Busy
Amin wondered why his father looked so old.
It hadn’t been that long. A year. Give or take a few months. There was also the occasional five-minute video call. Then again, his father would always hold the phone so close to his face that the gradual loss of what was left of his curly salt-and-pepper hair was never apparent. Pixelation was another culprit, obscuring spots and wrinkles that hadn’t been there before. Was he sick? Stressed out? How stressful could retirement be? Was that just how a seventy-one-year-old Persian man was supposed to look?
“Fuck me,” Amin thought, “Is that how I’m gonna look at seventy-one?”
Everyone had always said they looked alike. Amin never saw it. He only saw in himself his mother’s pale skin and aquiline nose. Her straight, light brown hair too. To him, his only unmistakable resemblance to his father was in the color of his eyes: a striking blend of blue and green which — combined with Amin’s pale skin tone and brown hair — led to a lifelong suspicion of some kind of European lineage. His father would claim their eye color was actually due to his side of the family’s roots in Loristan. On a number of occasions, Amin considered sending out his DNA sample to one of those websites in order to lay the mystery to rest. Procrastination always won out in the end.
By thirteen, Amin was already a little under six feet tall, his slender frame towering over his stocky, five-foot-five father. The smiling old man standing before him appeared even smaller. The imposing physique that had once made up for his short stature had now diminished. But his hairy hands were still huge. He reached the right one over to Amin’s left cheek, his sausage-sized fingers practically enveloping that side of his face.
Hossein’s calloused palm brushed up against his son’s perfectly groomed beard. He spotted a handful of silver hairs here and there. More than last time. He made that same hand into a fist, affectionately imitating a slow-motion right hook to Amin’s jaw. Amin didn’t flinch.
“How is vork?”
Those were the first words out of Hossein’s mouth. Amin shrugged, “Eh, y’know.” That was enough for Hossein. He didn’t expect a longer reply. Didn’t want one either.
The auto repair shop behind them was suddenly flowing with cars and customers. Hossein took his Prius in right when it opened, knowing how busy it would be later in the day. It was a shattered taillight. He was in bed. In the middle of a dream when he woke up to the sound of someone hitting his parked car and speeding off. “It’ll be done by three,” he was told. He would have had to wait at least a couple days if he hadn’t been friends with the man who owned the place. He had a few hours to kill. He made some phone calls to see if anyone wanted to grab breakfast or lunch while he waited. No one picked up.
He called his son.
“Amin-jaan, vaat you are doing today?”
Amin was in bed, his wilting penis in his hand from the morning masturbation session his father had just interrupted.
“Nothing. What’s up?”
He really did have nothing to do that entire day. That was seldom the case. Work was usually what kept him from making the two-hour drive to see his father. That, as well as everything else that happened to fall under the vague umbrella term, “busy.” He was always too busy. He could have just said he was busy. He would do that sometimes. Sometimes, he just wouldn’t feel like driving. He didn’t feel like it that morning. But they were due for a get-together. It was a nice day. As good a day as any.
They walked side-by-side to Amin’s parked BMW 5-Series. They were in no hurry. Hossein brought him up to speed on the latest family drama. Something about two of his aunts feuding over one of them recommending a dishonest pool cleaner to the other. Amin didn’t listen to all of it. His mind was elsewhere.
“That’s crazy.”
Hossein hit his head on his way inside. The passenger seat was all the way forward.
“Shit, sorry,” Amin muttered. He reached over to help pull back the seat. Hossein already figured it out.
“You okay, Baba?”
Hossein nodded.
“You sure? You’ve got a little…”
“Heetchee neest,” Hossein barked, rubbing the newly formed bruise on his forehead as if he could wipe it away. Amin knew better than to probe further. He started the car. The podcast he’d been listening to on the way there startled them both. Amin quickly paused it.
“Sorry.”
They’d already run out of things to catch up on by the time they got to the diner. It was a cozy, retro-looking spot not far from the auto shop. They’d been there once before. Neither of them remembered. They took a booth near a window. Not that there was any view worth seeing, but it was better than being in the middle. Not even two minutes had passed before Hossein began to mutter his complaints about the slow service. This would have normally led to bickering between the two, with Amin defending the overworked waitstaff and Hossein insisting on the laziness of today’s workforce. This time, Amin pulled out his phone and checked his emails, ignoring his father’s petty grumbles.
A waitress came to their table. Much to Amin’s relief, she was an attractive young woman. No older than twenty-two. This meant that Hossein wouldn’t voice his grievances to her and embarrass him. Instead, he’d flirt with her for longer than they had to wait for her to show up in the first place.
Hossein read her crooked name tag, “Pilar. Is beautiful name. Ver your family from?”
