Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  There were ledgers inside—she worked on the ledgers. There was cash inside—she worked with the cash. And open the door just like that, how could she do that?

  Helen Bender was a strict woman and she had high standards as well. She said that she liked men with big cars.

  Ahmed said that he did not have a car. He had a bicycle.

  Helen Bender was not impressed.

  Helen Bender said that she liked men with big muscles.

  Ahmed said that he was a small man—he did not know much about these things.

  Helen Bender was not impressed.

  Helen Bender said that she liked men who could tell good stories.

  Ahmed knew a story about Yemen, he began to tell it. “I had a father,” he began, “he lived in Aden. One day Nasser came—he came with his soldiers.”

  But the phone rang and Helen Bender had to go and answer it. The story was left dangling. It was a good story (or so Ahmed thought) but the people were busy. They did not have time for such things.

  ***

  The days passed. Ahmed went to work, he came home. He went to work, he came home. He was from Yemen, a world far away. Sometimes he missed the old world—but why think of these things? The children there played soccer, there were cinema halls with ceiling fans inside. But it was an old and ancient world. Why think of these things?

  He had come to America as a refugee with his mother and sister. His mother had died three years ago. His sister had married and moved to Cincinnati. He lived in a small rooming house with people who came and went. It was not an easy life. But one must be strong. He had finished high school, perhaps one day he would go to junior college, even to college. And then things would be better—was it not so?

  Sometimes the people at work asked him questions.

  “You want to be a movie star?” they said.

  He did not answer.

  “A bank manager?” they said.

  He did not answer.

  “A computer programmer?”

  They were strange words, what did they mean? But perhaps they would come true. He would work hard, he would. And then good things would come to pass.

  Ahmed worked hard. And did these good things now happen—did they now come to pass?

  They gave him work to do. He was good at some things, he was not so good at others. They asked him to put up a shelf; the shelf fell. They asked him to blow up balloons on the machine; he blew them up, but then he did not know how to tie the knot. They put him in the pets section and the people came to buy goldfish. He filled the plastic bag with water and he put the goldfish inside. But sometimes he put in too much water, sometimes too little. And then the knot on the top of the bag with the plastic strip—he always had trouble with that.

  They put him behind the cash register—he was not bad. They put him in the stockroom—he was not bad. Mister Mundy, the Manager, spoke to Mister Box, the Assistant Manager.

  “But he has a good attitude.”

  “He tries.”

  “He’s not terrible at everything, you know. There are a few places we can use him. It’s not all bad. No no, it’s not all bad.”

  Sometimes Ahmed was embarrassed at his clumsiness, sometimes he was ashamed. But he was willing to try. And was that so bad?

  ***

  The days passed. The people at work were white, they were pretty. Was Ahmed the same way? The people had dreams—they spoke about their dreams. Was Ahmed the same way?

  “I want to be a movie star.”

  “Yes.”

  “A singer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to be a millionaire.”

  “Yes, that as well.”

  Ahmed listened to their words, perhaps he even marveled at them. But was there not work to do? Must he not return to the work?

  Sometimes Ahmed thought about home, about Yemen. He thought about his mother and his sister—how far away it seemed. He thought about his father—how far away it seemed. He thought about the bad man from Egypt who killed his father. Nasser was a tall man, he had a grey mustache. His picture was often in the newspaper. He gave speeches, the people cheered him. He walked the streets, the people waved or gave parades in his honor.

  But did the people know what he had done? Did they even care?

  “He asked my father to come to his house. My father went. He threw water on my father’s shirt.”

  But did the people care?

  “He asked my father to join him for a drink. My father went. He threw whisky on my father’s face.”

  But did the people care?

  “‘I am a general,’ he said. ‘And you? My picture is in the newspaper. Is yours?’”

  ***

  There was a woman at the store, Hortense by name. She was a simple woman but quite attractive as well. She was thirty-five years old, maybe forty. She had streaked blonde hair, a mole on her right cheek. She had nice firm legs. She wore light brown stockings—they were pleasing to the eye.

  One day Ahmed tried to tell her the story. But did he succeed? Did she care?

  Hortense was a saleswoman and she worked in the fabrics section. Curtains, raw cloth—those kinds of things. She saw Ahmed, she seemed to develop a great interest in him. Or perhaps she just felt sorry for him. She pitied him, that is all.

  “My father was a simple man,” said Ahmed.

  “Yes.”

  “He was not a general. His picture did not come in the newspaper. But he knew what was right.”

  “Yes.”

  “He loved his family, he loved his country.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the tall man from Egypt—the one with the grey mustache—could he ever understand?”

  She looked at Ahmed—she looked at him for a long time. And then: “The world is a hard place,” she said. “America, Yemen, it is all the same. But a few people find happiness. One out of a hundred. Sometimes one out of a hundred and five.”

  Ahmed listened to her and was intrigued by her words. Happiness, happiness—what was all this strange talk about happiness? Where did it come from—what did it mean?

  One day Ahmed was outside sitting on the bench. He had a brown bag with a sandwich inside. He had a small soda that he had bought from the lunch counter. Hortense was on her break and she had come out to take a smoke.

