“Yes?” he says.
“I’m ready for you to tell me everything.”
art
Before Zee’s dad tells us about his past, he says, “Let’s order first and you two should order whatever you feel like,” which is code for “I’m picking up the bill,” which is code for “Art’s going to get an appetizer and a salad and a main course.” Ha.
And then he begins.
* * *
I’m going to have to Wikipedia a bunch of the political, religious, and geographical stuff later (okay, all of it) but here are the CliffsNotes: Arshad Gholbani was born in Iran just before the revolution. Both his parents were progressive professors and became refugees soon after Ayatollah Khomeini took control of the country. They were moved through Belgium, Germany, and England before ending up in Chicago in 1981. His sister, Christine, was born here soon after. His parents raised them in Gladys Park.
“My parents couldn’t get work in academia here, so my father was forced to drive a taxi while my mother worked part-time at a junior high cafeteria. The vague memories I have of them in Iran were of passionate, patient people. But here, ashamed of his job, my father became angry and violent. My mother’s misery led her to medicate herself numb and fall silent.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I guess parents could be worse than mine. Yay!
Zee, my blunt Zee, says, “That’s not an excuse to abandon your kid.”
“You’re right. You’re right.…” He closes his eyes. God, he looks so serene when he does this. After his moment, Arshad says, “There are many kids who are raised by parents who hit them and ignore them. Or worse. And they quickly rise above and beyond these challenges. But I turned to anger. Deep, deep anger. I never made friends in high school. I had a soccer scholarship to the University of Wisconsin, but I dropped out my sophomore year because I was sure every teammate of mine thought I was a terrorist. I returned here, took philosophy classes at Oakton Community College while working at The Forest Café.…”
“Oooh,” I say, “I hear that place is amazing. Zee, we should go.”
“I’ve been. Not going back,” she says. “It’s where he met my mom.”
“I was twenty-two and absolutely sure of two things. First, the world was meaningless. And second, I was the only one smart enough to tell everyone how meaningless it was.” It’s like me, except I’m the only one smart enough to tell everyone how meaningful it all is.
“What did my mom see in you?” Zee asks.
He laughs. “Besides being a barely employed coffeehouse barista who wanted to make everyone as miserable as I was?”
“Yeah,” she says, and almost even smiles at him.
He goes on, “Well, it’s always complex and fluid as to why we are drawn romantically to someone. In my defense, I was quite eloquent, even charming in my meaninglessness. And, despite the aged, withered, bearded man before you, I was young, athletic, and, if you’re into dark and exotic—which your mother was—I might have been considered attractive.”
“I’m sure you were,” I say. Ugh, why’d I say that? That was odd, even for me.
“That’s very nice of you, Art.” He nods at me. Wish he was my dad. Even if he wanted to abort me before I was born, he’s still better than the zombie corpse on my couch. That’s horrible of me to think. True, but horrible. Arshad goes on, “I also think your mother thought she could save me from my darkness. I reminded her of her mother, who had died when she was a teenager.”
Zee adds, “Her mom committed suicide.”
“Yes. She did. I believe your mom thought if she could save me, she could, in a way, save her mother at the same time.”
“Oooh,” I say. “That’s so complicated. I love it.”
Zee stays on point. “So were you in love with my mom? Or was it just sex?”
“I was incapable of love at that time, but it remains the most important relationship of my life. When she got pregnant with you, I assumed she would get an abortion. She knew well that I thought it selfish and ignorant to bring a child into this meaningless existence. But she was equally sure being a parent was the most meaningful thing someone could do. She almost had me convinced.…” Arshad pauses. Zee and I lean in. “Then 9/11 happened. The racism I endured went from subtle to vicious. My anger went from hot to boiling. That’s when I told her to get an abortion or I’d leave forever.”
“And you were gone,” she says.
“I was gone. Moved to Los Angeles…”
“To act?” I ask.
“No.” He laughs. “Mostly to run away. But I might have thought I could write movies. I’m sure you can imagine the market for doomsday screenplays written by a dark-skinned Muslim after 9/11 was not robust. So I became a cliché and began a slow, then fast descent into addiction and then homelessness. My parents and I had long ago stopped speaking, but my sister, Christine, found me in a shelter and brought me back to Chicago. Without her, I can assure you with one hundred percent probability, I’d be dead.”
Whoa. Right? So dramatic. I love it. (Not that he had to go through that! Just that he was so brave to tell us everything.)
“I had a couple minor relapses with the drugs, but it took me five years to truly recover from my biggest addiction, which was to be angry about everything. To being fucking pissed off all the fucking time. Excuse my language.”
“We’ve never heard that word before,” I say, because I’m hilarious.
“Is that when you tried to get back in my mom’s life?”
“It took me a few more years of therapy to come to terms with the fact that there was a human being on this earth that, if I’d had my way, would not be on this earth…” Arshad stops. The corners of his eyes fill with tears, just like Zee’s often do. He pushes on. “… but, yes, eventually I came to peace with my deep shame and reached out to Katie. She held me at arm’s length, as she should have, and her health never gave her a break, so I waited.”
