Kapitoil (19 page)

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: NOVEMBER 26

On Monday I received an email reply from Mr. Schrub’s secretary:

That was all. I was foolish to think he would invite me to Connecticut. He had his own family and other friends and business acquaintances. I was not an integral part of his life. “Pleased” was a word with such minimal weight. And possibly Mr. Ray told him I didn’t have any new ideas and therefore didn’t merit an invitation. I almost wrote to the secretary that I had a new idea about Kapitoil, but of course Kapitoil was still highly privileged information, and I had not even started testing out my new idea yet.

On Wednesday I went into my former pod and said good-bye to Rebecca. She was still working, and it was rare for me to exit work before she did. She had dark shadows under her eyes. I said, “Possibly you should not work so hard.”

Her mouth turned up slightly and she told me to have a good Thanksgiving. I asked if she was celebrating it with her roommate, but she said Jessica had gone home to California the previous day.

That night I watched television without truly selecting a program, which I don’t like doing. I considered finally calling one of the people in New York our family friends knew, the Bashar family. I opened my cellular and scrolled through the few numbers I had inputted so far, but stopped before I reached them.

“Hello?” Barron said.

“Hello, Mr. Wright. This is Karim Issar. I am the Schrub Equities employee you have previously driven from JFK Airport to my apartment, from the Schrub office to game four of the World Series between the Yankees and the Atlanta Braves, and from—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said. “What time and where?”

“I do not require transportation,” I said. “I would merely like to give thanks to you for the previous rides.”

He paused for a few seconds, then laughed. “You’re welcome. It’s my job.”

“Also, I would like to wish you and your family a happy Thanksgiving.” He reciprocated, and I asked, “Are you having a large Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Just having a few friends and relatives over, nothing too fancy,” he said.

“That sounds enjoyable.”

There was another pause, and he said, “You?”

“I do not have any current plans,” I said.

I could hear Barron intake his breath, and then he said, “Well, shit, like I said, it’s nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to come over here.”

“I could not infringe on your hospitality.”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if it was an infringement,” he said.

“Then I accept your offer, and I will bring some food with me as well.” He gave me his contact information. “Mr. Wright, may I infringe on your hospitality and invite someone else?”

He laughed again. Barron created high pressure when he didn’t speak, but when he laughed he depressurized the environment. He said why the hell not as long as I called him Barron and not Mr. Wright.

I called Rebecca, who picked up on the second ring. When I invited her to Barron’s, she said, “You don’t have to do that just because you feel sorry for me.”

“It is all right,” I said. “I was invited just because he felt sorry for me.”

She laughed and accepted, and I hypothesized that she and Barron would partner well because they were the only two people in the U.S. who thought I had a sense of humor.

On Thanksgiving I cooked hareis. It is my preferred meal to cook because it is like writing a complex program: It takes a long time to produce such fragile meat, you can innovate with trial-and-error experiments with different spices (e.g., I use more cinnamon than most cooks do), and removing the bones at the end is even parallel to debugging. Then you have a full meal made from several ingredients that would not be independently edible, minus the lamb and rice, just as a program combines several functions that have less value when solitary.

I also blended a complex juice of bananas, strawberries, peaches, and kiwis, which
are
independently edible but preferable in collaboration.

Rebecca and I planned to meet at Barron’s home in Jackson Heights, which I read was the most diverse area in the world. The subway was above the ground in Queens, and I tried counting the number of Spanish and Indian restaurants, but even I couldn’t do it. I also saw very few stores with names I recognized. Before I came to New York I expected to see this class of neighborhood more, but I haven’t found it in Manhattan.

Although I found this neighborhood intriguing, all the garbage on the streets suddenly made me wish I was in Connecticut with Mr. Schrub and his family and around trees and lawns and spacious houses.

I found a small brick house in a row of similar houses and rang the front door. A female with short black hair answered. She was Japanese.

I reviewed the number above the door. “I apologize,” I said. “I think I have the incorrect home.”

