Just a Hat, page 4
“Whatcha got in this bag?” the grimy boy asked. He rummaged through the paper sack beside Joseph. The boy grunted in disgust and flung a can of Eagle Brand milk at Joseph. The unexpected missile bounced off Joseph’s arm. Ouch. The boy had good aim.
Joseph started to protest, but the other boy moved behind him and swatted at his kippah, causing it to sit askew. “Got any change?” the boy asked. “With clothes that fancy, you’re packin’ some money. Let’s have it.”
“I don’t carry money on Shab . . .” Joseph stopped. They didn’t have any idea what Shabbat was, so they wouldn’t understand why he wouldn’t carry any money.
The boy smacked the back of his head again. This time the kippah fell to the curb. “Out with it, sissy wetback,” he ordered.
“I’m not . . .” Again, Joseph halted. Was being Persian any better than being Mexican or whatever else they were calling him?
“Retard,” said the grimy boy. “Can’t even finish a sentence.” He withdrew the carton of eggs and threw them one by one at the brick wall of the store. The eggs ran down the building and pooled on the hot concrete. It created floating islands of broken shells. The boy aimed the last one at Joseph.
Joseph stood and dodged the egg, although it would have hurt less than the Eagle Brand. The boy standing behind him pushed him, but Joseph didn’t fall. His father had taken him to boxing lessons since he was in third grade. His balance was good. Joseph turned to face his tormentors. The grimy boy with the catlike eyes threw a stick of margarine at him. Joseph batted it away. Three more sticks followed rapidly. The last one hit Joseph in the face.
Joseph surveyed the broken eggs and sticks of margarine melting and cooking on the sidewalk skillet of Texas heat. He walked to where the Eagle Brand rolled to a stop, and he stooped and retrieved it. Elsie the Cow beamed at him from the label.
Grimy Boy pulled out the last item from the paper bag, a bar of Baker’s Chocolate. He peeled the wrapper and took a bite, but he spat it out, threw it aside, and spat twice more. “What the hell is that?” he asked Joseph. “It sure ain’t chocolate.”
“Cat’s still got his tongue,” answered the second boy, the one whose face reminded Joseph of a possum. He said, “Gimme your money, or I’ll kick your ass like the stinking donkey you ride.”
The thermometer in Joseph’s belly spun. These thugs had ruined the ingredients of the cake LaLa was making for her Sunday school class. They’d ruined Maman’s peach sharbet. They’d ruined the paint job on Mr. Ybarra’s truck. Joseph’s long, slender fingers curled tightly around the can of sweet milk. “I’m not giving you any money,” Joseph snarled. “I’m taking it. Give me every penny of that change.”
The two boys laughed. “Or what?” smirked Grimy Boy. Joseph lunged and threw a punch loaded with the can of Eagle Brand. It grazed the boy’s chin with a good thwack, knocking off his dirty cap. The other boy, who was smaller, grabbed Joseph, and they struggled. Meanwhile, Grimy Boy recovered and pummeled Joseph.
Joseph pulled away and timed a perfect punch to Possum Boy’s nose, producing a blood fountain. Together, the boys pulled Joseph to the concrete. It was a punching, wrestling tangle. Drops of blood mingled with lakes of broken eggs.
“Joseph, stop! Stop it, I say!” ordered LaLa.
Joseph ignored her. To stop meant certain defeat, but he wasn’t strong enough to finish it. His rage had consumed his energy. His arms felt leaden. Exhaustion crept in. Boxing was no help when the opponent refused to wait politely for you to get back to your feet and reset.
A huge push broom rained blows. Joseph and the cat-eyed grimy boy scrambled up. Mr. Rehkopf pounded all three of them. Grimy Boy finally got traction, and he ran toward his neighborhood. He may not have worried too much about Mr. Ybarra’s edger, but he had a healthy respect for Mr. Rehkopf’s broom.
LaLa was livid. “Joseph Nissan, what has gotten into you?”
Mr. Rehkopf paused with the broom, but Joseph ignored him. He walked to the two bicycles. He pulled a bicycle away from the wall, lifted it high, and slammed it sideways on the edge of the curb, leaving it wrecked. The front wheel came loose and bounced once before it gave a half roll and fell.