“Until she died,” Zee says.
“I think your mom had the kind of magic that would have made this much easier on both of us.”
“So…” Zee starts, and I can feel her anxiousness in my bones, “… what now?”
“That’s up to you, Zee. I deserve and expect nothing but wish for anything and everything.”
This guy is amazing. Maybe too amazing? I have to ask, “Are you like a Buddhist or a wizard? You’re so wise and interesting.”
Arshad laughs. Zee adds, “What Art’s trying to say is you’re saying all the right things, which makes it hard to believe you.”
Her dad pauses, thinks, eyes open. “Well, first, thank you, Art, for thinking I might be a wizard. I am, sadly, not one. And while many recovering addicts turn to spirituality to aid them, I never found religion helpful on my journey. I do meditate, which helps calm my sometimes overactive mind. As for saying all the right things … I doubt this is true and I assure you it will not remain true. I am an immensely imperfect person. I do try to be honest, with myself and others. But I have and will fail at this as well.”
“Are you a professor?” I ask. “You sound like a professor.”
“No, not a professor. I never finished school. Currently, I…” Arshad hesitates. “… work at a coffee shop.”
This seems like as good a time as any to just come out and say, “So I guess this means you won’t be able to lend Zee money? ’Cuz her evil not-a-stepdad kicked her out of the house.”
ZEE
“Art, shut up,” I start, “and, Arshad, I don’t want your money.”
“What happened with Michael?” he asks. Something about the way he says Michael’s name—
“You know him?”
“Your mom, Michael, and I met for dinner about a year ago.”
What the fuck. Maybe someone could have invited me?
“Did something happen with Michael, Zee?” he asks again.
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“I … That’s not true. We didn’t get along as well as I’d hoped.”
“What did you talk about?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“What would happen to you when your mother died.” Arshad says “when” not “if” and I fucking hate him again.
So I pop: “All you adults make stupid decision after stupid decision, yet you still fucking think you should be making decisions for us.”
“Zee…” he starts, but he’s making me uncomfortable in my skin again.
“No, that’s enough for today. I need to go.” I hop up on the booth seat, leap over Art, and am gone.
art
I don’t chase after Zee this time because I know her tolerance for the situation has expired.
I do flag down the waitress and ask her to pack our food to go. Only afterward do I ask Arshad, “Is that okay? We’re going to be starving, and I hate to see it go to waste.”
“Of course…” He wants to say something.
“Arshad, you did great. It’s a lot for her.”
“Thank you … can you take this to Zhila?” He reaches into his wallet, removes a stack of cash, then hands it to me.
“Zhila?” I ask, and as I do Arshad winces.
“Zee, I apologize…”
I lean over, whisper, “Is that her real name? I thought her real name was Rebecca.”
“No, I mean yes,” he stumbles. “Her real name is Rebecca. My grandmother’s name was Zhila. It was just a slip.” But I am Arthur Adams, Master Reader of the Imperceptible Truth—
So I say, “Arshad, weren’t you just telling me how you always try to be honest?”
He winces again, does his close-the-eyes-and-find-inner-peace thing. When he opens them, “Art … I ask you … to treat what I said as a slip. For a time.”
Ugh, he asks too eloquently for me to refuse. “Yes, okay. But you should know you’re asking me to withhold information from the girl I love.”
“I assumed you two were friends,” Arshad says, which is annoying.
“Why? Do you not think I’m good enough for your daughter? Not manly enough like Cam?”
“I did not mean it that way. You would make an amazing partner for anyone, including Zee.”
“Yes, well, now you’re just saying that because you know I can blackmail you. Ha, I’m kidding.” The waitress arrives with the food in a bag. I take his out, stand up with ours. “Arshad, don’t worry too much about Zee running off at the end. That’s just what she does to everyone. You made great progress today by being really open and honest. I’ll keep your secret because I said I would, but you’ll blow it if you try to hide things from her.”
Then I leave because you should always leave after saying something that mature and profound so you don’t undermine your point by saying something else.
ZEE
It takes Art fucking forever to get back to my truck.
As he gets inside, I shoot at him, “I was about to leave.”
“I was waiting for them to make the food to go.” He places the bag of P.F. Chang’s in my lap. I shove it back into his.
“Liar … what were you two talking about?”
“I told him how we had the greatest kiss ever last night and then today I bought you clothes so you could seduce another man.” Asshole.
“ART, WHAT DID YOU TALK ABOUT?”
He reaches into his front pocket and places a wad of cash in my hands.
I say, “I told him I didn’t want his money.”
“Then go give it back to him.”
“Fucker.” I start fingering through the bills. “Shit.”
“What?” Art asks as he picks through our lunch.
“Did you count this?”
“No, why? He just grabbed what he had in his wallet. I assumed it would be like fifty bucks.”
“These are hundreds, Art. Twelve of them.”
“That’s…”
“Twelve hundred dollars.” What the hell. “Didn’t he say he worked in a coffee shop?”
“Yes…”
“What kind of forty-year-old Starbucks barista carries around this much cash?”
“He’s not a terrorist, Zee!”
