The next day was the day before our wedding. I was starting to realize the seriousness of the occasion and I was getting nervous. Even Lucky had a case of the pre-wedding jitters, with Betty and Theo clucking around us like a pair of mother and daughter hens. We ran errands, shared a Keller’s Farm sundae at The Ice Cream Bar with cornmeal shortbread, crème fraîche and Morello cherry ice creams, cherry sauce and rosemary syrup, fed the squirrels and let the kids run wild in Golden Gate Park, bussed it to the beach to watch the ocean and collected sand dollars while drinking coffee, hot chocolate, and tea, came home, then went to bed early.
When I was only ten, I performed my first crime. One summer I walked to the tiny mall at the foot of State Street, opened the glass door to the air-conditioned drugstore, and surreptitiously stole a bag of rubber bands. Why did I shoplift rubber bands? I don’t know. It might have been for a rousing summer game of Chinese jump rope, for by then I was too old for braids. My mother busted me and sent me hangdog and sweaty back to the drugstore to return the filched goods. Ever since then I’d had a phobia of rubber bands. The medical term is lastihophobia, but no matter.
When I was forty-five I used to walk a route to the MUNI bus stop that, apropos of nothing, became strewn with rubber bands. Day after day, I walked through a sea of rubber bands. At first I recoiled, but after a couple of weeks of avoiding the worm-like rubbery coils, I started thinking about the nature of fear. I’d look down the rubber bands and my stomach would clench. I was also afraid of love, and somewhere in those walks my fear of love and my fear of rubber bands converged, until one day I started collecting rubber bands and stuffing them into my pockets. Every time I bent over to rescue a rubber band from the gravelly sidewalk, I said to myself, I’m not afraid of love, I’m not afraid of love. I collected rubber bands, filling an empty thirty-two-ounce Miracle Whip jar full of them. Stuffed to the brim. I spent months performing this strange prayer, blindly groping my way into a state of fearlessness.
When I wished for a Lucky, was I endowed with Lucky because I’d cast a wobbly spell at forty-five? A couple of nights before our marriage, I told Lucky the story of my stint with juvenile delinquency and my redemption. I confessed my fear of love and even brought out the Miracle Whip jar filled with dried-up rubber bands. They looked like desiccated worms, curled up non-arthropod invertebrates waiting to burst free. I’d made a label for my jar of fear that asked, WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? I’M NOT AFRAID OF LOVE. Lucky listened to me, patting my face the way you’d pet a baby or a cat to calm it. When I was done, would I be absolved by the universe? Was the ritual of love and fear that started at ten finally ending at sixty-one?
I lay in bed on the night of October 9 thinking that by this time tomorrow night, Lucky and I would be married. And by this time the following day we’d be on our way to Tehran! I could hear Lucky whistling “Get Me to the Church on Time” as she packed bars of Spanish Santa Maria Novella sandalwood soap, Uppercut Deluxe pomade, manicure supplies, coconut oil, and other grooming necessities into her buckled brown leather toiletries kit in the bathroom. It was a comfort to hear butch birdsong drifting through the apartment, a lullaby and a love song both.
It is true, behind my gruffness and moodiness I’m a sentimental and romantic kind of fellow. It wasn’t just the amazing sex, but also the amazing domesticity. I wanted to show Lucky how much I appreciated her, but I was usually silent and undemonstrative. Did she see through my stoicism, or did she wonder if I was emotionally stunted? Was I enough for Lucky? How could I show her how much I cherished our time together? I touched the metal wedding rings in their boxes on the nightstand. Did we know what we were doing? What kind of emotional cliff were we jumping off of? I fell asleep to the sounds of Lucky packing for Iran, with Francy and Lulu-Bear settled behind my bent knees, our cotton quilt drawn up to my chin, and clutching my childhood threadbare stuffed horsie to my chest.
I woke up at 5:00 a.m. on the morning of our marriage, and silently crept from our bed, leaving Lucky to sleep in. I was too nervous to sleep or fuck, so I fled to the kitchen for hot tea and crumpets. Actually, there weren’t any crumpets and if I were still a drinker I would have been guzzling mimosas, but I’m not and I wasn’t. Our ceremony was scheduled for 11:00 a.m. I drank tea, showered, shaved, got dressed, and started breakfast for the gang. Lucky was blissfully calm. Lucky and the cats were amused by my fluttering about, but with a talent for self-preservation, stayed out of my way, scattering into the library where Sam and Alex had fallen asleep.
