Ali Eskandarian
Golden Years 11
I could feel the tide shifting during our New York shows on that tour when all the friends, record label folks, PR folks, agents and managers had the look of fear in their eyes. What the hell has he been into, they all seemed to be thinking. Is this a joke? What is he doing? I didn’t care about any of them anymore. Didn’t care if they jumped in the East river or the Hudson. What did they know? Nothing, that’s what. I hadn’t been able to properly communicate with any of them for a while anyhow. We had such different tastes in everything. They all bathed in the river of commercialism and conformity.
Mana tried as best she could I guess to cheer me up, but that wasn’t exactly her strong suit. We were disintegrating fast. That god damned Brooklyn apartment of ours was beginning to feel like a tomb. The other tour I was supposed to go on went bye-bye and there I was, broke again. I spent the better part of the next six months chain smoking, popping whatever pills I could get my hands on, and drinking heavily. I must have written and recorded some songs, gigged around town, and played a few festivals too, but the memories are rather hazy. I was mostly dying, slowly yes, but dying nevertheless.
#
So right after that the relationship tanked and I was back in Dallas. Returned with one suitcase and no guitar, was staying with my parents, hanging out with old friends, driving down the same haunted, dead, streets.
The Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex, as they call it, was in my eyes a vast soulless, decaying, hellish, waste land full of waterheads and dullards. There are some good people there of course but you better catch them at the right time and in the right mood. Since having escaped I would only come to town to see family, sometimes friends, and to play a show or two. (There is one place of refuge in D-town and that’s my old buddy, Jake’s studio. A gear-head, analog freak’s fantasy land; every old synthesizer you can name, organs, keys, etc.) The very sight of the landscape could bring about a bout of nausea within me. “Big D” was a link to the most lonesome death, a bridge to a place where dreams get crushed and recycled into shiny lies to be fed to the subjugated minions screaming for more. It is a hideous city built on commerce and power mongering. One to be tolerated only a few days at a time and only out of obligation, unfortunately its also the home of my family and I needed family at that time. Also, I needed a job.
“I can get you a job at this breakfast place.” My old high school buddy Fernando says to me. With the amount of money he claims to make I wonder why he doesn’t just peel off a few bills off the top of his heap to get me by.
“Ah, man… the last thing I want to do is wait tables,” I say.
“I know, I know. Just until you find something else.”
“Yeah… I better, there isn’t shit out there right now.”
“OK, I’ll talk to my friend. I’m pretty sure I can hook that up for you though, don’t worry.”
Right, I won’t worry. Why, old friend, can’t we do something as men? We are men after all and this is America. Where is our pioneering spirit? To which he may rightfully answer, “my pioneering spirit is just fine buster, go make some money and then we’ll talk.”
#
A couple of days later I get the job. Days blend into nights and back into day again. A few days later Fernando and I are at a local bar designed, built, and furnished for scholars of the art of obtuseness and he’s saying,
“What is wrong with these girls? She seemed so interested, came up to me, gave me her number. I texted her and she answered back in like two seconds. Keeps saying lets go out, lets go out and then. Look at this.” He shows me the text on his I-phone. It’s very cold and standoffish. Says something like, “Thanks for being nice but I don’t think it’s the right time for me…”
“What the hell does that mean? Right time for what? What the hell does she think, I want to marry her?” Fernando asks.
“Man, didn’t she just get divorced or something you said?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I don’t know how long ago. Scared little girls all of them. I just don’t get it. I rather they don’t give out their numbers at all. I don’t wanna waste my time.”
“I know. Forget about it. This town… man… I don’t know.”
I mumble back. I’m horny as hell myself and need the touch of a woman. There are a few attractive cocktail waitresses at this bar but they all seem to favor Fernando’s style and grace. There will be nothing doing here.
Fernando doesn’t get into drugs of any kind, the guy barely likes to take headache medicine for Christ sakes. Much like all my other old high school buddies he was now a successful business man. Owned a house, an expensive car, was divorced, and had a couple of kids. I don’t feel like staying here all night, don’t like the people, don’t like the music on the digital jukebox, the atmosphere reeks of TV commercials, but it’s still too early to go home.
“What do you feel like doing?” I ask.
“I don’t know man, I’m kind of tired,” Fernando says.
“Yeah, bet you’ve got a crazy day tomorrow, ha?”
“Man, every day is crazy. It’s my turn with the kids tomorrow too, on top of everything else…”
“Well, let’s finish these beers and get the hell out of here,” I say, thinking he must still be tired from the night before. We were sitting in a strip club on the slimy side of town, with drinks in front of us, waiting for his favorite girl to get off stage and dance for him. My favorite girl was rubbing her ass on some rich looking older fellow who probably drove a twelve cylinder Mercedes Benz and owned land all over the great Republic of Texas. That special nudie bar smell was in the air, the music was loud, and the lights were flashing green and red through the fake smoke from the stage.
