unnamed

Unfinished,Short Story, Coming of age... type

Short Story

        “You are not going to name my son THAT, Miriam.” Ibrahim spoke with a thick Iranian accent. He learned English in school at a young age, later in his college career; he learned a few more languages. He looked at Miriam as she stirred her cinnamon tea. She was dressed in a shimmering orange silk dress with a deep wine-colored scarf. Miriam smiled back at her new husband.

        “I thought you were a man with an open mind, was I wrong my dear?”

        “Now you sound like one of these… uh… um... hippies, right.”

        “I just like the name. I’ve liked it ever since I first heard the name. Israel. It sounds good in English.”

         “My Father would spit. He would kill me, then himself.” Ibrahim kissed his petite wife on the lips. “We must come to a compromise… and soon,” he said. Reaching over to rub her round and swollen belly, he knocked a cup of cream onto his crisp copy of the Wall Street Journal.

          “Damn.” He quickly grabbed a cloth to clean up the small mess on the mustard yellow kitchen table.

            “A Compromise? Sure. I didn’t think you cared what they thought. Isn’t that why we came all the way here? Isn’t that why you married me in the first place? Just to make your father hysterical and the laughing stock of Parliament, to be the rebel outcast of Iran?” She grabbed more cream from the refrigerator.

             “I married you because you are beautiful and because I love you.” He seized her with one arm and closed the clay colored refrigerator door.

              “You are a good husband.” Miriam kissed Ibrahim.

              “Don’t you think we could agree on something more…”

              “Something more American, you mean? Something boring, I think”

               “I am sure we could think of something we both can approve of.” Ibrahim finished his coffee and re-opened his newspaper.

 

*

         BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

            “…visit to our town in twenty years. It is such an honor preparing for Vice-President Cheaney’s visit to our community, Russ. There was little concern regarding security enforcement in a town of this size but we are taking every precaution, nonetheless. We have everything…”

            “Shut the f**k up, stupid f****n’ radio.”

            Izzy woke up early. Tree limbs swaying roughly in the warm wind beat harshly against the window near his bed. It was the first day of school and an unusually hot for the morning autumn hours. Izzy reached over and turned off the alarm clock. Although nervous at the thought of starting his first “real” year in high school, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of excitement burning in his gut as he whistled down the hallway to the bathroom.   

        Do you think you might wear those new navy slacks I bought you, Izz? It’s the first day. Honey, please? He could almost hear his mother voice.

           Izzy was born a U.S. citizen in 1986, a decade after his parents fled Iran. Many people fled Iran for America in the seventies for various reasons but Ibrahim and Miriam had an exceptionally unique necessity. Izzy’s parents were not a traditional Iranian couple. Although they both were born in Iran, they lived a childhood under dramatically different circumstances. Izzy’s mother was raised a Jew in the countryside of Iran. A Miriam grew up in a close knit Jewish community of family and friends. Some people, like her father, tried in vain to shield her from harassment and pain of bigotry, but it of course, was unavoidable. Although Jewish people have lived in Iran since released from Babylonian captivity almost three thousand years ago, (Miriam boasted that her ancestors were freed by King Cyrus himself), Jews in Iran remained a silent minority for centuries after. Her mother would say, “Miriam was not made for silence.” She always liked to play games like the boys played but her role in society was, she thought, in-escapable and a specific kind of quiet hell. Over time she grew restless and distant from her own family and her childhood faith. She grew too big for her fathers neatly wrapped box and yet she felt too small for her mother’s honorable resignation.

                Ibrahim, Izzy’s father, was the son of a very wealthy politician in the Iranian Parliament. As children, Izzy’s parents had met by chance outside the largest marketplace in Tehran. Ibrahim started life happy to be the first born son of wealthy official. He spent much of his earlier childhood doing just about anything he wanted. Ibrahim was old enough to explore and play in the city while his mother and aunt shopped in the open market. He made his way to his ‘secret’ spot, he found last time his mother had taken to the market.. Tucked away from the hustle and bustle, he loved to explore abandoned buildings. He liked to be alone. But on that particular day, he was not alone. As he made his way to the second floor, he noticed the girl, Miriam, reading a thick book in the corner of an abandoned bedroom. Both knew the invisible wall that should have existed between the two; the wall between male and female and the larger barrier that existed between Muslim and Jew. What they didn’t know is that either one of them would be willing to peer on the other side of these barriers. Brave children are compelled toward the unknown. After an awkward introduction, the pair began to talk about things and most importantly they played together, in secret, for hours. The sun slowly strolled across the cloudless sky The eleven year old kids shared their brief lives and experiences with the kind of openness and honesty only children could master. Although both knew it was forbidden for them to be anything but lifelong enemies, they decided to be friends anyway.

      Five years later, it seemed destiny brought them together yet again, outside a downtown restaurant, under very different circumstances. This time they had both grown into young adults, every aspect of their lives had changed as they took on very different roles. Ibrahim, a promising young scholar and politician, had left a group of friends earlier, after an intimate dinner. As he strolled into the business sector of the city, he noticed a young girl slipping out of the back of a small kosher butcher shop. She quietly pulled the ladder, attached to the side of the building, and climbed up the side. When she reached the top of the humble two-story establishment, the book she was carrying slipped out of her hands and fell. Bouncing off a rung or two, the book landed on the ground. The pages turned in the wind.

