Please, would you stay for a minute to meet Sal? Reza’s father would like to meet this new friend Rez has told us so little about.
Meena did not even look at Rez and kept her smile on their guest as she rinsed green grapes in a colander. When Rez’s father walked into the room, Arash stepped toward him, offered a hand and a full name. Rez’s father, caught off guard, took the hand and went through the introductions as if Arash were a colleague from the lab. After a long look and a few grapes he started his questions and Arash answered them with a calm politeness that Rez wanted to call out as ass kissing yet could not. Syrian. Born here. Parents, doctor, housewife. Yes, they’d like to meet you too. Two brothers. Both older. One a surgeon. One the president of a tech company, lives in Newport. Stanford. They’ve contacted me so I am hoping for early admission. Physics. I think, but I might change my mind. My parents say I am at a good age for changing my mind. Rez watched to see what his father made of this perfect son who was not his. His father popped grape after grape.
I have noticed a change in Reza these last months, you must be the source. Nice to see him making some smart decisions about the company he keeps. It hasn’t always been that way …
Arash. I think it’s time. The show …
Arash put his empty glass down and nodded respectfully at the parents.
Right. It is getting late.
His father looked at them.
Show? What show?
We are going to the Hollywood Bowl. My parents gave me tickets as an end-of-the-year gift.
Very nice.
Arash did not mention the show was by a famous rapper who had served time in prison and had rebooted his career by pairing with a classical violinist from China.
Go. Go. You boys should go. Traffic will be terrible regardless, but the earlier the better. It is good. Good to relax a little before this next year. Things will be challenging for you as seniors. Much to be accomplished.
Ok, Dad.
Arash thanked Meena for the orange juice and walked to the front door like he’d been to Rez’s house a thousand times already. Rez followed him and mumbled his good-byes as his parents smiled and walked with them to Arash’s BMW coupe. The engine started and Rez waved and his parents waved and Rez felt like a dork and Arash drove under the speed limit until they were around the corner and up the street, all the way to the vista, where Arash parked and pulled out the bong and passed it to Rez like he did every time Rez got in the car.
Ass kisser.
Come on now, bro. No need to hate. What can I say? I like parents, old-school, old-world parents. So real. Just think of all they’ve seen in their lives. They were born in another world and now they can watch it on Google maps. So much change for a single soul to see. That has got to take some balls. Respect, man. Gotta respect.
Rez choked on the smoke he held in his lungs, and laughter and smoke exploded all over the car and Arash started to laugh and then they were high and driving and gone.
The afternoon was hot and all around them on Highway 1 cars stopped and drove and stopped and drove. They kept the windows down and drove through Corona del Mar and Newport and up to Huntington and Seal Beach and past the refineries and loading docks in Long Beach. They listened to the Roots and then to MGMT and smoked a skinny joint while they checked out the skinny women jogging by the beach and the women driving SUVs and the women stopping to let their dogs pee on the palm trees planted into the sidewalks. At a stoplight a cop car pulled up beside them and Rez sat stock-still and stopped breathing, the joint smoking in his lap. Arash kept moving his shoulders to the music and pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose as they slid down. He half sang the words to the song and then the light turned green and they drove on and Rez exhaled and then inhaled and Arash gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder.
Relax, man. You have got to relax. How much herb is it gonna take?
At Artesia and PCH they turned right and drove away from the coast. Within two blocks the fancy facades of the high-rent strip malls turned grimy with liquor stores next to OTBs next to doughnut shops with scratched-up windows, all of it circled by parking lots and empty buildings with faces and figures in bright graffiti on their sides. At a stoplight Rez watched a woman push a stroller full of groceries as she held an umbrella over her head to keep the sun off. Beside her a man held the handlebars of a bike that was loaded, bag upon bag, with glass and plastic bottles. He wore dark sunglasses, no shirt, and a long black cape and walked with a sense of purpose for another world.
Arash turned up the music and they cruised, intersection to intersection, down the streets of Compton, and Rez wiped the sweat from his palms and told himself to sit back and relax. Arash kept singing.