I like to listen to stripers talk as much as I like watching them dance. They always want to tell me their life stories for some reason, and it’s always the same old tale of abuse, teen pregnancy, self preservation, single motherhood, drugs, booze, very little hope, and how the fight or flight response is taking a heavy toll on their synapses. There are those few “exotic dancers” who manage to get a higher education out of the deal but those are rare cases. Of course all stories end with the inevitable, “you want a dance now or what?” line, but shit, the girls have to make money, that’s why we are talking in the first place, and far be it from me to disrupt the free enterprise system. I listen intently to their tall tales, offer some words of encouragement, and try to be a model costumer.
I’m driving now, Fernando has gone home, I’ve already called my old drug buddy Joe and he’s meeting me at a bar in the city of Addison, a suburb of Dallas. I’m walking in the bar now, it’s one of the few places you can still smoke cigarettes in around these parts, and it reeks of it. Joe is standing at the bar.
“Hey man!” he yells in my direction.
“What’s up Joey?” I yell back.
“Oh, nothing man. Want a beer?”
“Yeah… have you made the call yet?”
“Yeah, drink the beer. It should time out perfectly.”
I work on the beer as I smoke a cigarette and look around the place. Same old tired faces, some lame chicks, dudes playing pool, a couple of attractive girls surrounded by a platoon of men, the jukebox is playing a Rolling Stones tune. We’re in Joe’s car now, he’s playing me his new recording, it sounds good enough but the lyrics are hard to understand, we’ve smoked some weed out of his one hitter, and are driving across the street to meet the man who possesses the best stuff around these days. You call him, go inside the restaurant where he works, wait for him in the bathroom, and within a few minutes walk out with high-grade cocaine.
We drive to the back of the place where it’s darker and do a couple of gigantic lines off a CD case. Feeling really good now and ready to drive downtown for action. Joe and I have become close lately. We are the same age, musicians, and both live with our parents. He never really did anything with music though, besides play around Dallas sporadically, has been talking about moving to Germany for a decade since he is a genuine kraut on both sides of the family and has kraut citizenship, but he just can’t seem to take the final step.
We are not machinating anything special tonight. It’s just another normal night of cocaine, booze, and pills. Everything else is secondary. We pull up to our first destination, a dark and dungeon like dive bar on the backside of downtown, walk up to the bartender and order a few drinks.
“Give me some more,” I say to Joe, and he slips me the baggie he has hidden in the folds of a matchbook, and I go to the bathroom for a few bumps. The stuff needs to be crushed. The key I’m using is to my mother’s Nissan. What the hell is happening to you? I ask my image in the bathroom mirror, then walk out.
Joe’s talking to some girl, I leave him be, lean against the bar, and look around. My mind is racing and I’m wishing there was a piano I could play somewhere in the back. My sense organs are either flourishing or dead. My occipital lobe throbs with apparent trouble. The thalamus region of my brain is quickly taking over while the left cerebral hemisphere tries desperately to maintain control. Will conflict and confusion prevail tonight? I think, as my mind drifts towards images of the Great Smoky Mountains and the Allegheny River for some strange reason. I feel the sudden need to jump in a stream and wash my insides. A friend told me about the Devil’s River once. He spoke of how pristine the waters are, “Clear as a swimming pool” he’d said. The hollow center of my spinal column starts to itch but I know how impossible it is to scratch that region. My autonomic nervous system seems to be functioning fine however. Some chemical compound is secreting from my nerve endings, digestive system activity has been slowed, rate of respiration and heartbeat have naturally been accelerated.
“What’s your name?”
“What?” I ask in the direction of the voice.
“What was your name again?” It is a female voice, coming from my left.
“My name? It’s Amon.”
“Amon? Is it really?”
“Yeah, well, I’m a sinner that’s for sure. What’s yours?”
“Stephanie.”
“Wow, what a beautiful name.”
“Really? You think so?” she says sarcastically.
“Yeah!”
“Don’t you remember me, Ali?”
“Sure, Stephanie from a moment ago.”
“No crazy, Jake’s friend. We met last year when you guys were on tour? At the House of Blues?”
“Oh, right… didn’t we sing the Battle hymn of the Republic together?”
“Never in hell, I don’t sing Yankee songs, can’t you hear my accent?”
“Sure… Well, whatcha drinkin’ girl?”
“Beer, I’ve got one right now though. What are you doing here? Are you playing a show?”
“Yeah, and it’s a long one too. It’s this piece I’ve been working on. It’s called, Days run into nights and back into days again.”
“Oh, I see, how modern. Maybe you can turn them into months and years for part two,” she says, staring ahead.
“Wow! You really understand me Stephanie! Wanna be my manager?”
“No, I don’t deal with musicians like that.”
“Oh, fuck that shit girl! We’re gonna go right to the top me and you! Right to the top, I tell ya!”
“OK, fine. How about a shot to celebrate?”