           “You dropped something.” He yelled. Miriam began to descend the stairs. “No, no, no, ma’am. Let me help you.”

             “Sir, please, you don’t have to…”

             “Nonsense, stay where you are.”

             “Excuse me, sir. My parents sleep down stairs.” She spoke in a hushed voice and pointed to a small barred window in the corner of the shop.

             “Of course. What is it your reading?” He walked toward the back of the store; picked up the book and quickly climbed the first few rungs of the ladder. He noticed she had soft features, her eyes and her nose. With the dim light behind her, her burka hung awkwardly on her body.

             “You shouldn’t…I shouldn’t… wait, excuse me, please but have you been in our store before?” She briefly looked at the young man’s face.

              “I’m sorry, I rarely make trips to the butcher, myself but…Miriam?’

            

                 

*

 

        “How long did it take this morning, Izz?” Izzy said to himself. “All of fifteen minutes, today.”  It was ironic that he missed her so much, today of all days. He naturally wanted his mother to be there, to be alive. But today, the first day of school- the first day he would attend a regular high school- she would have humiliated him for sure. It seemed she loved to embarrass him more as he got older. Izz’s paranoia about his mom’s behavior had grown since the day he caught her talking to his sixth grade teacher about her ‘son’s rapidly approaching manhood.’ Izzy almost puked.

         At the time, the thought of being considered a man petrified Izzy. He didn’t exactly feel like a man. Men are tough and strong and have it all together. Don’t they? A real man is supposed to take control of difficult situations but instead of feeling in control, he usually concentrated his energies weaseling out of confrontations without losing his pride or his teeth. He didn’t have to worry about making her proud, anymore. He didn’t think about it so much anymore, either. Izzy looked at the Garfield calendar sitting on the heavy oak desk.

             “Mom’s been gone, now…. Twenty two months today.”

            Izzy slid on his baggy trench pants. Pulling his faded Nine Inch Nails T-shirt over his oily brown hair, he walked to the mirror on the wall. His brown eyes were bloodshot and tired. He grimaced. This face used to be familiar. Two years ago, there would have been a ‘normal’ kid looking back at him. Today, he wasn’t sure what kind of person was in the glass. He checked his reflection for the last time; stopping to count the number of new zits that spotted his face. Izzy slipped a navy colored Yankees hat on his head.

            “Great,” he mumbled, “just what all the girls love, a crater-ravaged face.”

            The accident had changed a lot of things in Izzy’s household. His ‘nervous breakdown’ happened two weeks after the wreck occurred.  Anyone closely paying attention would have noticed that Izzy--the fun loving, lighthearted, mama’s boy, died the instant Izzy’s father got the call. Izzy wasn’t as close to his father as he had been as a young boy, his dad became more of a mystery. But not that afternoon, Izzy could read his father’s face like a book, a very scary book. He wasn’t used to seeing his father over react to anything but he couldn’t bury his natural reaction to cry out. Not that day, that day everything changed forever in an instant. Everyone said everything would be okay with time, until the fire anyway. Izzy later recalled reading the name of the man who smashed his mother into oblivion in an article in the Messenger-Journal.

             “I read his name out loud. James R. Nelson. James R. Nelson. What a f*****g loser of a name. That’s all I thought.”

              “Come on Izz. Tell us how you were feeling… when you read the paper.”

               “I FELT like pricks named James R. Nelson who drive f*****g Beamers, more worried about some stupid conversation than a red f*****g light should be put in jail when they f**k up and kill someone’s mom.“

                “A valid response, you were frustrated and angry. Tell us more. Is that when you first thought of retaliation?” Dr. Jones tilted his head forward and peeked through his wire-rimmed glasses.  

             “Kiss my a*s, Doc. That a valid enough response for you?”

              In fact, Izzy didn’t know what he was going to do, at first. The plan came later, as the minutes turned into hours and the faceless man, James R. Nelson changed from an unknown proverbial “act of God” into a symbol. In retrospect, Izzy knew it probably wasn’t a fair comparison. He was only guessing the guy was a totally worthless criminal cocksucker. At the time however, Izzy spent the next few evenings scouting the man’s large home in a daze. The first evening, Izzy noticed a woman in the backyard pulling and trimming the garden. He thought it was the b*****d’s wife or girlfriend- one he was sure he didn’t deserve. Izz studied the big beautifully maintained yard from behind a large oak tree. Big, bright yellow flowers followed a small path leading into a wooded area behind the backyard.  He laid his head against the aged oak tree and cried.  

            The third night he walked by the house, he actually caught a glimpse of the man as he hobbled out of his Avis rental car. He had his left foot in a cast. A broken foot, that’s all? In a split second, Izzy decided to burn the delightful house. He showed up very early the next day, before daybreak, armed with five gallons of kerosene to hide. Izzy shook violently as he waited for the house to empty.

