Mommy’s boys meet the men in dark blue

PATRICK AZADIAN

It was my father’s wish for Fred and I to be close. Fred was my

father’s nephew and my maternal cousin, Sass’s, best friend.

At Sass’s wedding, Dad approached me with a kind voice and a

pleading smile: “Son, go talk to Fred; he’ll like it.”

I refused: “I can’t.”

Dad was disappointed, but as if he didn’t want to upset me on such

a festive day, he retained his smile and carried on: “See what you

can do.” He gently pat my shoulder with his right hand and walked

away.

My reasoning was simple. Genuine friendship required genuine

beginnings. In retrospect, I could’ve easily made my father’s

evening, but my dogmatic approach let the opportunity slip away. I

should’ve known better; simplicity is an overrated virtue and

applying dogmas in their absolute sense is often blinding.

After my father’s farewell to our known way of existence, things

changed. Fred and I became close.

One Saturday afternoon, Fred came by to my place with a

Hyastantsee (Armenian from Armenia) girl named Irina. Once Irina felt

comfortable in her surroundings, she decided to be cute: “Is it true

Parskahye (Armenians born in Iran) men are ‘mommy’s boys?’ ”

“Mommy’s boys?!” I certainly didn’t feel like one. I did my own

dishes, I didn’t require mommy’s chicken soup whenever I had a head

cold, I didn’t sit next to mommy every New Year’s Eve until the clock

struck 12, AND, I had dinner with a Turkish girl, twice (of course,

we discussed what bad things her people had done to my people). Nope,

I did not qualify as an Armenian “mommy’s boy.” Maybe, a “mommy’s

boy” based on universal standards, but not within my surroundings.

But somehow, rebuffing the idea sounded disrespectful to Mom.

Fred stirred the ice in his scotch ‘n coke with his right pinkie

and made Irina wait.

He finally broke the silence: “Nothin’ wrong with that ... “

*

Since we didn’t reject the idea of being “mommy’s boys,” we set

out to visit my mom the next day.

As Fred steered his BMW on Foothill Blvd, our generation gap had

never looked deeper: Fred liked his seat far back and low, I

preferred it in the middle; I would never own a car lowered to the

ground, Fred tolerated it; Fred adored his glowing sapphire pinkie

ring, I didn’t care for it; Fred had a certain Usher-like swagger,

and I ... All my idols were dead.

A few blocks from Mom, Fred got a call on his phone. Meanwhile, I

noticed a police car upfront. It was about to make a left turn on a

side street; it was in an advance position in the “only” lane. I got

a glimpse of the officer in his own rear view mirror as he spotted

Fred. He turned his head about 90 degrees right, and decided he

didn’t need to make that left turn after all.

“Get off the darn phone,” I said.

By this time the officers had managed to cut across two lanes to

the right through traffic to get behind Fred. The short siren went

off.

The officers’ zeal seemed unfamiliar to me, but not to Fred: “I

always get pulled over. It’s my shaved head!”

As the officers approached us, I squeezed in a fatherly advice:

“Be polite.”

“You know why I stopped you?”

I hoped Fred wouldn’t deliver the answer he really wanted, such

as: “Let’s see ... It’s either ‘cause I am so good lookin’ that it’s

gotta be illegal, or it’s my shaved head ... “

I wasn’t going to reveal my thoughts, either: “Is it the way he

sits in his car? Or is it the way he holds his phone? Or could it be

the way his car is low to the ground?” Nope, at the time, I was not

stupid.

Fred answered: “Not really.”

“You are missing a front license plate.”

A “fix it” ticket was written promptly and we were sent away:

“Drive safely.”

I recognized my cousin’s frustration, but I had no intention of

fueling it: “Maybe, they were looking for someone like you. Or

perhaps they really don’t like missing plates.” I continued

parenting: “And let’s say, they pulled you over for your choice of

‘gangsta-chic’ style, you still have choices: you can either

reinforce their assumed bias by your attitude or prove them wrong by

being nice.”

I continued: “Remember, these guys risk their lives every time

they stop someone.” Finally, I’d said something I believed in,

although I wasn’t sure how it applied. I went back to being less than

honest with my thoughts: “You can also change your look.”

I was at odds with my beliefs. I knew one of the reasons we’d

chosen this land was the freedom of individual self-expression. I

liked the idea that my sister could walk out to her car in her shorts

and not receive 100 lashes by the “etiquette brigade.”

“I like my head shaved,” was Fred’s verdict.

“Same here.” I was done parenting.

Happy new year, everyone! I wish mutual understanding and respect

for all of us.

* PATRICK AZADIAN lives and works in Glendale. Reach him at

padania@earthlink.net.