A Letter of Appreciation, Rx by Richard Carlson, Ph.D, author, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, and it is all Small Stuff.”
I used to know a pizza man in the 90's. Well, he owned his pizza restaurants. He drove like a cop because he said that's what pizza guys do. He calls me once a year around the holidays. This year is not an exception. He is a great impersonator and he can have me in stitches within the first three minute and that is why I take his calls. Besides, I respect him. His life story is compelling, this pizza man.
He escaped from Iran at 16 when the Shah's regime fell. He came with $15,000 cash, crammed into a pouch stitched to the inside of his shirt. He did not speak English and he waited for a distant cousin for two days to pick him up at the airport in Ohio. The cousin was not interested in having him live with his family and put our future pizza man on a plane to Washington, DC to live in a group house. He worked as a dishwasher, left the group house because it was infested with drug use, became temporarily homeless, and slept in movie theaters. He bought a bike, stayed with the job, took kindness from strangers, and worked his way up to becoming the restaurant manager, owning only two shirts, a pair of dark pants, a pair of shoes and a bank savings account. He saved up enough money and bought the restaurant from the retiring owner. He also earned a bachelor's degree from George Mason University in the process.
His siblings are all working in the medical field- one brother is a neuro-surgeon in Azerbaijan, one is an oral surgeon in France, and a sister is a pediatrician in Tehran. He told me that his first dream was to become an ophthalmologist. I told him I am horrified at the thought that he would be an eye or brain surgeon and I am happy he is not practicing medicine anywhere!
He missed his mother sorely; he never quit talking about her; how the smell of nail polish and perfume reminded him of her. I listened when he learned of his Mom’s death. He drove his car somewhere in the countryside of Montgomery County, got out of the car, knelt on the roadside and wept for his beloved mother, unable to go back to Iran for fear of persecution. Between the time he left Iran and becoming 28 years old, he longed for his Mom’s embrace, her words of wisdom. I was the closest friend he had. I never hesitated to call him out when I think he was getting out of line. I was his mother, critic, supporter, and sometime lover. I also vowed to be a good mother such that my son would love me the way Hussein adored his.
Today he sounds like he's American born, married, and has two young sons and he calls me to ask how my son and I are doing, happy to know that I too am happily married. He likes reminiscing the good old days. Unfortunately, I do not share the same view because I do not think I had good old days when I was a struggling single mom. I tell him to move on and rejoice in the fact that we did not end up together because I told him I never thought he would make a good husband and father. He assures me he is.
We start our phone calls by a boisterous exchange “Hey, nasilsin!!?? Nevar neok, bebek?" Chok iyem, bende, nasilsin?!” Then we switch to English, “Howya doin, jerk?” He responds with “I am doing well, how ya doin Habibi?” “Habibi bad bakti, Hussein!” I tell him, "You are a cheap jerk. You are a hopeless jerk!" He laughs and says, "I have changed." Then I say, "You were such a jerk, I was actually seeing someone else when you assumed we were seeing each other!" He says, “We had something.” I say, “We had nothing, nada!!” He asks, "Who were you seeing then, your husband?" "No, Rabih!" "Where is he from?" "Lebanon!" He mocks an attitude, "I will kill him!" Then we both guffaw. I say, “I always knew you were some Arab pretending to be a pizza man! Honestly, know that I never loved you." He feigns pain "My heart, you show no mercy Habibijim!" Then he goes into his impersonation of a Persian woman, a Turkish man, and Americans calling for pizza! This is our Holiday routine, the script is always the same but it never ceases to amuse me. It even gives me some joy to hear the voice of my old friend whom I love to tease and "abuse." "Habibi, do you think I am handsome? Because I think I am, hahahaha." I tell him, "Do you want to feel good or do you want me to be honest?" He would say, "Na, na, na, na, you are lyen! You are lyen! No more free pizza for you, kanjik!" Then we would laugh. He was in fact good-looking as I remember.
We needed each other then. We were both struggling to find our places. I still do not know what it was we shared. It was a symbiotic relationship that expired in due time. From Hussein, I learned that life changing decisions and emotional attachments are mutually exclusive. I learned that kindness never, ever goes forgotten for however mislabeled our relationship was, he and I were kind to each other. Sometimes, “love for one another” is not a Hallmark card moment. Rather it is giving someone dignity and an opportunity to run away from disaster! And so to my old friend and sometime lover, Hussein Sayef Azabdaftari “Chok tashekur ederem Sayefjim! Evet!”
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