  She saw Ahmed on the bench and she approached him. She was a simple woman and not very educated. But they said that she was a special woman with special powers. They said that she had hypnotized people and that she could do it again. You went back to your childhood, to your past lives. If you had a guardian spirit or angel, you could get in touch with them.

  One time she herself had been hypnotized and she had traveled back to her childhood. Another time she had gone back not only to her childhood but to a past life. It was the life before the last one: she was a schoolteacher in a small town in Mississippi. There was talk of giving colored people more say, even of having some colored children come to school.

  The man who hypnotized her was now dead. He lived in Virginia, some twenty miles from Lynchburg, and was a successful businessman who owned two drug stores. But he discovered that he had another calling and first let others manage his businesses and then sold them altogether. He had passed on his skills of hypnosis to Hortense—he had taught her for many years.

  “Both people have to believe fully,” Hortense said. “The person doing it and the person it is being done to. If they do not believe, as many as fifteen things can go wrong.”

  Hortense was there, she watched Ahmed for some time. He was a decent person, he worked hard. Would he be willing to give it a try?

  Ahmed was busy with his sandwich, at first he did not notice her. She was small with heelless rubber shoes and she walked so softly. But then he smelled the smoke of the cigarette—or was it that he first saw the small shadow on the ground?

  Hortense stood there, the cigarette between her first two fingers. How softly she seemed to hold the cigarette.

  She was we
aring stockings—they were pleasing to the eye. It was time to hypnotize Ahmed. Was it? She asked him to close his eyes.

  He closed his eyes.

  To think of his past.

  He thought of his past.

  To think of a river in Yemen.

  He thought of a river.

  There was music in the background. There was a flute, there was a violin. Was there a mandolin as well?

  Ten minutes passed, perhaps eleven. Ahmed awoke. How tired he was. Hortense was running her hands through his hair.

  No, it did not feel bad.

  Hortense asked him if he remembered anything from his rest.

  “What is there to remember?”

  “You were in Aden—or perhaps in Hodeida. You were there for a long time.”

  Ahmed was amazed at her words. She had taken him to Yemen—had she really? She had taken him to the past—had she? Was this the path to happiness? Would he be one of the lucky ones—one out of the hundred, one out of the hundred and five?

  That night Ahmed went home and he thought about it. Something had happened—what had happened? What had come to pass?

  ***

  The days passed. Ahmed thought about America—he thought about it for some time. He went to work, he came home. What a strange place this America was. To what did it add up? What did it mean?

  His father was dead, his mother was dead. There was his sister—she was far away. There was Helen Bender—she was a strict woman. There was Hortense, a pretty woman.

  They asked him to clean the floors—he cleaned the floors. To mop—he mopped. To open the boxes—he opened them. There were prices to stamp: he stamped them. Ahmed wanted to find happiness—or did he? What was this happiness? What did it mean?

  Sometimes Ahmed felt sad, he felt alone. He went for a walk, he wandered the streets. He walked down the alleys and he saw the broken glass there, the debris. One day he went to the famous place—the one in Cheverly, Maryland. There were girls there, special girls, who came to the parking lot behind the movie theater. They were girls who had dropped out of high school, or studied bookkeeping and typing in their senior year. They had never gone to college, would never go. But they needed money. Were they not just like the rest of the world? They painted their fingernails, they painted their toenails. They got a tattoo near the right breast, or on the upper thigh. They knew it would bring pleasure to the customers, or at least be something to talk about. Did it bring pleasure to them as well?

  One night, after visiting the girls, Ahmed came in to work. Mister Mundy was there, the manager of the store. He was a perceptive man—and he noticed that something had happened.

  “Are you tired?” he said.

  Ahmed looked at him.

  “A long night?” he said.

  Ahmed looked at him.

  “It is dark in Cheverly, the twilights are long, the nights even longer. Is it not best to avoid such places and to stay at home?”

  Ahmed did not know what to say. So in fact he checked his tongue, he said nothing. Mister Mundy was an intelligent man. But did he understand? Did even he?

  ***

  The days passed. Ahmed used to make two dollars an hour. Now he made two dollars and ten cents. But the work, did it really change?

  He wandered the streets—often he wandered them. He thought about Yemen—did it help? He thought about his mother and sister. Did it help?

  One day Ahmed was in Hortense’s apartment—she had invited him over for some snacks. It was a simple place with an orange rug and a sofa covered in colorless plastic. But the place had been well kept—there was hardly any dust in sight.

  Hortense liked to smoke, there were ashtrays throughout the house. She smoked Pall Malls—sometimes straight, sometimes the menthol. The black mole was on her cheek; she rubbed on the mole with the tip of her index finger.

  She was wearing stockings—they were always pleasing to the eye. It was time to hypnotize Ahmed. Was it? She asked him to close his eyes.

  He closed his eyes.

  To think of the cinema halls in Yemen, the ceiling fans there.

  He thought of the cinema halls in Yemen, the ceiling fans there.