Betty, Theo, Sam, Alex, and Lucky staggered into the kitchen in twos still wearing pajamas and robes as I fried bacon and stirred buckwheat pancake batter. I tossed a handful of chopped pecans and diced bananas into the pancake batter. We ate breakfast, then took turns showering. By ten thirty everyone was dressed in their finery and waiting impatiently to leave for city hall.
At 10:00 a.m. our doorbell chimed; it was Ian, Tov, Mikail, and Birdie. Tov had brought an enormous armful of peach and pink peonies, primrose and tea-green hydrangeas, cream and buttery-yellow wild roses, cream and blush tuberoses, green bells of Ireland, and leaf-green hypericum berries from Church Street Flowers, along with two green and violet boutonnieres made of tiny succulents, berries, and jasmine. Jasmine had scented our first night together, walking to my place from Café Flore, and its strong cloyingly sweet scent brought back memories. Ian had volunteered to bake us a simple three-tiered wedding cake, but went into grand master kitchen top mode and created a masterpiece. The first tier was a spicy ginger cake, the second a buttery pound cake, and the top tier was a pistachio chocolate cake. The amazing delicacy was covered in black fondant with a cream-colored iced doily draped gracefully on the top layer, a cream-colored damask pattern on the bottom layer, and lustrous black silk ribbon between each layer. It was very fey and exceedingly fetching.
“How are you all holding up?” asked Tov as Ian put the cake on the dining room sideboard.
Lucky kissed my cheek and chuckled, saying, “I figured it was about time to make an honest woman of the little lady,” while I sputtered unintelligibly.
“It might be a little too late for that,” Theo chimed in.
“That’s Grandpa Behrouz! He isn’t a lady!” yelled Alex and Sam.
“Did you two ever think about having a leather ceremony?” Ian wondered as he arranged the cake on a green glass cake stand.
“Please, don’t encourage them. They don’t need any help misbehaving!” Theo sniffed in mock haughtiness.
“Not really. I mean that’s not my style. I’ve never even worn a collar. What about you?” I turned to Lucky. “Is that something you wanted to do?” I’d never asked Lucky about collaring, and she’d never brought it up. I was generally oblivious to leather community culture, so I didn’t miss it. Was I depriving Lucky of something she craved?
“I’ve thought about it”—Lucky squeezed one of my bruises and kissed my cheek—“but I’m not deeply drawn to the idea. I’m too private for that kind of shindig.”
“Mikail and I are having a collaring ceremony this fall,” Tov announced, his arm around Mikail’s shoulders as Mikail blushed. “We need to talk later. I want you to help me with planning the ceremony.”
“Congratulations, you two! Of course I’ll help out.” I looked at my watch and gasped at the time. “I love you all and I’m terrified. Let’s do it.” I grabbed Lucky’s hand as we left for city hall.
It was romantic. It was scary. It was touching. Looking into Lucky’s hazel eyes while taking our vows wasn’t what I’d expected. I may have been married three times before, but never during the passionate flush of love and lust. Lucky and I were still in throes of adoration, which changed everything. As we exchanged our vows and slid the rings on each other’s fingers I felt myself falling differently in love, a metamorphosis into a couple, but not in that creepy way where you cling to someone desperately. Not in that way where you somehow become each other sliding into each other like aquatic protozoa, but in that way where you know and
love each other on a heartfelt level. KNOW with capital letters and heart opening like a flower in slow motion. I leapt off the cliff, finally relaxed, with my fear and trepidation leaving me in a gust of relief. Maybe it was possible that marriage would not kill our love.
Betty and Theo had collaborated with Ian to arrange for a traditional sendoff. After the wedding, we exited the grand marble steps of city hall while our friends and family tossed red and pink rose petals at us. Lucky and I were both flushed and giggly, brushing fragrant flower petals off our black tuxedo jackets. The wedding ring on my finger felt strange but marvelous. And I mean marvelous in the most deconstructed way: to be filled with wonder or astonishment. Getting married to Lucky was a marvel.