Joseph turned and glared at Mr. Rehkopf.
“Joseph Nissan, you go home this very instant. If you’re not home by the time I get there . . .” LaLa threatened.
Joseph looked at LaLa. His confidence wavered. Pain bloomed everywhere. His shirt hung torn outside his pants. His nose bled, and both elbows were skinned and bleeding.
“G’wan, git like Miss Eleanor told you,” Mr. Rehkopf barked, shaking the broom like LaLa when she broke up cats fighting on her back porch.
The possum kid made it to his feet, holding his split lip and bloody nose. “You, too,” Mr. Rehkopf told him. He swatted the boy’s rear end. The boy grabbed the remaining bicycle and pedaled off. “Well?” Mr. Rehkopf asked Joseph.
Joseph picked up his kippah and the can of Eagle Brand. He glanced at LaLa. “Sorry about the groceries,” he said simply. He dropped the dented Eagle Brand into the empty sack, stuffed the kippah into a back pocket, and picked up the store receipt. Squinting through the throbbing, swimming haze of his swollen eye, Joseph walked home.
The receipt said six dollars and two cents for the groceries, including tax. He pocketed the receipt. It was muktzeh to carry a receipt on Shabbat, but what was one more sin? There was a lot to think about. What was a homo or a queer? Did wearing your best clothes make you a homo or queer, or was it the kippah? Was a homo a Hispanic?
Until now, discipline hadn’t been very frightening. Baba never went beyond a swat on the rear end or an ear pull. Even if Joseph hadn’t gone inside the store, just walking to a store, carrying the groceries, and fighting on Shabbat was an overwhelming list of offenses. Maybe Baba would accept that he’d walked LaLa to the store to keep her safe. With Baba, taking care of widows and the elderly was very important. Maybe.
9
PASS THE HAT
Baba sat in his recliner reading. Maman was setting the table for the last meal of Shabbat. Both looked up when Joseph came through the front door. There was shocked silence. Maman asked, “What happened, Youssef? Are you hurt?”
“I was in a fight . . . at the grocery store.”
This brought a different kind of silence. They examined Joseph, noting the dried blood, scratches, and swollen eye. Baba took Joseph’s kippah from his back pocket and clapped it roughly atop his mussed curls. “Go wash your face and hands, and then come eat. After havdalah, stay in your room while I make prayers.”
It was the greatest shame. Joseph should be making prayers with Baba. He was supposed to be preparing for his bar mitzvah.
Joseph had no appetite. He wasn’t sure whether his queasy stomach was the aftereffect of the fight or dread of Baba’s displeasure. Aggressiveness was off-limits when it involved outsiders. His father had a terrible fear of the police. When Joseph declined to eat, Baba sent him to his room with a token morsel of bread.
Later, Maman brought him a cold glass of doogh, heavy on the mint for his stomach, which he gratefully accepted. She smoothed his curls around his ears and whispered words of comfort while he drank. Joseph wasn’t sorry for fighting, but his heart ached at Maman’s distress.
Baba appeared in the doorway and angrily beckoned her out of the room. Yeah, thought Joseph. This time it will be bad.
Joseph heard the knock on the front door that he knew was LaLa. Guilt overwhelmed him for losing her money. How many Chopin lawn mowers and how much Bach typewriting had LaLa suffered through to earn enough money for the ingredients? A few minutes later, the front door closed. The house grew silent.
Later Joseph heard his parents singing “Eliyahu HaNavi” without much conviction that Elijah the Prophet would ever show up. Within moments, he heard Baba praying the evening prayers in his study. Before he knew it, Baba was standing inside his bedroom door. Closing it.
“Strip,” ordered Baba. Baba was tall. Joseph was proud that he also would be tall, but tonight he was afraid to look up. Joseph rolled off his bed and removed his bloody shirt, undershirt, socks, and trousers. Baba motioned him to turn. In the heavy stillness, Joseph felt Baba’s eyes repeating the examination on his backside.
“Lay across the bed, Youssef,” Baba said. Joseph could hear the slight tinkle of the belt buckle and the slow slide of leather across fabric. Baba removed Joseph’s kippah from his head and placed it on the nightstand. Out of the corner of his eye, Joseph saw Baba’s big hand place his own black kippah beside Joseph’s.