“Mighty fine idea, my dear lady. I don’t drink fruity shit though. How about some whiskey?”
“How about it?” she says as she motions the bartender with her head. The man behind the bar seems to know the score and quickly pours us a couple of shots. She doesn’t even pretend to reach inside her purse to pay.
“Here’s to something or other,” I say, we click our shot glasses together, and drink the cheap whiskey down. I start to recall how I came to meet Stephanie. She’s always around this part of town. Jake has told me stories about her. She was a beautiful girl once. Got into Meth a couple of years back and disappeared for a while. God only knows what she’s into now. Mostly hangs around dirty little bars and gets drinks bought for her I guess. She still looks ravishing in dimly lit caves such as this when your head is getting screwed on tight with booze and coke.
“What are you guys up to tonight?” She asks.
“Oh, nothing much. Just killing time.”
“Oh, yeah? What else?”
“You know what else. What, you want some?”
“Sure, whatcha got?”
“Let’s go out back and I’ll show you.”
She leads the way through the kitchen and out to the empty back patio. I give her a bump. “Here you go girl. Enjoy yourself.”
She snorts it. I give her another.
“And now the other nostril,” I say.
“Thanks, baby. How do I look?”
“Alluring.”
“No, my nose,” she asks.
“Oh, Let me see… clear.”
I do a couple of bumps then we go back inside. Joe comes up and wants the baggie. I sit down at the bar. Stephanie goes somewhere else and I silently wish her the best. I start to hear some song lyrics in my head and wish I still carried around a pad and pen. The rest of the evening unfolds in the same stolid fashion, follows the same pattern, and goes absolutely nowhere. A couple of more bars visited, a few more conversations, more drugs and booze. While driving back a cop car going the opposite direction pulls a sudden u-turn and follows us for a few miles. It’s scaring Joe to death.
“Jesus Christ, the bastard’s right on our ass. Fuck he knows where we’re coming from. Knows I’m drunk,” he says glancing back and forth from the rearview mirror to the road.
“Fuck him, just drive straight, a couple of miles over the limit, and get to the highway. What did you do with the coke?” I ask.
“Threw it under the seat.”
“OK, just relax. We’re not doing anything wrong. Well, not really,” I say.
These goddamn cops around Dallas love to drive behind you and see if you swerve even a little. Gives them some kind of cheap thrill. If he pulled us over now we’d be in major trouble. They don’t mess around in Texas. It’s not like New York where swerving and sudden speed changes are a normal part of everyday driving. In this town you better drive like a grandmother, especially if you’re a dope fiend.
We finally make it to the main highway and lose the cop. Joe drops me off at my mother’s car and says goodnight in his usual distant Germanic manner. I get behind the wheel, start to drive, and try to keep the car as straight as possible. It’s so strange to be driving down these same streets again. Real time travel is when you are in the same places you’ve once been. “That’s where June and I first kissed. That used to be her mother’s house.” Ghosts of the past everywhere you look, phantoms of your memories around every turn. Am I the revenant? My mind is clear somehow. I feel as if I can see inside every home that passes and study the inhabitants’ faces. House after suburban house full of sleeping souls dreaming of security, power, love, nightmarish scenarios, money, threesomes with teens, ball games, big raises, promotions, cheating, bigger pools, faster cars, god, monsters, TV shows, commercials… Not a safe house in sight. I come to the grim realization that even if I ever in actuality find a safe house, I will need a far longer stay than will be allowed me by the host.
From: Golden Years (uncorrected text)
Ali Eskandarian passed away on sunday, november 10th 2013, in Brooklyn, New York, only 35 years old. We, the people of Lebowski Publishers, are, like you, sad beyond words that Ali is no longer with us. Ali was not only a very talented musician, but also, in our humble opinion, a very talented author. We fell in love with his manuscript, which Ali sent to us in September 2012, and started serializing it on medium.com on October 22nd last year. This is what Ali wrote about it, in his very first email to us:
The novel is called American Immigrant and is about someone like myself: immigrant, war child, rock n’ roller, artist trying to live in a modern world he finds infuriating/exhilarating. There is an insurgent political bent to the writing, also lots of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. There are characters very similar to the Yellow Dogs as well. I lived with the dogs for almost two years and we got to have some fun. I think it could be the great Iranian-American novel, or at least that’s what I’ll call it until someone proves me wrong.
In agreement with Ali’s parents and his brother Sam, we have decided to keep on serializing parts of the novel on his medium page.
Along the way, while making plans, for we had many, we changed the title in Golden Years, a reference not only to David Bowie, but also, in retrospect, to a future that was not meant to be.
We hope that one day, not too far away from now, you, dear reader, will hold this wonderful book in your hands, cherishing its beautiful language, its vibrant stories set in Iran and New York, full of love, life and bittersweet memories.
Let’s keep on calling it Ali’s Great Iranian-American Novel, until someone proves him wrong.
