I was on my break, outside in the back, chilling, smoking pot, minding my own biz. Severe daydreaming session was in progress and everything was going relatively well. No dramas, no running from the law, no immediate currency concerns, no new STDs, no overdue child support payments, and to top it off, the piss-test came back negative. Life is alright.
I inhaled a fistful of Los Angeles' smoggy air and relaxed my body against the wall.
“Ollagh, get your ass inside; got customers,” my father shouted.
“I'm on my break.”
“You've been on a break all your life. Get inside before I fire your lazy ass.”
“Then fire me,” I said.
“Get inside.”
“I'm on a break, dude.”
“I'll come outside and break your neck. How's that for a break?”
Back to reality. You don't wanna piss-off my old man. He's old school, means what he says and has no problem getting physical. He might be old but he is big, starts his day with two hundred pushups and scares the heck out of me.
It was three o'clock on a Sunday morning and the Westwood clubgoers were hitting the local Persian joints for a bite to eat. There is nothing like a combination of vodka, ecstasy, cigarette, and zoolbia-bamiyeh to start your Sunday off right. Why not… noosheh joon.
Convertible German cars lineup in front of the restaurant in a matter of minutes and Mansour look-alikes flock the joint. Sexy Persian beasts, chatting on their cell phones, calling the troops, coordinating locations, exchanging hunting stories: “Kardish? Nahhh!? Damet gaarm!”
Precisely five minutes later, the UCLA Persian Barbie Club is in the house. You can watch but you can't touch… at least not here and not now. Cute little things — surgically enhanced and modified for viewing pleasure. Sweet little asses, nice little curves, big brown eyes, fine little tits.
A few minutes later a large group of young Iranian-American snoop doggy wannabes on crotch rockets pull in and park their bikes on the pavement. Oversize Lakers jerseys, Tommy Hilfiger's, three-hundred-dollar sneakers with no shoelaces, chains, fake tattoos and body piercing.
The second Gs walked inside the restaurant, hip-hop style, gangsta attitude, checking out the shizzle, down with the fizzle. Mansour look-alikes stop and stare at the second Gs with a snotty attitude: “Here's an example of a perfectly good culture gone wrong. Who are the parents of these kids?”
The second Gs stare at Mansour look-alikes with resentment kids feel for their older brothers: “Yo, dawg, clear the way for the FOBs, yo-all coz they gonna bust out with singles and start belly dancing.”
My father and his crew were in the kitchen, wrestling with a 500lbs cow hanging from the ceiling. My father was cutting a tender piece of meat from the cow's ass which would later be sitting on somebody's plate for dinner.
Knowing about my genetic laziness and relentless quest for finding shortcuts in life, my father put me in charge of a single table in the back. He also told his headwaiter to keep an eye on me. “Kick him in the balls if he gets out of line.”'
I walked to my station and found my table occupied by a cutie. Give me some of that, I thought to myself. The chick was absolutely delicious. This night is getting better and better. I'm thinking this honey could easily end up in my crib if I turn on the old charm.
“Hi, what would you like to drink?” I asked the girl.
“Are you Persian?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Can you tell me what is wrong with you Persian guys?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Why are you guys such assholes?”
“Who? Me?”
“Not you. I'm talking in general. Why are you Persian guys such loose mouth, perverted liars?”
“Do I know you?” I said.
“No, but I'm sure if I talk to you for another five minutes, you'll probably claim that I've slept with you and announce it to all your friends.”
Yes, I probably would, I thought to myself.
“Are you gonna order something?” I asked.
“You look like an honest guy. Tell me why you Persian guys are such asses? You go out and party like animals, you do your drugs, drink like fish, sleep with anybody you can get your hands on, but God forbid if a Persian girl does the same–she's then a whore and you're freakin' Virgin Mary.”
The girl was pissed. Her nostrils were flaring with anger and her nails were cutting the wooden table like butter. I took a step back, fearing for my life.
“I don't know what to tell you. I just work here,” I said.
“And you know what really gets me?”
“Can't wait to hear it.”
“After you guys are done screwing half the world and their mothers, then you go back to Iran and marry yourselves young virgins. You pretentious, pompous, hypocrites.”
The girl slammed her fist on the table so hard, she knocked over the vase. I dove to the floor and intercepted the vase before it hit the ground.
“Yo, lady, take it easy. You break it, you buy it.”
“And another thing: why is it that you guys only approach us when you're drunk? You guys are so gutless you need liquid-courage to even talk to a girl. It's sad and disgusting seeing a grown man making an ass out of himself.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I haven't made an ass of myself in two weeks. I'm on a roll… ”
“You know what the worst thing is about you Persian guys? You can go out with anybody you want, but you catch one of us out with a black guy and all hell breaks loose. That's right. If you see us out with a black man, then you guys start rumors and make us look like two-dollar-whores. Doesn't matter if the guy is sweet, or educated, or has good personality, or we have feelings for him, but just because he is black, he's a lowlife. Like, if a Persian girl is spotted with a black man, she's tagged for life.”
“Well, some of us are a bit ghairaty!”
“Shut up, okay. Do you know why we go out with black guys? Huh? Because they're big, and I'm not talking biceps. That's why. You gotta problem with that?”
“No. I'm pretty big myself.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, really, I'm big.”
“Well, congratulations.”
>>> Parts (1)
About
Siamack Baniameri is the author of The Iranican Dream, (Virtualbookworm.com Publishing, December 2004). Also see Iranican-Dream.com.
