One Man Guy

by Michael Barakiva

  But even before that food fight, Alek thought Ethan epitomized cool. Today he was wearing army-green cargo pants with buckles and chains looped through them and a black T-shirt that read DARE TO RESIST DRUGS AND VIOLENCE in blocky red letters. Alek looked down at his own boring khaki shorts and dark blue short-sleeved button-down shirt. Even if his parents had let him shop for his own clothes, he wouldn’t know where to find anything other than the same boring Gap fare they had always chosen for him.

  Alek watched Ethan navigate his skateboard through the obstacle course with ease, laughing and talking to his friends at the same time. Ethan was a few inches taller than Alek, with wavy sandy hair that fell in his face in a way that made Alek think of surfers. Alek’s own hair was dark, thick, and unmanageable, like weeds in a garden. He had tried to grow it out last year, but it only got bigger instead of looking cool. All the kids at church referred to it as an Armenian ’Fro, and his parents told him that one day he’d be lucky to have such thick hair, but Alek envied the way Ethan’s hair flopped up and down as he jumped over pins, kicked off stairs, and slid down banisters.

  A big D.O., his meaty forearms crossed in front of his chest, spotted Alek and called out, “Hey, kid, you got a problem?”

  Alek felt his face grow red. He didn’t want to look scared, but all he could do was stutter back. “No, um, I, just was, um…”

  The guy lumbered up to Alek, wiping his runny nose on his arm. He was wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt that stretched tight across his ample bulk, and his brown hair was clipped on the sides, so short that Alek could see the flesh of his skull. The top of his hair spiked up in a fauxhawk, making him appear even bigger. Alek couldn’t remember his name, but knew that he was supposed to have graduated last year. He approached Alek with the confident swagger of home turf. “Spit it out, dude. I said, you got a problem?”

  Before Alek could reply, the guy drew his meaty arms back and gave Alek a sharp shove. The force caught him off guard, and Alek fell to the ground. He cried out, more in surprise than pain. The commotion caught the other guys’ attention. They skated over, hoping for some afternoon entertainment. Alek stared up from the ground, faces appearing in his field of vision like enemy spaceships.

  Jack. Alek suddenly remembered his attacker’s name. Jack.

  Jack’s face hovered menacingly over Alek. “What’s your problem? Why don’t you stand up and take it like a man?” Alek tried to move away, but the much bigger kid squatted down, using his knees to pin Alek to the ground. Jack barked the questions again, like an army sergeant.

  The smell of onions and mustard slammed into Alek’s nostrils. This is what about-to-get-beat-up feels like, Alek realized. He just hoped that whatever happened, he would emerge without any visible marks so that his parents wouldn’t have a reason to ask any questions. Getting beat up was humiliating. Having to explain it to your parents was worse.

  When Alek still didn’t reply, Jack lowered his face so it was right up against Alek’s. “I said, stand up, son,” he screamed.

  “Leave him alone, Jack.” Alek turned his head to see who had come to his rescue. Ethan rolled over calmly and kicked his skateboard up, revealing a collage of colorful stickers on the bottom. The bright green wheels continued spinning as he held his board in one hand and put the other on Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack locked eyes with Ethan. “I’m just having some fun, man.”

  “That’s what you call fun? Picking on some kid half your size?” Ethan joked. But when Jack didn’t get up, Ethan continued, “But I guess the way you’ve been eating, finding someone your own size to pick on is pretty much impossible.”

  “You don’t have to take that, Jack!” someone called out from behind Alek.

  “Yeah, show him who’s who!”

  Jack’s face slowly turned red as the rest of the guys continued taunting them. “Let’s see if you’re still talking big when you have my fist in your face, Ethan.”

  “Your fist and my face are pretty much the same size now, big boy,” Ethan cracked. With a grunt, Jack jumped off Alek and rushed Ethan, knocking him to the ground. Alek remained on the ground, forgotten, as the faces staring down at him fled to witness the much more exciting spectacle. Alek heard chants of “Get him, Ethan!” and “Show him who’s who, Jack,” as well as the occasional smack of fists hitting flesh.