             The Muldone County Sheriff’s department had called Izzy’s dad home from work early. They wanted to talk Izzy off of the bridge, without the vaguest idea he started the monstrous fire ten miles away. He could see his father among the people in the small crowd gathered below. He didn’t know why he decided to climb down, but he hated to see his father cry because of something he had done. He slowly climbed down from the bridge. Everyone at the police station assured Izzy and his father that he was ok, and that it was natural to feel the way he felt. After a couple hours, Izzy confessed to the fire. The police charged Izzy at the station. Ibrahim took his son home without a word to say.

              Nineteen months in Brookedale Juvenile Psychiatric Hospital changed Izzy. It would change anybody, but Izzy grew more violent and resisted treatment, at first. He was transferred to the wing for violent offenders the third week of treatment. He couldn’t tell exactly what happened during certain few weeks, or months during his stay with any real certainty. At first, Izzy expressed his emotions: anger, hate, fear, regret-in one way, violently. A hot white flash shot through his body when he was angry, which was all of the time. The feeling disarmed his brain of any rational thought. He fought the orderlies and nurses, other patients and his own father. Ibrahim didn’t need an excuse to leave the work of curing Izzy to the court system and the appointed doctors.  Immediately after her death, Ibrahim was distraught. He could merely sit back and watch the rest of his be taken away from him.The hospital allowed a two week “learning curve” and let constant outbursts slide due to the untimely death of his mother. Shortly after he threatened a nurse with an empty syringe, however, the hospital sent him on a temporary head “vacation.” He fought the pills, too of course. But he quickly grew sick of the salty taste of “Big Teddy’s” two fingers down his throat. Weeks disappeared. Well they weren’t exactly gone, just one long emotionless, indistinguishable blur of rituals. Slowly, after a number of months, the number of pills and the dosage eased, someone surfaced. Someone who looked like Izzy and sounded like Izzy but he was someone else. 

 

               This day was important to Izzy, things had stopped being important to him for a long time. He had to take tests that would qualify him to be admitted into honors courses in school. For a long time, Izzy stopped wanting anything: a purposeful life, relationships, and a career. Life was utterly pointless. He secretly wanted to believe the shrinks when they told him his rage and subsequent melancholy were a phase, but he was convinced they were all idiots at that institution. Izzy didn’t even consider enrolling in public school until two weeks prior to the beginning of the school year. In elementary school, Izzy was considered somewhat of a mathematical genius at an early age and, although Miriam was most excited, she wanted him to spend the first few years of school with “normal kids.” Miriam supplemented his schoolwork with more advanced assignments she designed at home. Before his life took its most tragic turn, his mathematical prowess was more of a burden. It was embarrassing, really. While being so gifted at math made him feel like more of a jerk the older he grew, his mom bragged to her friends-constantly bragging. Who cares, he thought. His friends in the neighborhood mocked him, jokingly. None of his friends wanted to be so smart. They did not envy the extra homework he had to do, either. Izzy’s mom gushed when she read the results of his first standardized test in elementary school.

              “It says you are in the ninety-eighth percentile. You see, Ibrahim even these racially biased tests conclude your son is brilliant.”

             “Ahhh yes… I remember the night before the test. You went to the skating party with your little friends. You should have rested, focused you could have done a better job. The Reading/Comprehension scores are low.” Ibrahim looked down at his newspaper.

              “Your father is jealous, Izz. Genius runs in my side of the family.”

             Although he was careful not to let on, Izzy decided to try his best on these tests. These tests were a chance to be recognized for something else, noticed by his father, and gain respect some of his peers for something other than being crazy. Although he did not dare let on, Izzy was actually beginning to feel a little better since he had been back home

Izzy went downstairs to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. He walked down the hall and admired the newly renovated living room. His mother had decorated the room in the cheesiest country décor, spotting every available space with numerous dopey faced cows. In his mother’s case, money was surely not a sufficient substitute for taste. Just after the New Year, Izzy’s father had commissioned a designer to remodel various portions of the house. Now the living room looked more like a modern art gallery than a living space. For the first time since she was killed, Izzy missed the cows and gingham prints.

“I can’t believe he spent ten stacks on this gaudy s**t.” Izzy made his way into the kitchen. Before he could devour his Frosted Flakes, a car pulled into the driveway and the subsequent sound of a car horn.

“Jimmy,” he muttered. He threw his bowl in the sink and grabbed his backpack.

 Jimmy was a couple of years older than Izzy, but he had known him since they were young. Jimmy lived down the block for years. Jimmy’s father sent him to military school for a while, returning to Northridge the previous year. He admired Jimmy in some respects. He didn’t ask too many questions. Even if he came from the east side of Barrystown and he wasn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box, Jimmy was someone to kill the long meaningless time with. Jim had a big mouth and big guns to back it up. Izzy loved to watch Jim run off at the mouth.

     Jimmy drove an extensively battered green 1986 Mustang that he purchased at a government auction. Although the car was a piece of crap, Jim drove it like it was a race car. Izzy didn’t know too much about Jimmy’s family, and that was okay. They drank and smoked pot together the summer after he came home. Jimmy was not much for conversations and that suited Izzy just fine. They listened to music and watched T.V., Izzy felt kind of normal when they hung out.

      “Hey man, what’s up, bro?” Jimmy backed out of the driveway, squealing his tires.

