaza behind the student union café, he found his regular table occupied by Michael T. and a couple of students.

  “My savior!” Michael T. shouted, beckoning him over. “Join us.” He introduced Gholam as the guy who’d helped him impress his class on the first day. The two others with him were from the class, Tracy and Rachel.

  As Gholam chewed his hamburger, popping fries into his mouth, he listened to their conversation. Michael T. was describing his dissertation topic. He was studying humanity’s responses to apocalyptic moments, like stock market crashes, bank runs, massive disasters, and revolutions. He pointed toward Gholam. “He’s lived through such a moment but doesn’t believe in the Y2K crisis.”

  The spotlight made him uncomfortable, but Gholam had to respond. “Things don’t always turn out the way you think.” He described the aftermath of the Iranian revolution.

  Tracy asked, “So you give up?”

  “I’m not 100 percent sure about Y2K, but surely there’s sense in being prepared.”

  Tracy said, “A handful of us being aware isn’t enough. Those with resources may be okay, but what about the poor people in East Oakland, right outside our hallowed gates? Everyone’s supercharged by the dot-com boom, but it’s precisely when your expectations are high and then there’s a collapse that you could have revolutionary implications. Here we are in Oakland, home to the Panthers. This shit could sink deep roots here.”

  Michael T. nodded. “This is what I love about being here. I did a semester in Kansas and I could hardly get a conversation going. The other day at a coffee shop downtown, I sat next to someone who moved here from the boonies because of the Panthers. Another time I met a woman at a bar who campaigned against apartheid in high school. Random encounters, but both were loaded with so much meaning.”

  Their youthful energy reminded Gholam of his younger self, but, he reminded himself, there’s history and then there’s myth. One needed to appreciate the difference.

  Tracy said, “Getting the message out has to be our priority.”

  Pointing to Michael T., Gholam laughed. “He should get a slot on Soulbeat.”

  Tracy lit up. “Why do you think that’s funny? It might be low-budget, but it’s African American–owned and provides both entertainment and enlightenment.”

  “I think that’s a terrific idea. We need media access,” Michael T. said with a smirk.

  Rachel turned to Gholam. “We’re going to host lectures and a rally. You should come.”

  “The voice of a skeptic—we need that too,” pointed out Michael T.

  Gholam sighed. “I’d like to believe you all. I work enough with computers to know there is a problem. But there is an army of programmers out there working on Y2K. Some things here and there might fail, but it’ll be a blip. On the other hand, I’ll make sure to have a full tank of gas and take out some cash before the New Year.”

  “Such faith in the corporate elite,” Tracy scoffed. “You’ll take care of your own self. What about the rest?”

  Gholam rose to leave but couldn’t resist a parting remark. “I imagine you folks can take care of the others. Best of luck.”

  In a few weeks, Gholam discovered that Michael T. had managed a weekly spot on Soulbeat. It pissed him off. They had joked about the channel, and now he’d wormed his way in there. Gholam wasn’t going to engage with these people any longer. A campus could be a bizarre place sometimes.

  * * *

  Gholam’s life settled into a routine. During the week he saw Keisha in passing, but on weekends they usually spent one night together. Sometimes he visited her at the huge Victorian behind Highland Hospital she shared with a couple of roommates, but mostly they spent their nights together at his apartment.

  His mother’s condition had stabilized, and they’d spoken a few times. Through a travel agent he purchased a consolidator ticket to Tehran via Frankfurt. The only ticket he could find at a reasonable price had him flying out on New Year’s Eve.

  The afternoon he booked the ticket, he returned from a service call to find Keisha waiting outside his office. She said she’d stopped by just for a minute. “I got my thesis proposal approved. Dr. Browning loved my ideas.”

  “That’s wonderful, I didn’t have any doubts.”

  “I needed the affirmation.”

  “I have some news too. I just bought my ticket.” He showed her the printout.

  She slammed her backpack on his desk and shouted, “How could you do this?”

  “What?”

  “You’re flying out on December 31? You’ll be in the air when it turns January 1. Do you have a death wish?”

  Y2K had never come up in their conversations, but apparently a few days ago Keisha had attended one of the lunchtime meetings. She was usually a grounded person, but there was a side of her drawn to the beyond-rational. Like many in California she readily took to the “spiritual not religious” tag. That meant layering her Baptist upbringing with flakes of Buddhism and Hinduism, some references to Islam, and an added coating of radicalism. Something about how she blended her philosophies fascinated Gholam. Normally it was all talk, but now something seemed to be shifting.

  “Walk with me to my car.”

  Gholam agreed, and while they headed to the parking lot, Keisha quoted Michael T. as if she’d memorized his manifesto. She sang his praises: how deep he was, how he could break things down to the essentials, how disciplined he was . . . etcetera, etcetera. It nauseated Gholam to see her fall under his spell.

  Once they reached her Honda Civic, she popped open her trunk to show that she meant business. She had made a trip to Grocery Outlet to stock up on bags of rice and pasta, bottled water, beans of a dozen kinds, crackers, cereal, and a mountain of canned goods.

  “When the new year comes, I’ll be ready, and I’ll be damned if I let you fly out the day before. You’ll have to change your ticket.”