“Thank you. We’re from all over the place,” she replied with her annoyance hidden behind a warm smile.
“Pilar is, eh…Mexican name, no?”
“I was actually named after my Argentinian grandma.”
“Argentina! Most beautiful place I been. I love Argentina!”
He’d never been to Argentina. The only thing he knew about the place was their national football team. Fortunately for his white lie, she’d never traveled there either. He asked her if she knew how to make any good Argentinian dishes. She gave him the rundown of a provoleta recipe her grandmother had taught her, along with its chimichurri topping.
Amin was impressed by how convincing this woman was in playing along with his father. Of course, she had the same “Get me the fuck out of here” eyes as all the other ones. It’s hard to hide that. But her voice and body language remained inviting. Interested, even. Not that it mattered either way to Hossein. He was always oblivious to their utter disinterest in talking to him. Pretended to be, anyway. When Amin was in his teens and twenties, Hossein would involve him in the flirtation in an attempt to live vicariously through him. “This is my son,” he’d say proudly. Nothing would ever come of these forced introductions, as far as Amin’s romantic life was concerned. At some point, Hossein gave up. Granted, he never had any luck with the waitresses either, but at least he could get his kicks without his son’s shyness ruining the fun.
Once the conversation reached its natural conclusion, the waitress managed to finally take their orders. A cafe latte and an egg, ham, and cheese croissant for Hossein, and a hot matcha tea latte with oat milk for Amin. Hossein leaned toward her, “Thank you very much, Pilar.”
Her smile went away as soon as she turned away from them. Hossein stared at her behind as she headed for the kitchen.
“You should find yourself a girl like that,” he said in Farsi.
Amin snorted, “Okay.”
A mostly silent twenty minutes later, a server arrived with their orders. This time, a young man. Amin cringed even before Hossein started berating the man for the inexcusably long wait. Their drinks were almost tepid by the time the visibly shaken server left their table.
Before taking his first bite, Hossein tore off an end of his croissant and set it on a napkin in front of Amin. Amin slid the piece back to him.
“Vhy? Is good.”
“I don’t eat eggs anymore. Trying this new vegan thing.”
Hossein furrowed his brow. “Borro baba. Bokhor deegeh. Nothing going to happen,” he insisted as he pushed the piece back in Amin’s direction. Amin had to turn it down three more times before Hossein conceded.
They didn’t talk much after that. They leaned back in their chairs, lost in social media rabbit holes as they slowly finished their drinks. Once they were done, the waitress arrived with their check. Hossein came alive again, “Thank you, Pilar. You have been vonderful.”
They argued over the bill, as usual. Hossein would win every time. This time, Amin didn’t put up much of a fight.
The day was starting to warm up. They had a few more hours. Amin suggested a movie, but Hossein wasn’t in the mood. There was a park trail nearby that Hossein would frequent. At a leisurely pace, one could complete it in just over three hours. Good enough.
Hossein led the way. Despite his huffing and puffing, he could still out-walk his son. For an hour or so, there was nothing but the sounds of their breaths, their shoes brushing against the dry grass, and the various birds that were scattered all over the place. Amin’s phone would also occasionally buzz with notifications from a co-worker group chat. He checked it from time to time. Nothing all that important.
Hossein finally broke the comfortable silence, “Vaat you think?”
“It’s nice.”
That was it for another forty minutes. Amin was exhausted, but said nothing. He stopped walking.
“Vhy you estop?”
Amin pretended to admire the grazing mallards, “Can we feed them?”
“No. There is more in the lake. Come.” Hossein kept moving. Amin took three more seconds to rest, then followed him.
The lake was, indeed, filled with mallards. It was utilitarian, much like the park surrounding it. Not the cleanest or most beautiful sight in the world, but just aesthetically pleasing enough to provide the backdrop for a quiet picnic. That day, there wasn’t another person in sight. Amin and Hossein found a bench overlooking the lake. Amin caught up on the group chat. Hossein leaned back, somehow finding something to admire in the view he’d seen countless times before.
After fifteen minutes, Amin yawned, “Wanna go?”
Hossein nodded. They got up and went on their way.
They arrived back at the repair shop right on time.
“Want me to wait for you in case it’s not ready?” Amin asked.
Hossein unfastened his seatbelt. “No, is okay. You should go. Avoid rush hour.”
He opened the door. They made eye contact for one last moment.
Hossein gripped Amin’s right arm. “See you soon, pessaram.”
“Later, Baba.”
Hossein let go and stepped out.
Amin watched him until he disappeared into the repair shop.
Hossein’s odor lingered on the drive back. A particularly pungent mixture of Tommy Bahama cologne and his natural, spice-like scent combined with dried sweat from all the walking. Amin found it nauseating.
But he never opened a window.