       “Just gotta take those damn tests today,” Izzy shrugged. “Just a formality, really. I’m not sweating it. The material is cake.”

       “You sure you want to be in all those nerd infested classes? Really, why don’t you just switch to remedial math with me?” Jimmy smiled.

       They turned the corner and pulled into the school parking lot. Izzy loaded up his backpack and admired the embarking student population. A chill crept down his spine. Izzy tried to shake it off. He felt like he was on the Gravitron.

      “There are a lot of people here, man.”    

      “And they are all a******s.” Jimmy took one last drag off his cigarette.

      “Thanks for the encouragement.”

      Izzy closed the rusted door of the car and walked toward the large concrete and steel structure. During middle school, Izzy was constantly harassed by Brad Garris and Tom Meyer, a couple of well known guys, football guys.  (Izzy didn’t know any of them personally. All of the guys in that crew were known a******s for the most part, especially when traveling in a pack.  They hung with the a larger group of over privileged kids and were stroked by school faculty) Brad emailed the entire middle school class the news article about the bridge with a doctored picture of Izzy in a straight jacket included in the attachment. This, however, was high school, a somewhat big one. A lot of people were unfamiliar to him. Izzy could have been excited, if not for the sour taste in his throat. As hundreds of new faces sped past him, familiar ones from Northridge began to appear out of the crowd. Kristien Mayer, his first kiss, if pop-kissing a girl on a playground dare counts as a real kiss. Sean Jones, who played on Izzy’s second grade baseball league, was walking directly behind Kristien.  A couple more recognizable faces appeared in the passing period mob. He tried to catch a friendly stare. Surely at least one vaguely familiar person in the transitory mob would glance at him just long enough for him crack a smile, opening the door for some modest communication. No one was looking. Izzy made his way back to his locker and relished thinking that somewhere in this mass of faces, at least one person would be cool, someone. Ideally, he thought, that person would be a girl.

       He made his way through the long halls of his new school. It was littered with patriotic posters and colored flyers advertising numerous club meetings. Rows of grey-blue metal lockers opened and slammed shut behind him. After retrieving the slip of paper in his pocket to double check the room number, Izzy entered the classroom and approached the large desk in the back of the room. The nameplate on the desk read “Coach Money.”

       “Excuse me, Sir,” Izzy said in a shaky cracked voice. “Mr. Money?”

       “Yes, young man,” the teacher replied. Mr. Money.

. He was tall and dark with extraordinarily thick arms. The big man’s hairline receded to reveal dark brown age spots that looked like a paw print. Izzy leaned forward. He could smell Bengay. Mr. Money was obviously more than just the coach of a high school team, he thought. Izzy suspected that he actually played on some kind of team, possibly even professionally.

      “I am here to take the exams for…”

       “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he replied. “They always stick me with you guys at the beginning of the year. Just because I monitor study hall twice a day doesn’t mean I don’t have important things to do with my time. Have you ever seen our varsity team play?” Mr. Money turned his eyes to the newspaper on his desk.

      “Uh, no” replied Izzy.

       “Lucky you. Now take a seat,” he said without looking up from his paper.   

       Izzy made his way through the room and found a seat. A quick glance across the classroom revealed a small number of students nervously awaiting the arrival of their exams. One or two of the faces in the room looked familiar. Rachel Woods and Carrie Walters were in the third row. Snotty b*****s, really -popular and obviously pampered. They both attended St. Matthew’s Elementary School with him previously but Izzy doubted they even knew who he was. They wore matching red and black T-shirts identifying themselves as cheerleaders. Aside from joining the other jocks when they took their turns jeering at him, the two girls never spoke a word to him otherwise. He thought things might change if they knew he was an intellectual superior. He never really tried to know them, he admitted to himself. Maybe “b***h” was too harsh of a label for the excruciatingly trendy girls. Maybe they were cool even if they were rich and beautiful and white. Maybe they wouldn’t mind showing him around the unfamiliar school. Could he build up just enough nerve to ask? Who really cares if they say no, laugh in his face, or ignore him all together? He thought a second longer. I do, he thought. Well, maybe one of them could use a math tutor. He smiled at the girls. They didn’t seem to notice. Suddenly the bell rang.

              “Hey, sorry I am late.”  Another student entered rushed into the room as Mr. Money attempted to close the door.

            “I’m sorry, too. Take a seat.” As she sat down, Mr. Money rattled off instructions for the six students and handed out the tests.

            Maria Githa Gupta (nicknamed Gidget by her father), scanned the room quickly looking for an appropriate seat. Gidget always had a beautiful face. Apparently, over the course of Izzy’s hiatus, she developed a near perfect physique to go with it. Gidget was taller, almost six feet, he thought. She was slender without being skinny. Her father was Indian and her mother, Sherry, was biracial- half Indian and half African American (Izzy’s mother played cards regularly the last year of her life and while he did think Mrs. Gupta was rather pretty- for someone’s mom anyway, he was blown away the first time he met Gidget). He never forgot how lucky he felt that night, how he almost missed the chance. Even though their backgrounds were different, Gidget was the only person Izzy’s age who remotely related to his home life. Sherry had only initially invited Izzy’s parents to her cousin’s wedding but when dad backed out he was forced to escort his mom. Izzy begged to stay home and tried to play sick.

