the Jew. And my mother followed suit shortly thereafter.
But I can’t do it. I’ve clung to this gigantic name my whole life. It was the only connection I had to my father when I was a little boy. In many ways it’s the only connection I have to him now. We are the last remaining Sayrafiezadehs in the United States, as my brother and sister have long ago changed their name. There’s irony in this.
So I do what the casting director wants and exactly how she wants it. I dance wildly out of rhythm because I know it looks buffoonish, and when the chorus kicks in I sing far off-key, with an accent that is some melding of my father and the Indian man who works at the coffee shop across from work. It is anything but authentic. The casting director doesn’t seem to notice or care. She is standing behind the video camera, smiling with encouragement as this is recorded for eternity. I am ashamed and fatigued. What would my father say if he could see me now? “Look what the capitalists are making you do.” That’s what he would say.
Back at the office, I sit on my soft chair and look at my computer screen filled with pictures of outdoor patio furniture on the porch, in the garden, by the pool. I have a headache, but the images are soothing. I would like to be there by the pool.
“Hey, Saïd,” I hear Karen say behind me.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I promise I’ll have them finished by the end of the day.”
And suddenly she is standing next to me, very close, her hip dangerously close to my elbow. I look up and see her pretty face and her orange scarf and her eyes that are either blue or green. In her hand she is holding a slice of blueberry pie.
11.
M Y UNCLE’S PRESENCE HUNG IN the background of my life in Pittsburgh, a smudgy figure who never fully took shape and never fully disappeared. We had moved to Pittsburgh because he had suggested we do so, but I don’t really know how much we ever benefited from him or his suggestion. I felt humiliated each time I entered his enormous house and sat down at his enormous dining-room table that reached up to my neck like I was standing in the deepest end of the swimming pool. Sitting across from me would be my cousin Henry, who, always handsome and self-possessed, looked at ease eating out of a bowl that matched the plate that matched the cup, fearlessly helping himself to seconds and thirds. How had he come by such good fortune? How had I not? When the meal was done, I would crawl onto the lush carpeting like an animal in search of a place to sleep and I would watch my uncle place log after log into the fireplace as he chatted with my mother about their own childhood and their own parents, neither of whom I had ever known. Later on I might go out to the backyard with Henry to play catch or down into the basement and watch his train choo-choo around the miniature village. It was always inconceivable to me that no part of this home belonged to me and that soon I would be asked to leave. I despised them for this. They were rich asses, after all, and I blamed them for what I did not have. Mycousin slept in a sovereign bedroom that his parents did not need to traverse in order to reach the bathroom, while my mother and I lived in a one-bedroom apartment, with me in the bedroom and my mother in the living room sleeping on a twin bed that doubled, without alteration of any sort, as a couch in the daylight hours. Each morning I would wake to the sounds of her using the toilet just a few feet away from me. I could only guess at what would befall my uncle and cousin—and their house—when the revolution finally arrived, and there was some half-empty satisfaction in that.
And too soon, much too soon, my cousin would flick the switch and the train would come to a halt and the village would go dark and we would ascend to the living room, where the fire was now just embers. My mother and I would gather our belongings and pile into the backseat of my uncle’s light-blue Mercedes,
But I can’t do it. I’ve clung to this gigantic name my whole life. It was the only connection I had to my father when I was a little boy. In many ways it’s the only connection I have to him now. We are the last remaining Sayrafiezadehs in the United States, as my brother and sister have long ago changed their name. There’s irony in this.
So I do what the casting director wants and exactly how she wants it. I dance wildly out of rhythm because I know it looks buffoonish, and when the chorus kicks in I sing far off-key, with an accent that is some melding of my father and the Indian man who works at the coffee shop across from work. It is anything but authentic. The casting director doesn’t seem to notice or care. She is standing behind the video camera, smiling with encouragement as this is recorded for eternity. I am ashamed and fatigued. What would my father say if he could see me now? “Look what the capitalists are making you do.” That’s what he would say.
Back at the office, I sit on my soft chair and look at my computer screen filled with pictures of outdoor patio furniture on the porch, in the garden, by the pool. I have a headache, but the images are soothing. I would like to be there by the pool.
“Hey, Saïd,” I hear Karen say behind me.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I promise I’ll have them finished by the end of the day.”
And suddenly she is standing next to me, very close, her hip dangerously close to my elbow. I look up and see her pretty face and her orange scarf and her eyes that are either blue or green. In her hand she is holding a slice of blueberry pie.
11.
M Y UNCLE’S PRESENCE HUNG IN the background of my life in Pittsburgh, a smudgy figure who never fully took shape and never fully disappeared. We had moved to Pittsburgh because he had suggested we do so, but I don’t really know how much we ever benefited from him or his suggestion. I felt humiliated each time I entered his enormous house and sat down at his enormous dining-room table that reached up to my neck like I was standing in the deepest end of the swimming pool. Sitting across from me would be my cousin Henry, who, always handsome and self-possessed, looked at ease eating out of a bowl that matched the plate that matched the cup, fearlessly helping himself to seconds and thirds. How had he come by such good fortune? How had I not? When the meal was done, I would crawl onto the lush carpeting like an animal in search of a place to sleep and I would watch my uncle place log after log into the fireplace as he chatted with my mother about their own childhood and their own parents, neither of whom I had ever known. Later on I might go out to the backyard with Henry to play catch or down into the basement and watch his train choo-choo around the miniature village. It was always inconceivable to me that no part of this home belonged to me and that soon I would be asked to leave. I despised them for this. They were rich asses, after all, and I blamed them for what I did not have. Mycousin slept in a sovereign bedroom that his parents did not need to traverse in order to reach the bathroom, while my mother and I lived in a one-bedroom apartment, with me in the bedroom and my mother in the living room sleeping on a twin bed that doubled, without alteration of any sort, as a couch in the daylight hours. Each morning I would wake to the sounds of her using the toilet just a few feet away from me. I could only guess at what would befall my uncle and cousin—and their house—when the revolution finally arrived, and there was some half-empty satisfaction in that.
And too soon, much too soon, my cousin would flick the switch and the train would come to a halt and the village would go dark and we would ascend to the living room, where the fire was now just embers. My mother and I would gather our belongings and pile into the backseat of my uncle’s light-blue Mercedes,
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