  “It’s not changeable.”

  “You . . . we . . . will have to find a way.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think much will happen. Sure, there could be a few glitches, but there are enough people working on the problem that widespread disruption is unlikely.”

  “That’s just your opinion. How closely have you studied the subject?”

  “I read a few articles.”

  “Michael T. has studied the problem in depth.”

  “Why don’t we get dinner somewhere and talk it over?”

  “There’s a lecture at the Greek Theater at five thirty. Why don’t you come?”

  He thought for a moment. It no longer seemed possible to ignore the Y2K crowd. “Okay, but I have to get back to work now. I’ll see you there.”

  When Gholam arrived, the event had just begun. The discussion focused on Octavia Butler’s novel The Parable of the Sower. The organizers couldn’t bring in Butler but had lucked out with a PhD student from Berkeley who was researching her fiction.

  About thirty students came. Most sat at the bottom of the theater and others moved down after being asked to come nearer. The speaker didn’t refer to Y2K; she merely talked about how Butler had written this novel set in the immediate future based on an assessment of current trends: gated communities, homelessness, and drugs.

  Michael T. followed by summarizing points from his manifesto. Then Tracy took the platform. She said the power of Butler’s work was that she could project where things were headed. In the book, Lauren Olamina coped by creating her philosophy, but otherwise she was unprepared. Wouldn’t it be better if the Laurens of the world were better prepared when chaos breaks out? That was the purpose of the Y2K Campaign: preparedness. Survival kits with cash, water, food, fuel, stoves, tents, sleeping bags, and other essentials needed to be assembled.

  Rachel spoke about broadening their outreach. They had distribut
ed flyers around the city, Michael T. had a weekly slot on Soulbeat, and the next step would be a postering campaign downtown and in high-traffic areas—Fruitvale, MacArthur BART, Grand Lake. She held up a poster they had designed. On gold paper, in bold red letters, it read:

  Y2K: Are You Ready?

  ATMs shut off, bank savings go poof!

  Power fails, gas lines run dry!

  Transportation halts. Airplanes grounded!

  Chaos on the streets?

  It’s time to prepare!

  The poster also called for a rally at the campus student union on November 18.

  Rachel appealed for postering team volunteers, and Keisha marched down right away and signed up. As she and Gholam left the meeting and headed toward their cars, he asked, “Is this something you really want to do?”

  “I was going to ask—why is this something you don’t want to do?”

  He remained silent.

  “Yes, this is something I really want to do. I believe in the cause. I should put something on the line.”

  “I think something will happen, but I’m not convinced it will be a big thing.”

  “On this, we’ll just have to agree to disagree.” She sounded disappointed. “I thought it’d be fun to do something like this together.”

  It was an ongoing grievance, and she had a point: they didn’t do much together other than sharing some meals, a few trips to the beach, a movie now and then, and sex. He wished he could go with her on this.

  “I’d do it if I was convinced of the cause, but I’m not. I’m willing to come hear what people have to say. I won’t argue you out of it—if you believe in it, you should do it.”

  She threw her hands up. “I don’t know why I even hang with you.”

  It was chilly and Gholam suggested they continue talking in his car. Once inside, they went back and forth without resolution.

  Finally she said: “Every relationship faces a test. This might be ours and it looks like we’re failing. Gholam, I like you, but you think you know everything. I was ready to buy you a new ticket, but I’ve lost the desire.” She turned away from him and clutched her backpack.

  He was stunned to see her belief so strong, moved by such a generous expression of love. She didn’t have that kind of money to spare.

  She opened the car door and was about to leave when he reached out and caught her arm. “Okay, count me in. This might be fun.”

  * * *

  They went out midweek just after ten p.m. Before Keisha picked him up, Gholam fortified himself with a shot of bourbon. The arrangement was that Keisha would stay in the car, he would paint on the glue, and Rachel would slap up the posters.

  Two teams headed downtown. Their territory was east of Broadway to Harrison, from Grand Avenue down to 14th Street. They covered blocks in lightning strikes, encountering only homeless people or other youngsters who gave them words of encouragement. One kid joined them for half a block.

  Only once did a police car come their way. They had prepared for the contingency: Rachel and Gholam dropped their bucket and posters on the ground, stood next to the car, and began arguing loudly about a movie while Keisha pretended to mediate. When the police car slowed to observe them, Rachel explained they’d just come from watching The Bone Collector and their differing reviews had become a bit heated. The cops bought it. It helped that she was white and acted earnest.

  Once they’d finished, Rachel declared she was ravenous. Could they stop at Sun Hong Kong in Chinatown? Gholam and Keisha locked eyes. Keisha said she just wanted to get to bed, Gholam said he was exhausted. Though Keisha lived closer to Rachel, Keisha said she would drop her off first.

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to take Gholam home first?” said Rachel. When there was no response, she said, “Oh, I see.”

  After they dropped off Rachel, Gholam and Keisha had their hands on each other’s thighs in the car, their fingers sliding ever higher. As soon as they were inside the apartment, they stripped off their clothes, rushed to bed, and made fierce love.