*

              “It is no good, honey. I’ve already bought a brand new dress. Did you see it? It’s baby blue and…”

               “Mom!”

               “Look, I know you want to stay home and watch your basketball game but I really want to go. I have already R.S.V.P.’d and the wedding is in two days.”

               “It’s the finals”

               “And I am your mother and I need your help. You know your father doesn’t like it when I go out unescorted.”

               “I don’t see why. He ‘lets’ you go to the grocery and the cleaners and the mall by yourself.”

              “Now, come on babe. That’s totally different. You know your father is methodically over cautious. You would be, too, if you had grown up surrounded by the trepidation, constant uncertainties, and a smell of revulsion always hanging the Iranian atmosphere.”

              “If I say ‘yes’ will you stop talking about Iran.”

               “Why does it bother you so much my dear? Iran has its problems, big bad ugly ones. So many problems we had to leave so we could start a family, this family. Your father wanted to change things. He tried before…”

                “That was a long time ago. No one could change what had to happen. Son, be proud of where you come from, but Iran is a bloody mess.”

                “I do miss it, though. Your father was all I brought of Iran with me and I thought he would be enough.” She smiled at he husband. “I know we will never be able to go back but I think your father secretly harbors a fantasy of returning home, someday.  It is his homeland. Iran’s history and her golden landscape are in his blood. I remember the ruby sunsets back home, so exquisite….” Miriam’s voice trailed off as she recalled the fleeting memories.

             “Mom, please, I just wanted you to stop before you told me stories about how you and dad having to walk twenty miles to school, in the sand, uphill both ways. Your sounding kind of Gone With the Wind-esque, with the whole land-is-in his-blood stuff and everything.”

              “Very funny, Izzy.  You know that is my favorite movie. Now, take out the trash”  

              Izzy had no idea what the night would hold in store for him. The instant he saw Gidget he was entranced. She looked like a princess in her strapless violet bridesmaid gown. He knew she was a year older than he was but they were both in the same grade. Her dark hair was carefully streaked a deep ruby hue and cut to perfectly frame her toffee colored shoulders. Her face perfectly complemented her flawless mouth centered between two golden apple cheekbones. Izzy’s couldn’t believe his luck when after a half an hour of playing wallflowers at the reception; their mothers introduced them and subsequently forced them to dance together.

               “Doesn’t this suck?” Gidget turned and smiled at Izzy as she led him to the makeshift dance floor. Journey’s song, Faithfully, echoed through the reception hall. 

                “Yeah, weddings are NOT my thing.” Izzy placed his trembling sweaty hands on the small of her waist lightly. She slipped her arms around his neck. For the rest of the evening they talked. They talked about music and how lame their parents were. She was easy to talk to then. At the end of the night they said their good byes. He wouldn’t see her again for another year and a half, two days before his mother’s death.   

*

        “Gidget…” Izzy murmured under his breath. Her exotic features mocked her childish nickname. “…pure ebullience.” He watched as she chose the desk next to the cheerleaders and slid in to the wooden seat.

         “Bovine growth hormone.” A voice whispered behind him. Izzy turned back to see who was talking to him.

          “What the f**k are you talking about, man?” Izzy smirked at the guy. He casually pointed in Gidget’s direction.

           “The s**t they feed the cows, man. You know, to make more milk. Girls built like her in high school, man? It ain’t natural but it’s cool with me.”

          “Whatever you say, man.”

            He began his exam. Just as he suspected, Izzy answered most of the questions with no difficulty. Learning was always effortless for him when he entered school. He was especially gifted at math. In his early years, Izzy loved the time he spent with his mother, reading and playing learning games. He rarely regarded it as work. Now, he could use his mother’s forethought to his advantage. She would never see her hard work come to fruition but he was determined not to let her down. An hour later, most of the high school population exited homeroom and Izzy left the room and hurried to his first period class. He hoped it would be the last time he saw Mr. Money. He caught up to Gidget.

              “Hi, Gidget.”

               “Hey, Izz. I gotta hurry. Maybe I will have you in one of my classes. I know I am gonna need a good study partner. Later. “ She disappeared into the crowd.

            Lunch was approaching quickly and promised at least some physical relief, he was almost too nervous to eat, unless they have taco pizza, he thought. Izzy made his way to the large and noisy cafeteria. While he waited in line, he anxiously scoped out the crowd for the two or three people who might actually know who he is. With no hope of socialization in sight, Izzy sat at an empty table and watched the other students eat their lunches. Just as he started to get comfortable in his anonymity, Izzy heard an unwelcome voice ring through his ears.

            “Hey, f*g!” It’s a sickeningly memorable voice.

            “Just leave me alone, Brad.”

            Brad Garris, the catalyst of many early public displays of humiliation involving Izzy in previous years, he was an athlete complete with biceps bigger than his brain. Brad was an a*****e in baseball and got off on picking on the little guy. When they were younger, Brad would taunt Izzy, make fun of his Iranian born parents or call him a sand n****r under his breath. Izzy couldn’t stand Brad. He had hoped to leave his dreadful memory on the baseball field.