This show is going to be so dope.
Totally.
By the time they turned off Artesia onto a side street the western horizon was behind them and every object cast a long shadow. They drove down the streets of a neighborhood where each house had the same square yellow lawn and each lawn had its own collection of thirsty shrubs and plants. A few houses had Astroturf and a few lawns were overrun by toys and press benches and weights, and a handful had elaborate rock and cacti gardens. They stopped in front of a house that looked just like the rest and Arash got out. He walked toward the door and turned around.
This is the stop I was talking about.
I’m gonna stay in the car.
That’s rude, bro. My friend lives here. Come say hello. We’ll be quick. You’ll like him.
Rez remembered Arash was picking up a half pound from a friend to have at the show. To sell? Rez asked. No. To share, Arash responded. Now they were here, all Rez thought about were the movies he’d seen in middle school—Murder Was the Case, Boyz n the Hood—films with guns and drug deals and random stupid deaths. He remembered the lyrics of songs about the never-ending war between the Bloods and the Crips and thought about all the spray-painted murals they passed driving in—RIP RIP RIP, Our Dear Father. Our dear brother. Our dear son—and he felt the fool in himself, a kid from OC who loved hip-hop, the beats and the hard lyrics and the anger it let pulse through him, anger he felt but did not have the lyrics or the life for. He felt the fear of a kid who had only ever fronted, who acted tough in a soft world but was scared everywhere else.
Dude. You coming or what?
Rez stepped out of the car and got shoulder to shoulder with Arash.
Man, you don’t even need this weed. You buy from Yuri’s guy and that’s from the clinic. Why are we even here?
Are you whining? Relax. We gotta let the dollar circulate, it’s the only way.
Arash pressed the beige circle next to the door. A soft dirge played on the other side of the wall.
Arash said that line a lot, talked about money and how it needed to circulate and if it stayed in one place too long it would go stale and curse its owner. That is how he explained it when Rez asked him why he always gave out weed and offered to pay for food. It all comes back. In Islam, generosity is a big deal. You can’t be Muslim without it. Rez listened for noises in the silent house and thought about all the free weed Arash would pass out to strangers they would meet tonight and how those strangers would turn into friends for a half hour or so and all of it would be so chill, the edge puffed off. Part of him got it and part of him stayed confused and he slouched a little and tried to stand casual but found no way to be normal in the time between doorbell and door answered.
The door opened and an old man in gray sweats with salt-and-pepper hair and a small prayer cap filled the entire doorframe. Arash stepped to him and they embraced in a big silent hug and when they pulled apart the man put his fist out and Arash bumped it.
All good?
Alhamdulillah. All good, Yusef. And you?
No complaints.
The enormous old man looked at Rez and Arash spoke without hurry.
This is my friend Rez. We go to school together.
Salaam alaikum.
Yusef offered no hand, no fist, and k
ept a downward gaze on Rez’s face.
Rez. Short for something? Reza maybe?
Yes.
Hm. It’s your name, you can do what you want with it I guess.
He led them into the kitchen and poured out three glasses of orange juice and for the second time that day Rez stood awkwardly with the bright happy liquid in his glass and waited for the moment to pass as Arash played the part of gracious guest. He answered Yusef’s questions about school and the mosque and his family and asked his own questions about the same things and they followed Yusef to the living room, where he filled up all the corners of a recliner that did not recline and Rez and Arash sat on the edge of the couch opposite. Arash told him about graduation, about the prize, and Yusef nodded and Rez looked around at the walls of the room, covered in framed photographs of men and women and children. Face after face after face. Soldiers in uniforms. Women holding round babies. A large group, all ages, in matching T-shirts gathered around a beatific old woman in a wheelchair. Rez’s eyes stopped on a series of school photos, the same boy, handsome and smiling and large like Yusef. At seventh or eighth grade the photos stopped and Rez looked away and tried to seem interested in the conversation but could not focus because a sinking feeling started in him and didn’t stop. Yusef nodded at what Arash said and Arash nodded at what Yusef said and this went on and on.
