Saïd Sayrafiezadeh: New American Stories

“What will you do with all that money ?” the host asked.

“I–I—I–I don’t know.”

“Pay back the greatest guy,” I answered for her.

“What?” Roberto said. His pillow face swung in my direction.

“Pay back the greatest guy in the whole world,” I said.

He stood up straight. In his small apartment, his size was immense, his camel legs notwithstanding, and as he loomed over me on the couch, I felt a twinge of vulnerability.

“I told you, I’m going to pay you every penny!” he said. His face twitched and the pillow-bandage bobbed, and from his pocket he withdrew a slip of paper on which was printed the company logo of Dr. Scholl’s. Beneath this he had written in very precise handwriting, “I O Dean $200.00.” He had dated it “June 14th” and added his initials, as if it were an official document he was endorsing. The gesture was surprisingly touching, and I felt remorseful, even guilty, as if I were the one who owed money.

Out loud I said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Get it notarized?”

“Motorized?” he asked.

He shrugged. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket and got back to work on the DVD player. The woman was just about to pick the color yellow when the game show was interrupted by breaking news: every branch of the military had been ordered to join the marines on high alert — the navy, the army, the air force, the coast guard, and branches I’d never heard of. There were maps with arrows, and the peninsula was highlighted. The experts were all in agreement; even the experts who used to disagree now agreed. Everything made sense. There was a sexy reporter interviewing soldiers at their base.

“We could be attacked without warning,” she said. “Right here and now.” Her eyes were dewy, her lips were thick. She wore a flak jacket and a helmet from under which flowed long brown hair.

“Do you miss your family?” she asked one of the soldiers.

“Yes, I do, ma’am,” the soldier said.

Roberto came and sat beside me on the sofa.

“But I have to do what I have to do,” the soldier said. He had blond hair, blue eyes, an upturned nose. If not for his twang, he could have been a California surfer. Night-vision goggles were propped on his forehead.

“Are you afraid of dying?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Any day now,” the reporter said, turning to us.

“Any day now,” Roberto repeated. The sentiment seemed poignant. I draped my arm around his enormous shoulders. I was in a forgiving mood.

“Let’s go get a DVD,” I said.

Outside, the cobbler was closing up for the night. He was trying to pull the grate down over the shopwindow but was having trouble because he was old and fat. Roberto ran to his aid as if rescuing a child from the water’s edge. “Wait! Wait! Stop! Stop!” He reached up with wide forearms, and in an instant the gate came crashing down onto the boiling sidewalk.

“Ah, you good man,” the cobbler said.

At the video store we browsed the titles. We agreed, finally, on one of those funny buddy road movies. Then Roberto picked a porno that he said he was going to watch alone. And then he picked his favorite gangster movie with Tyler McCoy.

I paid for all three.

Back at the apartment, there were about forty flies walking over everything, including the dishes.

“Maybe you should close the window,” I suggested.

He complied, trapping the heat and trapping the flies. Then he went to the refrigerator and took out some bread and cheese and tuna fish and put them on the counter where the flies were. He took out a jar of mayonnaise, and while his back was turned, the flies landed on the bread and cheese and tuna fish. When he was done making the sandwiches, he put one on a plate where the flies had been and handed it to me.

He sat down on the sofa bed and pressed play. The trailers ran and the sofa sagged. After that, the movie with Tyler McCoy began. I pressed pause.

“I thought we were going to watch the other one,” I said. “The buddy one.”

“Let’s watch this one first.”

“I’ve seen it three times,” I said.

“So what,” he said. “I’ve seen it three hundred times.” This was no exaggeration.

He pressed play, and so began Tyler McCoy’s rags-to-riches story through violent and immoral means. When the characters spoke, Roberto spoke, every word, soundlessly mouthing in perfect unison.

He pressed pause. “Why aren’t you eating your sandwich?” he asked.

“I think I saw a fly land on it,” I admitted.

With irritation he said, “You are opulent, ” and he took the sandwich from me and bit into it, a huge, obvious bite so that I could see the food in his mouth. “And I am indigent. ”

Which was true. I’d had a DVD player for ten years.

—

On the Fourth of July, Roberto and I drove downtown to see the parade. There was nowhere to park, and we had to walk twenty minutes up a hill in 105-degree heat. The turnout was extraordinary. The largest ever, people were saying. Other people were saying that each year the turnout should be the largest ever and that people shouldn’t wait for a war to become patriots. “I keep my flag out year-round,” one man said. “And you can pass by my house anytime to see if I’m telling the truth.” The fountain was going, though we were supposed to be conserving water, and the parks people had somehow managed to get it to rise and fall in alternating colors of red, white, and blue. Up and down it went, hypnotically. Roberto and I stood shoulder to shoulder, transfixed by the spectacle. Children played along the edge, and parents screamed at them not to drink the water because it was poisonous.

The sun was straight overhead, but the heat felt as if it were coming from down below, from the asphalt, emanating up through my shoes and legs and out through my scalp. I had brought along a container of sunblock, SPF 45, which I kept applying to my face and neck every few minutes. Roberto looked at me in fascination and amusement. His nose was almost healed except for a small red mark that ran along the bridge and which he kept rubbing because he was self-conscious.

“Does my nose look big?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I lied.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said, and a band started up, all trumpets and drums and tubas playing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” People swayed and sang, and Roberto used the heartfelt moment as an opportunity to make his first payment. “To the best friend,” he announced, holding a pile of crumpled bills. “To the greatest friend in the whole world.” He handed over the fistful of dollars like he was pouring gold coins into my hands. “Count,” he said.

I counted twenty dollars.

He displayed the sheet of paper with the Dr. Scholl’s logo and his now updated balance sheet. He had crossed out “I O Dean $200.00” and replaced it with “I O Dean $180.00, RD,” dated “July 4th.”

I used some of the money to treat us to two foot-longs, and I was about to treat us to two more when an altercation broke out near the fountain. People pushed to get to the action, and Roberto and I pushed too, and the emcee said not to push. The crowd surged forward, and when the wall of people opened, I could see parade-goers shouting and pointing at a small ragtag group of protesters holding signs that said WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER and things of that nature.

We jeered at them, and they jeered back. “You’re all fools,” they screamed.

“It’s the Fourth of July, for crying out loud,” a woman next to me yelled back. Her face was pink, possibly burning, and she looked close to tears. “Isn’t anything sacred to you people?”

Roberto cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Faggots!”