“Can we call you Grandpa Lucky now?” asked Alex and Sam as they threw flower petals at us and tried unsuccessfully to look solemn.
“Yep. I guess you can do that.” Lucky’s dimples deepened with happiness.
After our wedding ceremony, we went home, ate cake, and caroused with our family and pals. Poppy and Tiny made it. Poppy had come around and now grudgingly admitted that we were a fine couple. It was also the first time Theo and Betty had met many of our friends. By the end of the afternoon when we’d seen the guests off, we were all exhausted, wrung out with excitement and happiness.
No one wanted to cook, so we walked a few blocks to Park Chow for dinner. It was kid friendly, quiet, and comforting, the perfect antidote to rich wedding cake, champagne toasts, rose petals, and clamorous conversations. Over spaghetti with meatballs, hamburgers, pot roast with mashed potatoes, and gingerbread with pumpkin ice cream and caramel sauce we tried to reassure Betty and Theo about our trip to Iran. They were afraid we’d be beaten up and imprisoned for being trans, butch, queer, and big-mouthed and all of my assurances that Persians were the friendliest folks in the world could not assuage their fears. As we walked home from Chow, I was filled with appreciation for the smell of jasmine, the shining moon, the night breeze, the babbling of children, the feel of the metal wedding band encircling my finger, Lucky’s hand holding mine, and the company of Betty, Theo, and the grandchildren.
The rest of the night was a blur of cleaning, until Lucky realized that she had last-minute packing to do, and struggled to fit too many pairs of boots into a suitcase that was already filled with tissue-paper-coddled dress shirts and jeans. We managed a silent quickie at midnight, then snuggled Francy and Lulu-Bear relentlessly, slept, woke up, had another silent tussle, showered, ate wedding cake for breakfast, and left the city for Tehran, still damp behind our ears and between our legs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TORTURED
Theo, Betty, Alex, and Sam had packed us into a SuperShuttle and we had zoomed precariously to the airport. Everyone else had stayed back at our apartment. Betty was touring Napa with a gentleman friend that weekend, and Theo, Alex, and Sam would be vacationing in San Francisco for a week.
It took twenty-four hours to reach Iran, with me crossing off every minute in my mind. I had not flown overseas since I was a teenager flying from Tehran to New York, and the last time I’d crossed over into Iran was through the Turkish border town of Gürbulak in 1965. Lucky had traveled to France and Canada as an adult, but had never been to the Middle East. For twenty-four hours my heart raced miles ahead of my body, flying home. I popped antacids and swigged sweetened ginger tea, excitement and worry filling my body in equal measure. On the third leg of the trip from Frankfurt to Tehran, I gave in to exhaustion and collapsed against Lucky’s shoulder. Lucky had been calm throughout the flight, flirting with stewardesses, soothing babies, knitting, snoozing, snacking on salted nuts, drinking beer, and watching action movies. Tasteless food, crowds of frantic travelers, cranky children, stuffy airplane cabin air, and nervous traveling companions left her with an ever-expanding Buddha-like smile. I was grateful that we traded places so well: her calm with my disarray, then later on we would switch to my soothing with her irritation.
We arrived in Tehran’s new Imam Khomeini International Airport. My parents and I had left Iran when I was a teen via the old Mehrabad International Airport, leaving my second home for what would turn out to be decades. Imam Khomeini International Airport had not been conceived of yet. I came back home to Iran at 2:00 p.m. the day after my sixty-second birthday. The airport was like any large modern airport, cavernous, with noise echoing off the high ceilings, travelers hurrying with their wheelies and knapsacks, polished gray marble floors, golf carts full of elderly and disabled folks, lines and more lines to wait in, no-smoking symbols, and bilingual signage in both Farsi and English.
As a child, I’d lived in Iran twice: for two years in the early 1960s, and for four years in the late 1960s and early 1970s. I’d flown in and out of the country several times, and once had arrived by VW camper van rather than airplane.
When I’d crossed the Turkish border into Iran in a van in 1965, I’d thrown myself dramatically to the dusty earth, pressing my tender preadolescent lips into the Persian dirt with joy. There was no ground to throw myself onto at Tehran’s Imam Khomeini International Airport, and I missed that moment. Persians are sentimental about the earth of their county, and I was the same. All I could think was, Iran is my home. The words buzzed through me like an electrical current. This was a homecoming.