  To think of a river in Yemen.

  He thought of a river.

  There was music in the background. There was a flute, there was a violin. Was there a mandolin as well?

  There was the sound of a hammer. There was the sound of a bird, the sound of a leaf. Ahmed tried to imagine the sound. What a soft sound it was. The leaf was in the air—it was suspended, suspended. It was there for a minute—for two—it did not fall.

  How relaxed Ahmed was. There was peace in the world. It was all around.

  Ten minutes passed, perhaps eleven. Ahmed awoke. Hortense was running her hands through his hair.

  No, it did not feel bad.

  Hortense asked him if he remembered anything from his rest.

  “What is there to remember?”

  “You were in Aden—or perhaps in Sayhut. You were there for a long time.”

  Ahmed was amazed at her words. She had taken him to Yemen—had she really?

  Would he find happiness now—would he find it at last?

  Hortense was wearing stockings and she began to roll them down. She took out a box of Pall Malls. She tapped at the end of the box and took out a cigarette. She offered it to Ahmed. He shook his head—but then he changed his mind.

  “One,” he said. “Maybe for later.”

  “Later?”

  He put the cigarette in his shirt pocket.

  He had been hypnotized before—he knew what it was like. He had been to Yemen—he knew what that was like. But an attractive woman—thirty-five years old, perhaps forty; a woman rolling down her light brown stockings—for this he was not prepared.

  “My husband is a good man,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “He is a good provider.”

  “He is.”

  “He treats me well, I’ve never had cause for complaint.”

  She paused. Was this the end of the sentence? Were more words to follow?

  It was raining outside now, harder than before. The wind had picked up, the leaves were swirling to the ground. The leaves, the leaves—always the leaves swirling to the ground.

  “The world is a long place,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “The world is a hard place,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “A man is away from his home. Is it not important for him to find shelter? Is it not important for him to find rest?”

  She moved closer to him, he could smell the tobacco in her mouth. It was a good smell—he had always liked the smell. She put her hand in his hair. What does it mean when a woman puts her hand in your hair? She brought her mouth close to his mouth. What does it mean when a woman puts her mouth close to your mouth?

  The rest, why go into the rest? Ahmed was hypnotized, or perhaps he was not. Perhaps he found shelter, perhaps he did not. That night he went home on his bicycle. And did he tinkle his silver bell (the simple man)—did he tinkle it again?

  ***

  The days passed. Ahmed went to work, he came home. He went to work, he came home. And was he at peace now, was he at rest? Was he happy now—was he that as well?

  Ahmed rode his bicycle to work. He did not have a car, he did not have a pick-up truck. So he took his bicycle. There was a basket in the front suspended from the handlebar. He used it for his sandwich, he used it for an extra jacket or sweater.

  One day it had rained, the streets were wet. The bicycle skidded and Ahmed fell off and hurt his leg. His pants were torn at the knee and there was blood there. He walked the bicycle to work the rest of the way—almost half a mile. At work, he asked for some antiseptic ointment and some band aid—there was some in the small office at the back of the store. He put the ointment on his knee. He took his handkerchief, he tied it around his knee.

  That night he hobbled around the store. Some of the blood was still there. And
the pain, the pain, did it really go away?

  One day Ahmed was not feeling well. He was downstairs throwing up. He had been working in the stockroom unpacking boxes. It was hot, it was stuffy. There was dust all around.

  Ahmed recovered from his nausea. There was a simple wooden bench there and he lay on the bench. He lay there, he dreamed. He was in Florida—he was lying on the sand. He was in his room in his boardinghouse—he was sitting on the old armchair, his eyes were closed. He was in Yemen—his mother was there, his sister. He was lying on a string cot. He made a pillow with his arms, he turned to the side. The sun came—the kind sun—it came and fell on his face.

  How nice it was to be in Yemen. To be at peace again, to be at peace.

  He thought of his father. A sadness came. He thought of Nasser. An anger came. But then he thought again of the kind sun. And how nice it was to be in Yemen. To be home again (ha). To be home.

  ***

  The days passed. Sometimes it rained, sometimes the snows came. Sometimes it was cold and Ahmed shivered in the wind. But he went on his bicycle, he went on. He did not yield.

  One day Ahmed was called into the office. Helen Bender wanted to see him. One day he was called in. Mister Mundy wanted to see him. One day he was called in—Mister Box wanted to see him.

  They asked him questions, he answered. They asked him questions, he answered. He spoke of the places in Yemen they had visited. He spoke of the “tours” with his father they had gone on—the tours to Mocha, to San’a.

  Did they understand?

  He spoke of the cinema halls in Yemen. The cinema halls in America were nice, they were clean. But the cinema halls in Yemen had something else. They had ceiling fans.

  One day they called him in, they took him aside. They said that his work was good, but not great. They said that there were budget problems, they must let him go.

  “Go?”

  “We must let you go.”

  Ahmed protested—he began to protest—but the words stuck in his throat. What could he say? What could he say?

  There were the memories from Yemen—perhaps he should think of them. There were the memories from work—perhaps he should think of them.