Well, you heard about Malcolm’s new job, data work, or some such. Says he can do it right from his bedroom. I think he got hired because of that program you all did a few summers ago, that computer program down in Irvine where you met. That did change him. Changed his prospects.
He showed a lot of talent for it. More than most of the other kids there.
Yes. Well.
Yusef grew silent and tapped the empty orange juice glass on his knee.
Yes. Well … he said you’d be here about now. I’ll take you to him.
Arash stood slowly and Rez stood too quickly and they followed the old man down a carpeted hallway with more framed photos, these older and faded, their subjects wearing dated hairstyles and clothes Rez had seen in movies and reruns. They stood before a door with a poster of Tupac on it and Yusef knocked with one knuckle.
Mal? Arash is here.
A voice from inside said, Cool, and Yusef opened the door and walked away down the dim hallway. Arash went in first. The room was small, crammed with a single bed, a desk, turntables, and a laundry hamper. In front of the desk a broad-shouldered man, a few years older than them, sat in an electric wheelchair. The same handsome smiling face as the boy in the photos on the wall, long past eighth grade, shirtless and broad through the chest, a tattoo of a lion spanning from nipple to nipple. Rez tried not to stare and took the few steps he could into the room, bumped the fist that was offered, and took a seat beside Arash on the neatly made bed and tried to untie the knots in his gut.
The door, man.
Malcolm gestured to Rez with a tilt of his chin and Rez stood and closed it and at the sound of its shutting Malcolm wheeled around and let out a loud bright welcome.
What! Is! Up? Arash! Been a long time.
Same old same old. All good. What’s new with you?
Same as same. Got into this Anonymous shit online and tricky stuff, change the world from my wheelchair while paying the bills with data entry. Hustle here, hustle there.
Sneeeeaky.
Indeed. And you? What is in the works for nerd boy?
Same nerd stuff. Science, college, the search for a nice girl …
Malcolm pressed a single key on the keyboard and music came on, deep bass and the sounds of a young woman’s moans.
I hear that.
Malcolm smiled at his pun and Arash made fun of him for the stupid joke and they talked about school and computers and programming and Rez watched Arash, who was, as ever, himself. The same Arash from his kitchen at home, with the crew, with the girls, with their teachers, in the mirror. The only self he had. Across from him, in his wheelchair, Rez saw that Malcolm was a number of different people, all of them flitting around the room, depending on the topic, careful not to land anywhere. Rez focused on Malcolm’s face, the hands of the conversation, the posters in the room, anything to keep him from staring at the empty pant legs that dangled from the edge of Malcolm’s chair. Rez tried so hard to do something else that he got nervous and nearly started talking. One of Malcolm’s many selves noticed and he turned his attention on Rez.
What’s your story?
Rez sat forward on the bed.
Nothing. Same as Arash. Laguna Prep. Waiting to graduate and get out, far out.
Malcolm put his hands in the pockets of his pants and sat back, and for a moment they looked at each other, each set of eyes a vector to the next set, Malcolm looking at Rez, Rez looking at Arash for the next words, Arash looking at Malcolm and then breaking the daze.
It’s cool, man, he’s cool. Good people.
Malcolm took his hand out of his pocket.
A friend of yours is …
He let the words fall and turned on his chair and rolled across the thick carpet to the closet, where a dozen or so T-shirts hung, all a shade of navy, all ironed, and the floor was covered in stacks of neatly folded pants. He reached back behind the shirts and Rez felt his insides electrify with fear. He moved himself closer to the edge of the bed, to a window he could punch out if need be as Malcolm rustled in the closet with one hand. He pulled out an object the size and shape of a brick wrapped in black plastic. He rotated the chair and tossed the package at Arash with the other hand. Arash caught it with one hand.
The goods are good. Hindu Cush. Purple Haze. The usual.
I expect nothing less. Should we roll one?