The line to go through customs was long and crowded, but moved quickly. There were more than a smattering of Americans in line, eager to explore Iran now that the travel and economic sanctions had been lifted.
Lucky looked around at the crowds of Persians and tourists at the airport. “Is this how you remember it?”
“No. Back then women wore Western clothing, even miniskirts. There were fewer chadors and I don’t remember any manteau at all. Men wore bell-bottoms and fitted flashy disco shirts unbuttoned to expose hairy chests with gold chains. Of course, this was the early 1970s, so some of that was just the era. This airport is different too. Lots fancier.”
“It looks as modern as the San Francisco airport.” Lucky took in the high ceilings held up by steel columns, and the bilingual signage in the airport.
“The airport we used to arrive at in the ’60s and ’70s was much smaller and kind of dingy. People told me I wouldn’t recognize Tehran, so I’m expecting to be surprised and maybe disappointed. I know my main hangout, the Iran-American Cultural Center, was bombed, and they were building the freeway when I left. I’ve seen pictures of the newly built subway. We just had buses and taxis before. I want to show you around town, but I’m afraid I won’t recognize anything. Even the streets were renamed after the revolution. I hope you love it too.”
“I’m sure there will be a lot you’ll recognize. You’ve shown me pictures on Tehran 24/7 and you recognized things there,” Lucky said soothingly.
“But those were generalities, like kuches, jubes, and zoor-khaneh. Or people picnicking in the park, the bazaar, and Mount Damavand. Nothing is the same. I’m sorry.” I was worried that I’d let Lucky down. I wanted to show her the country I loved, but it had changed immensely in forty years.
“Then I guess we’ll discover Tehran together, won’t we? Me for the first time, and you as my temperamental and forgetful guide.” Lucky kissed my cheek.
We made it through customs easily. The middle-aged uniformed customs official merely glanced at our passports that proclaimed us a man and a woman before welcoming us with an enthusiastic and hearty, “Velcome to Iran, meester and missus! You need taxi?” He pointed us to the taxi boarding area as he waved us onward. I cried with happiness as Lucky steered me forward through the crowds of Iranians and newly hatched tourists.
“I thought we were going to pass as men here,” Lucky said with curiosity.
“He saw our passports. Anyone who sees our IDs will think we’re a man and a woman. Everyone else will think we’re two guys.”
We staggered through the automatic doors outside to hail a rundown yellow Paykan taxi to take us the fifty-plus miles to the Hotel-i Golestan on the poetic Hafiz Street. It w
as fifty-nine degrees, sunny, with brilliant blue skies. I clenched Lucky’s hand as we rode in the backseat of the cab. The cabbie was a middle-aged man, with a splendid gray bristling mustache and eyebrows, a powerful chest, a well-fed belly, deep laugh lines, and a sparkling gold front incisor.
I was nervous about speaking Persian in Iran after so many years, afraid that my accent would be undecipherable and my vocabulary incorrect. I took a deep breath, hoped for the best, and said to the driver, “Salam alaykum. Hale shoma chetor-i?” (“Hello, how are you?”)
The cabbie looked surprised, “Salam. Hale shoma chetor-i agha? Shoma Americai ast?” (“Hello. How are you, sir? Are you American?”)
“Bali. Man America-i hastam. Esme man Behrouz va doost-i man Lucky hastam. Man chahal sal peesh dar Iran zandagi mekardand.” I said. (“Yes, I’m American. My name is Behrouz and my friend’s name is Lucky. It has been forty years since I’ve lived in Iran.”)
“Salam aghay-i Behrouz va aghay-i Lucky. Esme man Nadar.” (“Hello Mr. Behrouz and Mr. Lucky. My name is Nadar.”)
“Bebakhshid. Man kheli kami Farsi baladam. Ingilis-i baladid?” (“I’m sorry, but I only know a little Farsi. Do you know any English?”)
Lucky looked confused and a little annoyed. We were talking too quickly and it was the first time she had ever heard native Persian speakers. “What did you two just say? All I could figure out was salam and shoma!”
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 19