             “Why did I even come back to school in the first place,” he mumbled under his breath.

             A picture of Dr. Lomat, one of Izzy’s shrinks, flashed in his brain. He was so full of s**t, I should have jumped. Izzy thought. He knew Brad would continue his onslaught for the next four years, making a public laughing stock of him every single day. Izzy shuddered.

            “Did you hear me f****t?” Brad bellowed. “I am talking to you, dickhead.”

            “Yeah, I heard you. What do you want?” Eyes shifted toward the action.

            “Rachel told me you were in her class this morning, testing for honors classes.”

            “Yeah, so what,” Izzy replied sarcastically. Some student’s began mumbling in the background. Some were taking bets on how fast it would take Brad to kick his a*s.

            “Don’t get smart with me a*****e. I don’t know who you think you are, but you are getting really cocky.. You are certifiable, man, crazy. Everyone knows it. We don’t want people like you in our school.”

               “What, you mean people with some actual brains? Trust me, this school need as many as it can get. Will you let me eat?” Izzy took a bite of the octagonal pizza.

               “You think you’re smarter than I am or something? Well, you ain’t even close. By the way, nobody here feels sorry for you, you know.” He leaned and whispered. “They say your momma was probably a terrorist spy, anyway-your daddy, too. We don’t want to have to watch our backs in our own school. Go back home.”

           “This IS where I was born. I am home. Is your dad still a hopeless lush?” Izzy clenched his fist.

           “You got something to prove?” Brad knocked his books off of the table.

            Izzy felt a knot in his throat. He wanted to run out of there. He wanted to cry. More people were starting to notice the commotion. They were starting to stare.

Everyone watching stood, silent. Izzy was starting to sweat. His breathing accelerated. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes leering at him. The attention only fed Brad’s ego.

            “Come on, punk. Get out of here. I am sick of your face and you are not worth getting suspended over.” Brad started to walk away. A small crowd of girls at the lunch table nearest to the confrontation began chattering indiscriminately. Izzy started to sweat as his nerves killed what appetite he had. Just as the moment began to pass, Izzy muttered under his breath.

            “F**k you.”

            “What did you say?” Brad turned. In a second, he grabbed Izzy’s plate of pizza and tossed it in his face. Izzy fell back out of his chair and landed on the checkerboard linoleum floor. Izzy felt emotion wash over him. His first instinct was to run and cry. As he scanned over the crowd of witnesses, in awe of the ensuing madness, Izzy didn’t see any teacher anywhere, hell some of the seniors were so big, he was not sure who was who, anyway. The students were screaming and laughing at him for what seemed to be hours. In a moment, the shame and embarrassment Izzy felt turned into rage and anger. Finally, Izzy wanted to fight back.

            “You son of a b***h, I hate you. I have always hated your ugly stupid face. You’re a worthless piece of s**t. Why don’t you pull your head out of your a*s long enough to see that your nothing to anyone. ” Izzy screamed and lunged towards Brad with all of the force his body could muster. Izzy swung his arm and landed a left hook to Brad’s jaw. The blow merely slightly postponed the inevitable.

            “I’m gonna kill you, dumb f****n’ b*****d.”

            Brad laid into Izzy’s face. He punched him in the stomach, knocking out his breath. Izzy landed on the linoleum floor with a thud. He tried to lift himself but Brad kicked him in the gut. The size eleven Adidas hurt, badly. He heard Brad make a throaty gurgle.

            “Mother f****r.” Brad spit on the back of Izzy’s head. The loogie slid down the back of his ear.

           Finally, a couple of teachers managed to make it through the crowd and seconds later, pulled Brad off of Izzy. Izzy laid bleeding and weeping involuntarily in the middle of the cafeteria floor. Through the streams of his tears, he tries to focus on the blurry crowd surrounding him. His ears could hear random people laughing and mocking him. Mom, he thought. The biting reality was nearly too much to bear. Nobody will be there for me. She wouldn’t be there, ever. I can’t do this by myself. Why did these people deserve to be here? Suddenly Izzy’s rage totally enveloped his mind. Someone else needs to hurt for a change. His thoughts turned to retribution. Payback for all of the pissy ways life has screwed him this past year. Who should pay?

            “You two punks would give me crap, today.” The principal ordered Brad to his office. “Not only is it the first day of school, I am preparing for the Vice President’s speech tonight in the auditorium. Can’t you kids get it together for just one day?” The principal rubbed his head. Izzy seized an opportunity to bolt out of an open cafeteria door.

            “Hey you, come back here,” yelled an anonymous teacher. Fortunately he had a handful of files. He didn’t look back. Izzy darted across the hall and through the gymnasium. He made his way outside by using an exit on the side of the gym. He ran across the street and cut through a couple of lawns. Northridge high school was conveniently located off of the highway, Highway 589 to be exact. Izzy made his way up the long on-ramp and walked along side it.

            “Hey kid, shouldn’t you be in class?” An older man pulled up beside him in a metallic Lexus.

            “I am sick. Goin’ home” Izzy didn’t bother to look at the man’s face.