“For whom are you looking?” she asked.

“Is this the house of Barron Wright?”

“The house of Barron Wright and Cynthia Oharu, yes. Barron’s my husband.” She smiled, and I felt foolish for my original statement. “Karim, right? Please come in. And would you mind taking off your shoes?”

I said that was often the custom where I was from as well. She asked for the location, and I told her, and she made me guarantee to tell her more about Qatar later. Then she said my friend was waiting for me.

The living room had pictures on the walls of Barron and Cynthia and their daughter. Over a dozen adults and several children stood or sat on the two couches and multiple chairs. Everyone was black or Latin American, minus Cynthia, Rebecca, two white couples, and me.

Rebecca was eating and talking on one of the couches with another female. She told me to sit with them and introduced me. She introduced me to the people near us. She wasn’t a networker in the office, but she was more skilled here, similar to how she was at her own party, although that was understandable because the guests there were her friends.

There was a table near the kitchen with food on top of it, like at the Yankees game, including the hareis, but all the guests served themselves, so I did the same. The food was not the Thanksgiving food I previously read about, which slightly disappointed me, but there were fish and vegetable pies and dishes I believe were Latin American.

Cynthia made everyone laugh and transferred between guests frequently. She reminded me slightly of my mother, who was also a robust host. I briefly considered asking Jefferson later if he wanted to meet her, but his interest in Japan was not 100% positive, and for him to meet Cynthia merely because she was Japanese was parallel to when I thought it wasn’t Barron’s house also because she was Japanese.

Barron was more like my father. He talked to a few of the guests at the party but remained in his seat, except at one point when he tickled his daughter, Michelle, which amused me, although of course I was not the target of the tickling. When I said hello to him, he shook my hand and thanked me for coming. This was more like my father when I was much younger. I don’t remember the last time we had a party in our apartment.

I said, “I would like to thanks-give to you and your family for inviting me.”

Barron’s brother was next to him. “Thanks-give?” he asked as he laughed at me.

Barron turned to him with a look I had never seen on his face. “Shut the hell up,” he said quietly. Then he said to me, “That suit still looks sharp on you,” and I thanked him, but he was incorrect, as it was in fact a different suit from the one I wore in the car, although he was correct in that it did look sexy on me. I felt enhanced until I saw his gray sweater had a small hole under the shoulder.

Several people enjoyed the hareis, and although the other children drank soda instead, Michelle repeatedly requested more of my juice.

I didn’t talk with Rebecca because Cynthia asked me much about Qatar and I also talked to a female social worker named Ana, who was originally from the Dominican Republic and who sometimes partnered with Cynthia’s law firm. She asked me, “Have you had any trouble assimil—have you had any trouble adjusting to life here?”

I said, “I have had some difficulties assimilating and acclimating, but I am not having a very hard time dealing.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t know that word,” she said.

“No harm, no foul,” I said. “I did know it, but I enjoy learning new words.”

Right after I said that, Cynthia said we should all play a game called Taboo. She explained the rules, which require a person to provide clues for his teammates to guess a specific word or phrase, but the person cannot state five other words, e.g., if the word is “baseball,” you cannot say: “sport,” “game,” “pastime,” “hitter,” or “pitcher.”

I would be very poor at this game, because I didn’t even know the word “pastime,” and if I didn’t know the censored words then I wouldn’t know the non-censored words either, and I would humiliate myself in front of everyone and Rebecca. So when Cynthia said we had an odd number of adults, I said I would not play. Rebecca tried to make me partner on her team, but I said I preferred to play with the children.

As the adults set up the game, I asked the children, “Who wants to play a game?”

All seven children approached me, and I said I had a fun game called Sleep Handshake. I explained the rules: “All the players walk around and shake hands, and one person also scratches one other person’s hand with his finger,” I said. “After several seconds, that other person ‘falls asleep.’ The other players must observe and guess who is the ‘sleeper.’” I used to play this game with Zahira and her friends to teach them analytical skills of observation.