Malcolm shook his head. Nah, man. Not with Yusef home. These are new days.
Got it.
Arash put the brick into his backpack and handed Malcolm a roll of cash and Rez let his veins open with relief and now for some reason he wanted to relax and smoke in this room and pretend he was never scared or playing out blood scenarios in his head, but he also wanted to get out, as fast as possible, before whatever happened to Malcolm could happen to him, as if tragedy were contagious.
In the car Arash tucked the bag under his seat and rolled his window down.
Not much stink for so much weed.
Arash started the car.
Be nice.
Rez didn’t say anything.
I buy it as a favor. I like to help him out. These little buys go a long way and I get to pass out free bud. Win-win.
Outside the car the neighborhood switched back to strip malls and gas stations and the lights of Artesia popped on against the orange lines of sunset at the far end of the sky. A blue Malibu pulled up beside them, sparkle in the paint, chrome all over, after-market tires, the two front windows open. The man in the driver’s seat looked at them and then leaned over the woman who sat passenger.
You lost?
No. We’re good. Thanks.
Arash answered easily while Rez tried to push himself into the leather of the seat but the leather wouldn’t give and he tried to look ahead and not think of guns or robbing or drive-bys or his stupid shitty fear and the shitty racism of his father behind him pushing through. At the sound of a woman’s voice he craned his head to look over at the car.
She was beautiful, her face one curved feature atop another, all of it full and promising something Rez had not wanted until just that moment. She smiled at him. Behind her the man smiled as well.
You do look lost.
The man leaned over closer to them.
I hope you’re not lost. ’Cause …
The light changed and neither car moved. Behind them a truck honked twice and Rez jumped in his seat, all his bones shook at once. The woman in the Malibu laughed at him and the man beside her straightened up behind the wheel and gunned the engine. The Malibu fired past them and the woman’s pink hair swirled out the open window like cotton candy.
Arash moved at the speed limit and looked over at R
ez.
Dude, Rez. You ok? Your face is white. Don’t tell me you’re a racist Persian because that is dumber than dumb.
No, it’s just, you know, Compton and all that stuff about gangs and …
Arash shook his head, his face pressed down in frustration.
Rez, we are all in gangs, man. Think about it.
They parked far from the Bowl and took long bong rips before locking the car and walking the mile or so down the residential streets of West Hollywood. Night had come and the sky was an illuminated blue, bright from the day just passed and all the lights turning on and turning up. Not one star looked down on them, at least one that Rez could see. Their seats were dead middle and perfect and the sky turned pink and then salmon and then turquoise and Rez got high and sipped a beer and found himself close to a girl who moved gently to music that was not gentle. He moved closer and she didn’t back away and he moved up to her until an arm touched, a thigh touched as if by accident and Rez felt the warm night and the hard music and her close flesh and was amazed how a single moment could push all things together like this.
They danced for most of the show, closer by accident and then closer on purpose. When the show was over, the girl said her name was Mylaa and she and her friends were going to an after-party and did Rez and his friend want to come? Rez and Arash, both close to six feet but still too skinny to be mistaken for any older than high schoolers, said yes and tried to play it cool at the house on a hill above Silver Lake, where they sat at the edge of the pool and smoked joints and gave away joints and talked to girls who said they were actresses and said What’s up? to guys in loafers—all of it under the purple night sky.
The apostles would have died for this.
The apostles are just not as lucky as we are. At least not tonight.
A DJ showed up and the party got crowded and Rez found the girl and danced and then took her back to smoke with Arash, who had a crowd around him and talked and listened like he belonged. More people came and went and Arash handed out nuggets of the weed they’d just bought. Rez heard him say something about hospitality and stood there and stared at his friend. This boy unknown to him two months ago, just another kid in the hall, another kid like him, funny name, dark skin, smart and willing, and now here they were in hills above Los Angeles, at the edge of a pool where actresses jumped in and pulled themselves out slowly and Rez saw the unknown boy was replaced by a person and something greater than a person as well.
A Good Country Page 7