  Alek thought about sputtering out a thank-you to Ethan, but he decided against calling any more attention to himself. He scrambled to his feet, turned around, and ran through the tunnel and all the way back home.

  4

  The merciless blaring of his alarm clock was a psychic assault on Alek’s brain. He cheated his eyes open a sliver. The red numbers glared 7:17. Alek did the math in his head, desperate for a computation that allowed him one more snooze without being late. But when the numbers refused to cooperate, he had to hurl himself out of bed and onto the floor, letting the impact smash him into consciousness. He lay like that for a moment, wondering what Faustian bargain he could make to get out of having to go to the first day of summer school. But there was no flicker of hope, no appearance of a demonic power. Apparently, no one was interested in his soul.

  The five days that had elapsed since the end of the school year proper didn’t even seem like a minivacation, especially since the rain made Alek spend most of the weekend cooped up with his family.

  “Hurry up if you want breakfast,” Alek heard his father scream up from downstairs.

  Alek had perfected the art of getting ready in twelve minutes flat. He stumbled into the bathroom, turned the shower on, and, while it was warming up, gathered his notebooks and textbooks. He put them in the beat-up green JanSport, glaring at the impossibly long-lived bag with hatred. Then he lay out his clothes. Usually he tried to look nice for the first day of school. But since this was just a program for delinquents and leftovers, denim shorts and a plain mustard T-shirt would do.

  He jumped in the shower, scrubbed himself down, hopped out, and toweled himself and his hair dry. Then he threw his clothes on and went downstairs, the 7:29 on the clock proof of his perfected system.

  Nik and his mom were already seated at the kitchen table, dressed and ready to start the day. Nik was wearing his new chunky blue eyeglasses, which Alek knew his brother thought made him look cool, but Alek thought were so pathetically wannabe hipster that it was embarrassing.

  Alek’s brother had always been lanky, but since he started needing to shave, his body had reached almost comedic proportions. Alek didn’t think the way he was dressing helped either. For his first day of orientation as a camp counselor, Nik was wearing shorts that he’d rolled up above the knee and a white-and-blue horizontally striped shirt under a dark blue jacket. And to make it worse, he was wearing a red belt to match his red shoes, as if accessorizing well would make up for his total lack of personality.

  “Hi, honey,” Alek’s mom greeted him. She was dressed for work impeccably as always, with a skirt that came just below her knees and a wraparound light green jacket over a cream blouse. She put her chirping BlackBerry down and looked up at Alek. “Did you sleep well?”

  Alek grunted noncommittally and sat down at the table. He wondered if he’d get in trouble for being late, since normally he’d be responsible for helping to lay out the breakfast that greeted him: a pot of hot tea, a pile of freshly baked scones, apricot and blueberry jam, a basket of pita bread, a platter of freshly cut fruit, a plate of thinly sliced cold cuts and cheeses, and, of course, a bowl of zatar. His Dad usually added extra marjoram to the ground herbal mixture, so that by the time it achieved the pasty consistency perfect for pita dipping, it had even more punch. As always, nothing had been touched until everyone was present. The moment Alek sat down, his brother began digging in.

  “What do you want in your omelet?” his father asked. He was standing at the stove, wearing a floral kitchen apron over his pajamas, his graying hair in loose curls around his head.

  “Whatever,” Alek responded.

  His fat
her answered enthusiastically, “Well, I’ve already put in some tomatoes, spinach, and—how about some cheese?”

  “I said whatever,” Alek repeated.

  “Okay then,” his father continued with gusto. “Some chanakh.”

  Alek smiled. His dad knew chanakh’s biting saltiness made it Alek’s favorite. He tossed a healthy pat of butter into the already-warmed skillet, and beat the cheese into the egg-and-vegetable mixture as the butter melted. At the moment after the butter finished bubbling but before it started to burn, he poured in the egg mixture.

