Sex, lies and shish kebob
Part 3: Anything's okay, so
long as your ass remains a one-way street
Parts (1) (2) (3)
February 21, 2005
iranian.com
"Get up. You're leaving," the girlfriend said
to the guy.
"Help me," the guy said, trembling.
"I said get up before I humiliate you in front of all these people,"
the girlfriend said.
"Help me, brother. Help me..."
It was obvious
who wore the pants in that relationship. The guy was another victim
of the Zan Zallil Syndrome and he was too
much of a coward to stand up and tell the girlfriend like it
is. I felt
a strong connection with the guy due to our intense male bonding
episode earlier. We guys are stupid like that. Just because
we spend a few minutes sharing something primitive but personal,
we
automatically become best friends. So, I figured what the heck,
I'll help the dude.
"Give him a break, lady. Can't you
see the guy doesn't wanna go with you," I said in a brave
manner.
"And you are... ?" the girlfriend asked.
"Who? Me?"
"Yes, who the hell are you? And why is this any of your business?"
"Lady, I'm a friend of this idiot who is obviously too terrified
to give you his two weeks notice. Chill out and let the bird fly."
"Excuse me? What are you? His lawyer?"
I
made the guy standup. I pulled him closer and whispered in his
ear, "Man, don't be such a wuss. Tell her you wanna
move on. Be a man."
The guy swallowed hard and managed
to stutter words out, "I don't want you anymore."
"What? Is there someone else?"
"Yes."
"Who?" the girlfriend shouted.
The guy started
shaking again. How pathetic, I thought.
"Yes I'm in love with someone else."
"Who is she?" the girlfriend asked.
"Listen, I'm coming out of the closet," the
guy said. "I don't care anymore. I'm gay, okay? There, I said it.
And one more thing, I'm in love with a man. We've
been together for a while and I wanna spend the rest of my life with
him; I want you out of my life."
This is
every guy's classic line, "it's not you. it's
me. I'm gay." We guys use that line
to get out of dysfunctional relationships without
hurting
women's
feelings. It's cowardly but it works.
"Who is he?" the girlfriend barked.
The
guy took few steps back and pointed at me, "It's him."
Hell NO, you didn't!
"You bastard," the girlfriend howled as
she kicked me in the front bumper. I grabbed my crotch and hit
the floor.
The pain was so intense I couldn't decide whether to inhale or exhale.
I let out a sound that resembled Luciano Pavarotti
minutes after he was pulled out of his mother's womb.
The girlfriend threw
a left hook accompanied by an uppercut. Her 50 carat diamond ring
nicked me
right in the face.
"You bitch; you think you can steal my man?
Huh?" the
girlfriend said. "I'm gonna kill both of you.
You think I let you two make me
the talk of the town? Huh?"
I looked up and saw my father
and the headwaiter staring at me. This was getting better and
better. My father grabbed me
by the
neck and
slammed me on the chair.
"What the hell is going on here?" my father asked.
"What's going on?" the girlfriend said,
"I caught your waiter makin' out with my man. That's what's going
on."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your waiter had his hand in my man's pants," the
girlfriend said.
I had the wind knocked out of me. I tried to spit
words out but nothing was coming out. The freakin' dude was standing
in the back, smiling.
I bet he
thought
the whole thing was funny. Helping a brother my ass; I'm
gonna kill this guy.
"Are you gay," my dad asked.
 "He looks gay to me," the headwaiter said.
"I want to hear it from him. Answer my question, are you gay?"
"What do you think he is? The doer or the doee?" the headwaiter said.
"Son, open your mouth and tell me if it's true."
"No wonder he is always staring at my ass," the headwaiter said.
"Son, this is the last time I ask: are you a homo?"
I could see murder in my father's eyes. At that moment, the whole
story of Rostam and Sohrab made perfect sense
to me. Rostam killed Sohrab
not because of some misunderstanding or foul
play, but because somebody told
him that
Sohrab was gay. My father, like Rostam, was
waiting for slightest affirmation to pull
his sword out, weave it in the air and stick
it in my ass. I felt like the main attraction in a freak show.
I
took off my apron, dropped it on the floor, lit up a joint, put
my feet up on the table and leaned
back on my chair.
The entire
restaurant was
looking at
me with eagerness.
"Dad, I smoke joints, drink alcohol, have STDs
and pay child support to mothers of my kids. I steal, embezzle
and panhandle. I cheat, lie and swindle.
I have
a longer criminal record than a rap star. I
seduce, penetrate, operate, intimidate, initiate, masturbate, instigate
and insinuate. I sell, buy, trade,
push, exchange,
transfer and traffic. I make the devil look
like a boy scout. Dad, I'm the healthiest, headerosexual Iranian
man
in LA and I'm the fruit of your
love.
Relax, I'm not gay."
My father picked me
up from the chair and slapped a big kiss on
my face. "Son, I don't care about
all that
so
long as
your ass
remains
a one-way street.
I could've never kept my head up in this town
if my son was a homo. I want to thank you,
and take
the rest
of
the night
off.
Here is
a fifty;
go have
some
fun."
The shish kebob master had spoken. My father
was so relief to find his son's sexuality on
a right
track
that he
overlooked all my
other misdemeanors.
 Every night you find a new
drama at my father's establishment. Maybe that's the reason I love
working for him. My
father's restaurant is the stage
show of our Persianness. It's addicting. I
go to work every night expecting to experience
jolts
of comedy
and tragedy
all jam-packed
in one captivating,
colorful, fascinating, intriguing and crazy
people -- the Iranians. To be continued
Parts (1) (2) (3)
About
Siamack Baniameri is the author of The
Iranican Dream, (Virtualbookworm.com Publishing, December 2004).
Also see Iranican-Dream.com.
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