“Yeah, yeah, I never really believed that. But after what he told us—and this money—I bet he’s a drug dealer.”
“Drug addicts don’t become drug dealers, Zee.”
“He did.”
“You just want him to be a terrible person,” Art says.
“He is a fucking terrible person.”
“He’s one of the most well-spoken, deep-thinking adults I’ve ever met!”
“He abandoned my mom when she wouldn’t abort me!”
“Doesn’t that just make him pro-choice?” Art says, and regrets it the moment I unload my evilest of evil eyes.
“No, Art, that makes him part of a patriarchy that wants to make women a subservient reproductive class serving the whims of a man’s timeline. Pro-choice means it’s the woman’s choice.”
“When’s the man’s choice?”
“WHEN HE DECIDES TO HAVE SEX WITH THE WOMAN!”
“You’re right. I’m wrong. Can we eat?”
“I’m too angry to eat.”
“I’m too hungry not to. I will say if you feel uncomfortable taking his ‘drug’ money, I’ll take it.”
I almost do give it back. And then I remember I’m homeless and broke. Even my truck may be on borrowed time.
* * *
When we’re back on the road, I ask Art, “What’s the cheapest hotel in town?”
He says, “There’s that motel by the Home Depot, The Last Riverbender, which is far too clever a name for such a crappy hotel.”
art
Zee drives us to the decaying motel, parks, says, “Wait here,” goes inside the office, and returns five minutes later with a key. “Come inside and check it out.”
We go up these rusty stairs to the outdoor entrance of room 11. She opens the door, and I hold my breath as I walk inside because I think I’m leaving my real life and entering another one where I visit scary suburban motels only serial killers use.
The motel room itself isn’t nearly as terrifying as the rotting exterior. It’s clean, has a flat-screen TV, and despite the faint smell of cat pee, it feels welcoming. There are two beds, and before I can get myself in trouble by making a smart-ass comment, Zee says, “I got two beds in case you wanted to stay here with me.”
* * *
Let us take a moment to be overwhelmed by ALL THE MIXED SIGNALS this girl sends me.
Okay, moment over.
* * *
“Yes … I mean, yes…”
“So do you mean yes?”
“Ha, you’re hilarious.”
“I know.”
“But if you ask me to take a shower with you again, I’ll refuse.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I know.” God, our flirty banter is so good, it’s annoying she can’t skip past this Cam mistake. But, alas, not everyone can see the future like me.
“So,” she starts after she throws her gym bag onto the floor, “here’s what I’m thinking as far as a game plan for the rest of the day. Michael should still be at the church, so we go pick up some stuff at my house. Then we can get some of your stuff from your house. Then we get a bunch of junk food, come back here, and watch movies and stuff until we pass out.”
This plan feels so romantic and perfect, I can’t speak.
“Art?”
“Yes.” I’ll marry you.
ZEE
Art packs twice as much stuff from his house as I do even though he, unlike me, can go back at any time. We pick up pizza for the motel room. Yeah, I know we had it three days ago and I’ll be having it again tomorrow with Cam. We also get pop, chips, and Nutter Butters for later.
We sit on the floor in front of the TV to eat and stay there way after we finish. Then I want to lie down, so I climb up onto my bed. Art stays on the floor until the next commercial break. Then he gets up and says,
“I’m going to get ready
for bed.”
“Okay,” I say. What does he need to do to get ready? I just need to flip off my shoes and maybe my pants if I get hot. But he spends twenty minutes in the bathroom. Comes out with a scrubbed face, fancy boxer pajamas, and a clean white T-shirt. The kid is so pretty and pristine, sometimes it makes me feel like I’m anything but pretty and pristine.
He gets in his bed, which is good. Not that anything would have happened between us. But it’s good he understands that.
But,
fuck,
DON’T BE PATHETIC, ZEE!
Whatever.
I say, “Hey, kid…”
“Yes, my queen?”
“No kissing or anything like that, but maybe…” Before I finish, he’s out of his bed and slipping into mine.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“You were lying there for less than a minute!”
“It was the longest minute of my life.”
“You’re so fucking dramatic.”
“You love it.”
“Sure,” I say. I don’t know if I love him being dramatic. I do know I love him lying next to me. Just feels like he belongs there. I don’t tell him that. No way. I also don’t tell him I wish we could kiss again. A guy could get away with telling that to a girl. He could say, Tomorrow I’m seeing the girl I love, but for just tonight can we find comfort in each other’s arms? A guy wouldn’t say it cheesy like that, but he could say it. And then, even if the chick went ahead and made out with him (and did whatever else), the guy could tell himself (and the girl) that he never misled her. He could claim he was honest.
But I can’t tell Art that. A girl can’t tell a guy that. No matter how lonely she’s feeling. No matter how much she wishes she could kiss him just one more time.
Actually, screw it.
“Art?” I whisper.
No answer.
“Art?” I whisper again. Then I peek down and see his eyes are closed. He’s asleep. That sucks. But it does save me from fucking everything up a second time.
art
The Handsome Girl & Her Beautiful Boy Page 14