  Alek dipped the pita in the zatar, gobbled it up, then spread some jam on a scone.

  “What’s the matter, Alek? You’re barely eating,” his mother said.

  “Do you know what my friends have for breakfast? Like, a bowl of cereal, and that’s it!”

  “You know these Americans,” his mother responded. “They don’t know the first thing about food. Remember when”—she barely contained her laughter—“remember when you slept over Jason’s house in sixth grade?”

  “When you still had friends,” Nik whispered, earning an under-the-table kick from Alek.

  Alek hoped his father would be too busy making the omelets to hear, but he picked up as if on cue.

  “Yes, yes, and Jason’s parents said you could make pancakes from scratch with them the next morning!” his father joined in.

  “What happened? I don’t remember,” Nik said, although Alek knew he was just giving their parents the excuse they needed to retell the story.

  “Well,” Alek’s mom continued, “Alek woke up the next day, and down they all went to their kitchen. He was so excited, he could barely contain himself. Until, of course, he saw them take out the Bisquick box of pancake mix.” Now she turned from Nik to Alek. “Do you remember what you said?”

  “No,” Alek deadpanned, wishing the ordeal would end.

  “Well, I do, because Jason’s mom called us that morning and told us all about it. You said, ‘That’s not from scratch,’ and then you proceeded to go to their cabinets and get the flour and baking powder and sugar and salt and mix the batter yourself. And then when you were done, you said, ‘Now, that’s from scratch.’” His family guffawed at the punch line, although Alek didn’t see its irrefutable hilarity. “And when you got home, I had to explain to you that to these Americans, using a mix is making it from scratch.”

  Alek’s parents threw around that phrase—these Americans—whenever they wanted to pass judgment without making it sound like they were passing judgment.

  “These Americans have a television set in every room.”

  “These Americans think dinnertime is five p.m.”

  “These Americans are obsessed with sports.”

  And on and on they went.

  Whenever Alek tried to call his parents out on it, they insisted the phrase was merely descriptive. But the certain lilt they gave it made it clear that whenever these Americans did something, Mr. and Mrs. Khederian did not approve. Alek wondered what would happen if he pointed out that since his parents were born in this country, they were just as American as these Americans.

  “Well, you know what, Mom? These Americans don’t think that every time you sit down for a meal, you have to eat so much that you feel like you’re going to explode.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t want your omelet?” his father asked, taking the skillet off the stove top. The smell of the tomatoes, spinach, and chanakh called out to Alek.

  “I didn’t say that,” Alek conceded.

  His father walked over, slid the omelet out of the skillet onto Alek’s plate, and sprinkled some sugar on top in the traditional Armenian fashion.

  “What do you say?” his mother asked pointedly.

  “Thanks,” Alek muttered.

  “What do you say?” his mother repeated.

  “Thank you,” Alek said properly.

  “That’s better,” his mother said. “And wish your father good luck on his job interview.”

  “You have an interview today?” Alek asked disbelievingly, looking at his father’s pajamas-and-apron outfit.

  “It’s not until the afternoon,” his father replied defensively.

  “Wish him luck,” Alek’s mother repeated.

  “Hachoghootyoon,” Alek mumbled in Armenian, earning him a grateful look from both his parents that wishing luck in English would never have elicited.

  “You psyched about your first day of summer school?” Nik asked his brother in between bouts of shoving food into his beanpole body.

  “Yeah, I think it’s going to be thrilling,” Alek answered sarcastically between his own omelet bites.

  “Well, my offer stands. If you find the work too challenging, I’d be happy to help you with it. You know, I did tutor for the Honor Society last year.” Nik smiled.

  “Nik, if I wanted to puke, I could just stick a finger down my throat.”

  “Aleksander, don’t talk like that at the breakfast table,” his mom said.

  “But he—”

  “I just offered to help him,” Nik protested innocently. “By the way, Mom, did you see the article on Peter Balakian in the New York Times today?” Every time Nik wanted to distract his parents, he brought up something Armenian, and every time, they fell for it.