“Baba-jun . . .” tried Joseph. Surely his father wanted to hear what happened first, but a hand pushed him roughly across the bed. The blows fell on his backside until Joseph wept. The skin under his underwear felt aflame. When he could endure no more, Joseph turned to shield himself with a hand. He cried out brokenly, “Baba, ozr mikhaam.” Daddy, I’m sorry.
Baba stopped. Through soggy eyelashes, Joseph could see his father’s face was also completely awash in tears. Baba’s voice shook. “Youssef, you will control your rage. As long as you live in this house, you will protect Shabbat and this family. It’s your duty as a Jew. You will not lead the authorities to our door.”
“But Baba, you take me to boxing lessons. Why did you want me to learn how to fight when you won’t let me fight?”
A deeper shadow of pain crossed Baba’s face. He let the loop drop from the belt. “Self-defense was something that no Jew in a Middle Eastern country was permitted. We’re in America, and I never know . . .”
Joseph waited, but Baba didn’t finish. He curled the belt and set it on the nightstand. Baba said, “You are a cunning boy, Youssef. People will always hate us, but you can talk your way out of trouble.” He motioned to Joseph to sit on the bed. Joseph sniffled in humiliation at having to beg for mercy.
“Youssef, fighting is a last resort. The school skipped you a grade because you are smart. Learn to make friends of your enemies.”
“They didn’t want to be friends, Baba,” Joseph protested. Embarrassingly, his voice was so thin from emotion and pain that the words nearly evaporated as they left his lips.
“Youssef, do you know how many times I’ve been called a ‘raghead,’ a ‘sand nigger,’ and a ‘camel jockey’ by the people I work with?” asked Baba. “And that’s before they find out I’m Jewish or start making fun of my accent.”
Joseph shook his head, and Baba sat beside him.
“I was called a jahud in Iran by ignorant men who could barely add and subtract, much less design high-technology field instruments like I did. I worked for the National Iranian Oil Company, and some men wouldn’t even take a blueprint from my hand. I was a najis jahud. I had to set it on the table first.”
Joseph knew a jahud was Arabic for a Jew. “What’s najis?” he asked.
Baba looked away. “It’s ritually unfit and unholy, but not exactly. ‘Filthy Jew.’ There’s no real English word for it. A language is part of its culture and religion. American culture does not need a word for this in English. They have hate words of their own. To me, it’s just a religious word to put a pretty mask on hate.”
“Why didn’t we move to Israel with the rest of our family, Baba? They don’t hate Jews in Israel.”
Baba wiped the moisture from his face with a handkerchief. “They do hate some Jews in Israel, but you’re too young to understand. I’m an oil field engineer. There are no oil jobs in Israel. What Arab corporation would hire a jahud? A Jew can’t even live in Saudi Arabia.”
“Is that why we moved here from California?”
“Yes, I needed work. Make friends, Youssef. You know how because you have lots of Hispanic friends. You try to use their language, which is respectful. You don’t belittle them. Do the same with everyone. We had Muslim friends in Iran. We respected one another. Find the good people. No matter where you are, there are always a few.” Baba handed Joseph a tissue from his nightstand. Joseph wiped his nose, which ran a thin mixture of snot and blood.
“The Mexicans are nice to me, Baba. I don’t want to be nice to people who aren’t nice to me.”
Baba said, “I’m a good engineer, Youssef. That’s what Americans respect, quality work that solves problems. They make more money in the oil fields when I solve problems. When I make them more money, I make more money. I concentrate on doing a better job than anyone else. That makes me friends even of my enemies.”
“I don’t have any money, Baba,” objected Joseph. “What can I do better than anyone else?”
“You have to figure that out, Aziz-am. You’re good at math already.”
Baba had used a term of endearment, Aziz-am. His mood was softening. Joseph considered. On Shabbat afternoons, Baba and Joseph solved math problems as a game. Since it was forbidden to write on Shabbat, Joseph worked the sums mentally. Baba increased their difficulty. Because of it, he skipped a grade in elementary school. Now, Joseph was in an algebra class for advanced students.