            “Yeah, you don’t look to good. You want me to drop you off at home? You live around here right… I’m not trying to be weird or anything. You just look like you could use some help.”

            “Yeah, sure Mister. Just take me up Boulder Road a mile or two, man”

            Izzy hopped in the car. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t know where to start. He could feel flashes of heat surging through his body. Brad was always an a*****e, even before Izzy became his favorite target. He remembered that Miriam always went out of her way to talk to Brad’s mom at the grocery or whatever. She eventually confided that Brad’s father was in prison for selling narcotics. My mom dies on me and they don’t even deserve to live. Who deserves anything, anyway? Izzy didn’t want to live. He wanted to be with his mother. He felt emotionally stunted. I can’t handle this stuff on my own. I am a big whiny mama’s boy. The middle aged man in the car mumbled something to Izzy but he couldn’t make out the words clearly. It didn’t matter anyway, really. His eyes began to blur and his cheeks grew hot and red. I want to go out with a bang, not a whimper.

             “Is everything okay?”

             “A few more houses ahead, the sandy beige colored one on the left side of the road.” Izzy ignored his previous question.

             “You know, things always seem like the end of the world when you are in high school. One time, I had to deliver a speech in front of a large class full of the most popular kids in my class, a******s-all of them, if you ask me. Anyway, I was so nervous I had forgotten to use the bathroom all afternoon, you know I really didn’t have to go piss at all, I thought. I was midway through my speech when I caught a fit of the sneezes. Well, I had on white pants and wouldn’t you know it, I pissed a spot in the front of my pants the size of a racquet ball. Of course, everyone saw the mark and I was the laughing stock of the freshman class all year.” The man chuckled quietly. The silver Lexus pulled up to the splendidly manicured curb. “I turned out just fine, that’s my point. By the next year, everyone had forgotten everything.”

             “Yeah, I will feel better, later. Thanks for the lift, man.”

            Izzy fumbled with the door handle. He pushed the door open. What in the f**k was that about, he thought to himself. The smell of fresh cut grass and gasoline assaulted his nose. His stomach twisted and growled. Ms. Dunbar’s brand new lawnmower was roaring in the background, assaulting his ears. The smell of fresh cut grass infiltrated his nostrils. Stepping out of the car, Izzy tripped over his feet and landed in the damp lawn. He raised himself to his feet and shut the car door, grass stuck to his pants.  

              “Hey, do you need some…” the man leaned nearer to the car window.

              “I am fine, just leave.”

              “But…”

              “Leave!” Izzy yelled without turning back to look at the man.

              The car pulled off. The familiarity of the yard momentarily guided Izzy as his senses continued to fail systematically.  He clumsily made his way to the front door.  Izzy’s keys slipped between his shaking fingers, landing on the terracotta colored tile leading to the porch. He slowly bent over to pick up his set of keys and selected one for the front door. The latch made the tell-tale click-clack as he unlocked the door and entered the Spanish style house. As he made his way up the stairs, his stomach began to cramp.

                .

            Izzy located his father’s small gun and slowly loaded it.

 

*

 

            The rally was a small one on the Vice-Presidents itinerary. This was just a brief note on the agenda, actually, a pit stop on the way through Middle America to help boost the popularity of the President before the upcoming years’ election. This year, Barrystown was one of the few cities in Missouri where the unemployment rate dropped a percentage point or two because of the opening of a new nuclear power plant. Barrystown was a relatively small town, the battered sign on the edge of town boasted 101,000 citizens, but most people who had a decent job drove the ninety minute commute to Kansan City. Every weekday, the town emptied out, Barrystown transformed into the dusty little town it had started out being a couple hundred years before. Only a few fast-food places downtown bothered to open for lunch. Tonight though, everyone would be there, not only was it Barrystown’s bicentennial, but the Vice-President himself would commemorate the festivities. 

          Izzy took the city bus to the downtown depot. The usually short trip took what seemed to be hours. The noisy bus groaned as it pulled away from the curb. Just as soon as the vehicle reached a decent speed, the SWOOSH of the air brakes announced the next stop. Surely, on this one night, the bus stopped at every single possible stop. As each person climbed the steps and dug out their bus tokens, Izzy’s nervousness peaked a little higher.

             I have gotta find a way to get a good shot. I am not gonna let that useless jackass get away with ruining my life without having to pay for it. It has to be tonight. In front of the whole town, the whole world, I need to make him look like the jerk off he is. I need to do this. F**k it. Who cares anyway, I will take out anyone in my way. Izzy smiled to himself as a lonely drop of sweat rolled down his cheek. Yeah right! His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

            “Go ahead, make my day.” He whispered to himself as the bus slowed to pick up another group of passengers. He glided his finger across the barrel of the lightweight handgun inside his pocket. An older couple slowly scaled the steps. The aged gentleman carefully aided his silver hair wife onto the bus. Izzy watched the two elderly people. He was sure the two had been together since the beginning of time. He could tell by their clothes (and the fact that they were both on the city bus when the lady was obviously in need of an alternate means of transportation) that they had no money. They looked kind of cheery, he thought. They weren’t doing anything particularly wonderful.  The old woman took every deliberate step as if she were constantly in pain. Why would they be happy? What did they have to look forward to? He didn’t notice the next couple of stops.