  “Yes, I did, Nik. It was about his new book.” His mom beamed at Nik with pride.

  “I can’t wait to read it. That’s the first thing I’m going to buy with my camp money,” Nik said.

  “Why don’t you just borrow my copy?” their father asked.

  “I’d like to have my own so that I can take it with me when I go away to college.”

  Alek thought he really was going to puke now.

  “Mom, do you mind if we leave a little early? I want to make sure I make a good impression on the first day,” Nik said.

  “Of course not,” their mom said. “Now, honey.” She turned to look at Alek. “When do you want to go shopping for your summer clothes?” she asked, her thumbs dancing over the BlackBerry keyboard.

  “You could just drop me off and let me do it myself,” he said.

  “Maybe next year, honey,” his mother responded, eyes still locked on her BlackBerry screen.

  “Saturday, then,” Alek said, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

  “But you were going to take me and Nanar into New York so we could start working on our heritage project,” Nik practically whined.

  “Are you sure you don’t have time to go during the week?” their mother asked Alek.

  “I just don’t want to commit to anything before I know exactly what my workload for summer school is going to be,” Alek shot back sharply. “Cramming an entire year into a few weeks means an enormous amount of homework, as I’m sure you and Ms. Schmidt discussed. Of course, I understand if taking Nik and his Armenian girlfriend into the city is more important than spending time with me. Nik does get better grades, after all. It must be nice to have one child you can be proud of.”

  His mom looked up from her BlackBerry, frustration and hurt simmering in her eyes. Alek knew he’d gone too far, but instead of saying anything, she just exhaled sadly.

  “I guess it’ll have to wait, because I’m helping Nik and Nanar on Saturday, and on Sunday we have church.”

  “If we went to a normal church, like these Americans, we wouldn’t have to commute three hours every Sunday,” Alek responded.

  “We’re Armenians, Aleksander,” his father interjected. “And so we go to an Armenian church. Period. Now is there anything else you’d like to say to ruin everyone’s morning?”

  “No, that’s all. May I be excused from the table? I’d like to be on time for my first day of summer school so I can make a good impression.” Without waiting for a reply, Alek grabbed his hated green JanSport and walked out the door.

  * * *

  Passing the turnoff to Orchard Street on the way to school, Alek remembered how he and Becky had cracked each other up after watching My Fair Lady that past weekend.


  “Goo’ mornin’, gov’nah,” Becky had said, imitating Eliza’s Cockney accent before she transformed into an upper-class lady.

  Alek mimicked the professor’s proper British accent. “‘By right she should be taken out and hung, for the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue!’”

  “‘The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,’” Becky quoted.

  “‘By George, she’s got it! By George, she’s got it!’” Alek exclaimed with glee as the professor did when Eliza was finally able to speak properly.

  Alek loved hanging out with Becky because it was easy. They had spent almost every weekend of their freshman year like this. After watching a movie, they’d argue about what they did or didn’t like or just horse around. Sometimes, they could just sit in a comfortable silence sipping Diet Dr Pepper.

  After descending the little hill in front of his school, Alek saw the front entrance was closed for the renovation of the main lobby, so he walked around to the rear. We don’t even get to use the real entrance, Alek thought. He wondered if he’d know anyone else.

  An impressive assembly of South Windsor High’s leftovers filed off the buses like disoriented ants. Some looked barely awake. Others were wearing clothes that must’ve been hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs. Some kids weren’t even carrying book bags. Alek fantasized screaming, “Children of dysfunctional families, unite!” and leading this motley crew in a coup of the school.

  The other students weren’t the only surreal element of summer school. The whole place felt underpopulated, as if it had been ravaged by a devastating plague. Most of the building was closed off, and the classrooms were being painted, so a chemical stench lingered in the hallways. None of the posters for student activities were up, and even small sounds echoed off the walls. It was like walking through a ghost town. Alek half expected to see tumbleweeds blowing down the corridors.