It was odd for a skinny twelve-year-old to be in a math class for thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, but extracurricular sports required passing grades. The eighth-grade athletes adopted him as their mascot who supplied homework answers. Other students regarded him with awe when the football players greeted him in the hallway. A varsity football jersey was a Hollywood star in Texas.
Baba placed his arm around Joseph’s shoulder. Joseph winced. Baba asked, “Can you solve this?”
“I’ll try.”
Baba leaned over to check Joseph’s shoulder. A nasty bruise marked where the milk can had hit it. His father remained expressionless, resentment silenced by years of silent rage as a dhimmi. As a non-Muslim living in Muslim lands, Baba was granted safety in return for paying a special tax. But Jews never complained . . . Baba had told him once that where he grew up, no Jew would dare speak his mind or bring a case to court. “Violence is the last resort, Youssef,” said Baba.
“Okay, Baba. I’ll be the eagle.”
“What?”
“The canned milk. The label says ‘Eagle,’ but there’s a smiling cow on it. People will think I’m smiling, but I’m not inside. I’m just flying above their insults.”
Baba said, “That’s smart. And no more afternoons at Miss Eleanor’s. No son of mine is going to be a motreb. Entertainment is not a decent Persian occupation. No more piano.”
“But LaLa needs me . . .”
Baba brushed aside Joseph’s protest. “Time to grow up, Youssef-jun. You have responsibilities. I love you.” Baba stood, gently pinched Joseph’s ear, and closed the door. Joseph was left alone to figure out how to outsmart two angry football players.
10
TOP HAT
The next Monday in gym class calisthenics, Joseph saw the coach assess his black eye, bruised arm, and skinned elbows and knees. Although the fear seemed silly, Joseph hoped that the coach’s long look wouldn’t involve the police somehow.
Coach Meeks lined up the boys for dodgeball in the gym. As the game progressed, Joseph gained accuracy and strength. He easily caught the hardest throws in his direction. He hunted the best players to pick off first. The exercise worked off his soreness.
An assistant coach emerged from the gym office. Together, he and Coach Meeks watched Joseph draw a bead on the last survivor. Joseph could see them watching him and talking. He moved down the painted line toward them, stalking his opponent.
“I can’t remember what nationality the Nissan boy is, but he teams up with the Mexican kids for sports,” said Coach Meeks to the other.
“He has an accent. Not much of one.”
“I’d love to see him use that arm to throw a football,” said Coach Meeks.
The assistant mused, “I’ve tried to recruit foreign kids before, and it didn’t go well. Immigrant families include their children in family work and activities. It’s the other way around here. Americans orbit around their kids’ activities.”
“Even so . . .” said Coach Meeks. “Don’t you see that?”
Joseph threw hard, and the ball hit his last opponent on the ankle.
“Hit the showers, boys,” instructed Coach Meeks. Joseph’s teammates congratulated him. A black eye was a badge of honor, and Joseph’s dodgeball win lent him renewed star status. His admirers couldn’t know was what behind Joseph’s smile. Rage. Control. Throw. Peach sharbet. Rage. Control. Throw. Blue Bonnet margarine. Rage. Control. Throw. Lucerne grade A large eggs. Rage. Control. Throw. Baker’s Chocolate. Rage. Control. Throw. Eagle Brand milk. Rage. Control. Throw. Blue-eyed “Canon in D.”
Coach Meeks called to Joseph, “Nissan, yo. Front and center.”
Joseph stopped and turned. Yo front and center? Yo front and center of what?
Coach pointed to the hardwood in front of him. “That means here, son. Now.”
When Joseph faced him, he was the same height. That was just too darn cool. He wondered if Shahla knew what “yo front and center” meant, or if it was a Texas phrase like “okey dokey.” Joseph knew a lot of words because he’d always had to translate for Maman when Baba was working, but Texans never ran out of new words.
“Nissan, have you ever played football?”
“No, sir. Just basketball.”
“Ever play a contact sport? You like to hit hard?”
“Boxing, sir. Yes.”
“Never threw a football?”
“No, sir.”
“Want to learn?” The coach removed his ballcap to rub a forearm across his balding head. He readjusted the cap, straightening the hawk emblem.
Joseph glanced at the cap. A slow smile spread across his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Come to football practice after school today. Wear your gym clothes. Be on the field by 3:45 p.m.”
