Ali Eskandarian
Golden Years 7
The kids and I are smoking a joint and talking about Iran. Manuchehr is telling me about the time he got robbed at knife point in a taxi, also about them traveling to Hengam Island in the Persian Gulf, doing acid, laying down on a rock when the ground started to move because of an earthquake, and freaking out, naturally.
There's a knock at the door, it's the surrogate landlord. He's a tall, handsome, mustachioed, Swiss devil, very nice and cordial.
“Hello guys, how's it going?" says the Swiss. He always comes in right after we light a joint, can sense it, and supposedly they don't know about puff-puff-give in Switzerland, it's puff-puff-puff, hold, puff-puff-hold until the joint is finished.
"Have some bad news... we'll have to be out in two months," he says.
We've been waiting for this bad news for a while. The city is eliminating these kinds of dwellings for good. No more industrial zoned buildings will be able to house people without first kicking everyone out, rezoning, and charging astronomically high rents.
"So start looking for a new place immediately,” he says in his charming lightly German accented voice.
Our landlord is just a guy who rents from the actual owner of the building. He has had the lease for years, lives in South East Asia, been there for a long time, can't come back to the States because of some old crime or something. Our Swiss friend takes care of the building in exchange for free rent. He also owns a small art gallery down the street. We haven't had hot water for a week and the bathtub is filled with sewer gunk but at least the Swiss isn't asking about the rent which is three weeks past due.
"What the hell are we supposed to do now?" Siamak, the lead singer asks after the Swiss leaves.
"Look for another place, obviously," Koli says.
This is a big blow and we need something to help us relax. After a quick meeting we decide it will be a Tramadol night. Tramadol is a synthetic opiate that is very popular among Iranian drug users in the old country. The kids introduced me to it. If you take enough it can feel very close to heroin. The lights need to be dim and the music soothing. You need plenty of sweetened hot tea, no phones, no disturbances, and no shrieking sounds. Just lay down somewhere and drift off into the abyss. We have a Hungarian doctor friend who prescribes it to us. He's a proctologist by trade and we have, after all, many gastrointestinal conditions to ameliorate. Musicians need a good rectal exam every once in a while to make sure all is in working order, rectally speaking. He'd make house calls often as he is an old school gent, a real hoot and a holler too, a showman who is older and wiser than the rest of us with a steady and warm hand.
His medical opinions were for us like scripture. It wasn't just his absolute and encyclopedic knowledge of the anus and sphincter which was of use to us, no, we went to him for all other medical needs as well. Doctor my tooth is really hurting back there... Hey doc, can you take a look at this here, yeah right around the shaft... Doctor if she's all the way in Iowa, and it was only one night, is it still my responsibility? Doc am I growing? Doc what does it mean when you wake up in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, and don't know who you are, like have no idea, is that amnesia?
He was a poet, the good doctor, he would sit there by your side, on the bed, and speak of anything and everything from astrophysics to geology. He was at home discussing all the natural sciences, but he really liked to compare the internal workings of humans with dark matter. How we needed him in those days and how well he performed.
God/Universe/Mother Earth bless our good friend the Hungarian doctor, for he was our Avicenna.
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Infinite wisdom hidden below and above or not hidden at all but smiling and waving, beckoning, not begging for it needs not to beg. We were never hungry growing up, that much is true. I didn't know real hunger until I struck out on my own. There was real romance in it at first. So many great artists have gone hungry and one finds himself wanting to walk in the footsteps of his idols or at least to learn something of the struggle so many face. Fasting, they told us in school back in Iran, is a sort of conduit to the reality of the poor. One finds out only too soon however how devoid of romance involuntary hunger really is! It makes no sense to walk around a city like New York, amongst so many restaurants and eateries, with an empty stomach and a mind full of dread. A person should be able to walk up to any food vendor and ask politely for anything on the menu. Anything one wishes to eat should be given gratis.
Was that a good enough joke for ya? Have a hearty laugh at that one my friend and don't worry, there'll be plenty more where that came from, I promise. A person tells you a story and you either listen or you don't but whatever conclusions you arrive at are your own. It’s all fragments, never the whole truth.
If I ever get my hands on a substantial amount of money I'll feed this city block by block for free for days. There'll be signs posted all over town: Hungry? Show up to so and so place at this time for a free meal and a few songs. There'll be free medical checkups too. If we need to be disguised under the banner of some kind of a city government organization then so be it for the authorities will surely get worried and wonder what the hell we're up to.
"We're not up to anything. Just doing God's work… what God? Oh, whichever you say, mister."
We won't talk to any reporters and will not allow any to infiltrate our ranks with their dirty mind/body/spirits. Our story will not be for sale either. Our deeds will live on in the hearts of women, children, and men. We'll require no publicity beyond word of mouth. TV news men? Ha! Please do us a favor and not even bother, we don't care about your opinions so leave us be. There'll be no dubious interviews while people wave to the cameras in the background. We'll only talk to those who understand. The rest can read our books and listen to our songs. Let them make up their own tales and spin them any which way they want to with commercial brakes in between.
From us there will be no manifestos, no ten pillars of our cause, no constitutions, no commandments, no laws or codes of conduct. The atmosphere will be one of joy and peaceful harmony, a serene quiet harmony. Just words and melodies, transpicuous to some, yet utterly discordant to others.
The books are free if you've got reverence for the moment, otherwise you’ve got to pay pal! That's right, in cold hard cash too. Or you can give your shoes to that man over there, that's right, trade and barter like the days of yore. Who are we? Why same as you mister, we're human beings and we care for the well being of our fellow human beings. We know, as surely you must too, that people are hungry both in their hearts and in their bellies. So we decided to take the easy way out and fill up their bellies. The rest will have to wait for now.
O how glorious it would be to feed thousands of people in the middle of this big bad city. To stop and divert the traffic like the NYPD does anytime there's some useless politician in town or a stale parade is commencing. Why not stop it to break bread? There'll be no bullhorns or loud speakers, no yelling at the top of the lungs, and no electrified instruments of any kind for the many musicians. If you can't sing or play for small pockets of the crowd or verbalize necessary instructions without the aid of synthetic amplification then you do not work for our lot. May no harm come onto you friend but we do not require your services. Feel free to stay and eat though. Yes, stay and enjoy yourself. The meals will of course be vegetarian, locally grown, and transported using bicycles.
Why not? It will be a tremendous undertaking. Let the rich and shameless have their balls. This will be ours. Every crazy idea is welcomed by our staff who will be handpicked by me and paid handsomely for their efforts. This won't just be food. This will be a bounty, a precious bounty, blessed by holly men and women. The cuisine shall reflect all the multinational tastes of the city. Dozens of varied prayers will be said before we feast, but again not using bullhorns for there will be no bulls in sight, only us humans. It should be easy enough to accomplish, wouldn't you say?
From: Golden Years (uncorrected text)
Ali Eskandarian passed away on sunday, november 10th, 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 this 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.
