"Amigo, are you OK?"
December 24, 2002
I finished helping a friend with landscaping his big backyard. An all day project
that left me muddy, dirty, sweaty, and tired. I dumped the lawnmower, shovels, and
the weed whacker in the back of my truck and left for home.
While being stuck at a red light on the corner of Wilshire and Bundy, all of a sudden,
I heard a loud noise followed by a violent jerking movement and a sharp pain in my
back. I was disoriented for a moment. I looked around and found myself in the middle
of the intersection facing wrong side of the road.
I was rear-ended and the force, caused by the impact, had knocked my $700 pickup
truck all the way to the other side of the intersection. I immediately reached for
the family jewel and the surrounding attachments; to my relief, I found them all
unharmed and in one piece.
I got out of the car and looked around. Traffic stopped in all directions. My landscaping
tools were scattered all over the road and there wasn't much left of my poor truck.
I looked for the car that had hit me. Holy cow! A brand-spankin'-new Mercedes 500
S class with high performance rims and sports package. It was such an honor to be
almost killed by such a fine luxury German automobile of such.
I started walking towards the Mercedes looking for the driver. I found him leaning
casually against the car, talking on his cellphone. I listened closely. I couldn't
believe it. He was a sharply-dressed, clean-cut fellow from the old country. He was
speaking Farsi to somebody on the phone.
"I have been in a car accident," he said. "I just hit this Mexican
landscape guy. I hit him so hard his pickup truck almost landed in Cancun. Tell everybody
I'll be late for the party. I'll give the guy some cash and hire him to cut the grass
at the Beverly Hills mansion. Fa-dot Sham."
"Amigo, are you OK?" He said to me, smiling. "Sorry, I was on the
phone; I couldn't stop."
What a jerk, I thought. I'm going to give this guy a run for his money. This is war
declared by yours truly against the rich snobs of Irangeles. I fell on the ground
and started shaking like I was having a seizure. The driver froze. He had the most
horrified look on his face. He ran toward me and shouted, "Shit, his gonna sue!"
I started rolling on the ground and made strange noises. Noises so horrible, even
I was getting scared. The driver pulled out his cellphone and dialed frantically
"Aloo, honey, this is serious. The guy is dying. Get my lawyer on the
phone immediately. Can they put me in jail for killing an illegal alien? Ask him
what if I told the police that I was stopped and he backed up into my car? I don't
think he speaks English. Get my lawyer on the phone right away!"
He ran back and cried out, "Amigo, don't die -- portfavor."
I'd had it with this guy. I started breathing hard then I closed my eyes and held
my breath. People around us started to panic. The driver dialed his phone again.
"He just died; where the hell is my lawyer? I'm gonna be somebody's bitch in
prison. Koon beh baud raft. This is all your fault. If I wasn't talking to
you while driving, I wouldn't be in this mess. Why do you have to call me every second?
I have to support your lazy ass, buy you expensive clothes and jewelry, take you
to all these Beverly Hills parties, pay for your breast implants, and lie to my parents
about your college degree. It's all your fault. Bitch!"
The driver was crying like a little boy. I was turning blue and couldn't hold my
breath any longer. For some strange reason, I felt sorry for the guy. He looked like
a little rich schoolboy who had lost his lunch money.
I got up and walked to the guy. He jumped back like he had seen a ghost. I shook
my head and said, "Khaak too saret --You're the biggest racist jackass
I have ever seen." The driver was surprised to hear me speak Farsi. "Just
because I drive a pickup truck, you automatically assumed I am an illegal alien from
Mexico. Even if I were one, would that make me any less human? I'm gonna let you
off the hook because I feel sorry for you."
The driver threw his arms around me and showered my face with sloppy kisses. I was
disgusted. I pushed him back. He took a few heavy steps backward, tripped, fell,
and bumped his head on the asphalt. He grabbed his head and started moaning.
Bystanders stepped back and looked at me like I just shot someone. The cops arrived
at the scene. One of the onlookers pointed at me and said, "The Mexican guy
attacked the gentleman on the ground."
"Wait a second!" I thought to myself.
driver of the Mercedes, seeing opportunity in chaos, shouted, "That's right,
he just attacked me for no reason. I have witnesses. He wanted to kill me. I'm gonna
sue for assault. I got the best lawyer in LA."
I couldn't believe my eyes. He was giving me a taste of my own medicine. Before I
could say a word I was tackled, from behind, by LA's finest and handcuffed. One of
the cops picked me up like a rag dull and tossed me in the back of his police car.
I was speechless.
I heard the cop speak on the radio, "We apprehended the suspect. He was engaged
in a traffic altercation -- badly injuring the other driver. He is a Hispanic male,
mid-thirty, possibly an illegal alien. Requesting transport to INS detention center."
Well, this can't be too bad. With over a 1,000 Iranians in the immigration detention
center, I was bound to run into old friends I haven't seen in a while.
Does this article have spelling or other mistakes? Tell
me to fix it.