            Izzy stepped off of the bus on Jefferson Street. He could see the white and black police cars that lined the streets surrounding the Convention Center, two blocks away from Izzy’s high school. Izzy paced from one corner of the road to the next block. Okay what am I here to do again? Izzy could barely remember how he even made it back to the north side of town. I wanted to make that mother f****r pay for ruining my life. What else can I do? I can’t go back to school. I can’t go home. I won’t go back to that sorry hospital. I am trapped, I guess I will have to blast my way out of this place. They won’t forget me as easily as they forgot my mother. My death announcement will make the front page of the newspaper, maybe which is as good as it’s gonna get.

            Izzy took another lap around the block a little further away from the growing crowd of people. He felt the cooling air blow across the back of his neck. The sky was clear. Any other evening, he would have appreciated how pleasant the autumn evening felt. Tonight, he felt numb to the otherwise excited atmosphere. The only thing he felt with any clear conception was the

round barrel of his father’s gun.

           “Hey, where are you going Izzy?”

           “What?”

            “Hey, if you didn’t notice, the crowd is moving in the opposite direction.” Gidget emerged from a beat up truck parked along the curb.

           “Is that yours?” Izzy pointed at the truck.

           “I guess, I mean it’s my dad’s-for his business.” She rolled her beautiful brown eyes. “He is letting me use it tonight because he has to work and can’t make the ceremony. He thinks it will be an educational experience, you know with the V. P. there and all.”

            “Sure, I gotcha.” Izzy started to walk away.

            “Izz, wait a minute,” Gidget walked toward him, “That s**t in the cafeteria was not cool, man.”

            “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

            “Why not? I am your friend, right?” As soon as the words fell out of her mouth, Gidget could tell she had said the wrong thing. “Hey, I know we are not the best of friends, okay,”

            “Sorry, but most of the people you consider friends are a******s, seriously.”

             “I know, let me tell you. Lots of people I hang out with are real jerks, sometimes. Trust me, I hear the dumbest comments. I can’t tell you how many times Mandy Johnson has made some stupid comment about my dad running a convenient store for a living. He is a contractor for a big construction company in the city. He makes more in one month than her dad makes in three. I just want to kick her teeth in when I hear her run her bigot mouth”

            “Why do you put up with it? Why don’t you tell her to f**k off, tell them all.”

            “Because… Mandy is the head cheerleader. Hey, I don’t mean to sound superficial but I need to have the experience to put on my college resume. I like being a cheerleader.”

           Izzy pulled his hand out of his pocket and zipped up the side. He and Gidget walked against the flow of the passing spectators.

            “Look. I know you have been through a lot, a whole lot. Your mom was a great lady. My mom talks about her all the time. Well, and for all the stuff that happened after your mom died, that stuff was temporary insanity... temporary being the operative word.”

            “I don’t want to scare you, but I…”

             “You don’t scare me, Izz. I really kind of think your cool.”

             “I don’t feel normal, ya know? I don’t fit in anywhere. My dad has lost his damn mind. My mom was the only one who could talk my father into turning off the computer long enough to eat. When I was put in the hospital, I think he got used to being alone. I think he likes it better that way.”

            “Bullshit, no one likes to be alone all of the time, your dad’s an okay guy.”

             “There is not one cool person in this town.”

             “You like Jimmy, right.” They both looked at each other and laughed.

             “That dude is looney, but I guess he is okay.”

              “I know you don’t know me all that well and we don’t hang out with the same kind of people, but I consider you a friend. Let this s**t with Brad blow over. He was suspended for a week, anyway.”

              “You are a lot cooler than the people you call friends.”

              “Shhh… that’s just between us.” Gidget winked. “Let’s go to the party.”

              “Ummm, yeah, I need to get home kinda soon.”

              “Don’t be silly, you are already all the way out here. It doesn’t cost any money and there is gonna be free food, drinks, and cake.” Gidget smiled at Izzy and in that moment, he realized that he might never have a chance to escort her to anything ever again.

                “Sure.”

 

            .

 

 

Author's Note

This is my first attempt at a SS. I know it is full of mistakes... it is obviously unfinished & unedited. Anything positive would help.... i'm PAINFULLY aware of most flaws.

Reviews

[Carol Cashes]

As you already stated that you're PAINFULLY aware of flaws, I'm going to assume you mean grammatical/spelling etc. In any case, I will leave that part to others better qualified.

The story is unique and timely. While I would re-arrange some of the historical/biographical paragraphs, you have provided enough to "flesh" out the story and I don't think more is needed. Your descriptions of Izzy's parents, their realistic dialogue, and Izzy's experience with mental health providers is believable and valid. His anger returning so quickly to almost the same levels he experienced after his mother's death is also very real.

On the whole, I loved the story, the characters, and the only real revisions barring grammar/spelling ones would be some rearrangement of the timelines and inserted histories and explanations. Again, this is timely, current, and will be relatable to a great many immigrants and their U.S. born children, not just Middle Easterners.

For a first attempt, I applaud you, and encourage you to recognize your talent, even if a little raw, and when you can, reread this with new eyes when you can.