  Afterward, Keisha said, “See, we should go out postering more often.”

  Gholam smiled. It had been a good night but as they drifted off to sleep, he felt soiled by the knowledge that he had joined Keisha out of love and lust, not any faith in the cause. By morning, this feeling consumed him and he felt like a total fraud.

  * * *

  So sordid did Gholam continue to feel that he cooked up an excuse to not show up for the Y2K rally at the student union, telling Keisha his mother had been hospitalized again and he needed to call home.

  Keisha came over late, brimming with excitement. The rally had succeeded beyond anyone’s dreams. More than a hundred people had shown up. Michael T.’s appearances on Soulbeat had brought several dozen people from the community. Students had come from a number of other schools. A supermarket owner had promised discounts for emergency packs of food and water.

  “And your friend Michelle was extremely helpful,” she added.

  “My friend Michelle?”

  “Yeah, she said she went to college with you in Detroit, an engineer.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Full-figured black woman, light complexion, probably your age. Smartly dressed.”

  Gholam was puzzled. He didn’t know a Michelle and there was no one in the area he knew from his Wayne State days. He questioned Keisha some more, but all she could say was how helpful Michelle had been with potential contacts and new ideas about how to reach the mainstream media.

  It would take one more night for the mystery to be solved. As he got ready for bed, the phone rang.

  “Is this a good time?” an unfamiliar female voice asked.

  “Who is this?” said Gholam.

  “Your old friend Michelle. You don’t remember me?”

  “No.”

  “Your classmate from database theory with Professor Lee, the Chinese guy.”

  “No, I don’t remember you. What do you want?”

  “Can we meet in the morning? Say nine a.m., on the walkway around the lake, across from the cathedral?”

  “If you’re not telling me more, I’m not coming.”

  “Oh, you’d better come.” She hung up.

  He wasn’t going to go, but the edge in her voice suggested it would be risky to ignore her.

  * * *

  Gholam noticed a woman on a bench fitting Keisha’s description. As he approached, she said, “There you are. Come sit.”

  Gholam scrutinized her face. He was certain he’d never seen her before. “We’ve never met. Who are you?”

  She opened the book in her hands and fished out an old photo of two men on a bench: Gholam, a bit more boyish looking, with a white American in a suit. “Remember Leicester Square, 1989?”

  Gholam felt a stab in his chest. In his life he’d done some stupid things, and here was a reminder of one. On his way back from Iran that year, his first visit since the revolution, he’d met some old comrades in London. One of them had talked him into meeting with this man. He was probably from some US intelligence agency, and the man had pumped Gholam for information about his visit. He had not shared much.

  “We need a favor. We’d like you to maintain my cover. There’s something dangerous going on and we want to make sure the kids here don’t do anything crazy.” She showed the photo again, tapping the image of the American. “A shame Bill’s cover was blown. Now he’s recognizable and he had to be pulled back stateside.”

  Gholam understood the implicit threat. If this photo was ever shared with Michelle’s counterparts in Iran, Gholam would be marked as an American spy.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt fear so close. He walked home and lay on his bed, beginning to sweat, although it was not a particularly warm day. Then he felt chills. He tried music; jazz usually soothed him. Today it annoyed him.

  There had been a time when fear was a daily companion. When they were active against the shah, Iranian students weren’t safe even on American
campuses. The shah’s secret police had kidnaped some of their leaders, and Washington cooperated by deporting them. Gholam was too unimportant to be noticed in Washington, but there were even spies in Detroit. For the last ten years he had built a life away from engagement with Iran, and fear’s grip on him had weakened, only returning when he visited home. There he had to be extremely careful who he visited. He rarely took chances.

  If he chose now to never return home, he could maybe walk away from this, but he had to see his mother, perhaps for the last time. He couldn’t jeopardize this visit.

  Buoyed by their rally, the Y2K folks decided to host one last event in December. With students dispersing for winter break, they wanted to make sure the community members mobilized for December 31.

  Juggling her final projects and these activities, Keisha didn’t have much time for Gholam. They met up for tea now and then at the cafeteria. He’d hoped they would spend Thanksgiving together but she had begged off, saying she needed marathon study sessions. She did invite him to the final rally and to an after-party at a family apartment on campus. It would double as a planning meeting for the run-up to December 31. Gholam told her he wasn’t sure he could make the rally, but he’d come to the party. She didn’t try to change his mind; he worried he was losing her.

  When he arrived at the apartment, there were only six people there: Michael T., Keisha, Tracy, Rachel, Michelle, a woman named Isabel, and the hosts, Raphael and Allison. Everyone acted as if they were at a funeral, and Gholam quickly learned why. The rally had only brought out six people beyond this core group. Not even the other students in Michael T.’s class had shown up.

  Gholam was relieved: now they had to face reality. But he had forgotten how the human mind works.

  He would have expected Tracy to make the proposal, but no, it was Keisha. She believed the drop in their numbers meant more radical action was required to rouse the people. She related anecdotes from her work distributing flyers at Eastmont Mall, Bayfair, and the 12th Street BART. Everywhere, people had been sympathetic, and when warned about what would happen on December 31, they were incensed.