“I know that game,” one of the older children said. “It’s not called Sleep Handshake. It’s called Murderer. And you don’t fall asleep. You die.”

“No,” I said. “That is a different game. In this game you merely fall asleep. Now I will choose a sleeper.” I shook everyone’s hand and scratched Michelle’s hand.

While we played, I listened to the adults play Taboo. They were all laughing and shouting with friendly competition. Because I am an adept multitasker with low-level problems, I studied the various strategies they used. The weaker players tried to describe the clues in elongated ways, but the stronger players, like Rebecca and Cynthia, used outside-the-box thinking to innovate clues and were more efficient.

The children enjoyed themselves as well, and at one point I saw Rebecca looking at us. Soon one of the adults said he had to leave.

“Karim, we need a sub,” Rebecca said.

Michelle put another child to sleep. “The children require supervision.”

“They’ll be fine,” Cynthia said. “Barron, move your fat ass.”

I was on the same team as Rebecca, which relieved me, as I didn’t want my teammates to become upset if I failed, and Rebecca was not the class of person to do that.

I studied more intensely as the other players provided clues, and because of that I didn’t try to answer any clues. I was very nervous just before my turn, but then I became calm when I remembered I must think outside the box, which is easy for me.

My first phrase was “Holiday Inn.” I could not say “hotel,” “motel,” “vacation,” “room,” “lodge.” I said: “A place you reside in overnight; non–work schedule plus non-out.”

Immediately Rebecca said “Holiday Inn!”

I used a similar strategy for the next phrase, “World Series” (I said “global iterations,” although I almost said “I attended this athletic event with Mr. Schrub”), and again Rebecca guessed it. When she correctly answered my third clue, Barron said, “You two married or something?” and I was slightly humiliated but remained focused.

My team guessed eight of my clues, which was the most of anyone, and Rebecca claimed responsibility for five of them. She was across from me, but she made her mouth move mutely so I could understand the words: “Nice job, Karim.”

It was strange to hear this compliment outside of the office, but it felt as good as when a higher-up praised me at work.

And I didn’t wish I was at Mr. Schrub’s house anymore.

The one time that was false was a few minutes after the game, when my stomach became turbulent. Probably it was from the large quantities of different foods I had consumed. I perspired, and Rebecca even asked if I was all right, and I said I was and that I had to make a telephone call, but instead I went to the restroom and turned on the water loudly so no one would hear me. I finished the toilet paper before I was completed, which panicked me, but then I located more under the sink.

We stayed until the other guests started leaving, and then Rebecca again moved her mouth to ask “Should we go?” I moved my mouth to say, “This is a strategic juncture to depart,” but she didn’t understand, so I nodded.

Because it was a holiday there were almost zero commuters. Rebecca talked nonstop about how much she had enjoyed it and continued thanking me for inviting her.

We reached Rebecca’s platform for the G train, which was empty. She again thanked me, and I said, “That is the sixth time you have thanked me.”

“I guess I’m a little thrown off by a Thanksgiving that doesn’t end in mutual recriminations fueled by gallons of cheap red wine,” she said.

We stood there for a few seconds without saying anything, and I heard her train approaching, and I said, “It is unsafe for you to travel home tonight because there are very few passengers. I will accompany you to your subway stop.”

“I’m a big girl,” she said. “Besides, it’s out of your way.”

I thought she was referring to her size, which was not thin but not big either, and then I understood, so I said, “That is true, but I would enjoy the company anyway.” She again said it was out of my way, but I maintained my position, and we boarded the train.

It was empty, minus a man and female at the other end. Their appearances and clothing were almost equal. The female rested her head on the man’s shoulder and he had his arm around her, and their eyes were closed. Rebecca and I sat next to each other, and on the trip we discussed nonwork subjects, e.g., Barron and Cynthia and Thanksgiving, but the entire time I was thinking how I wanted us to be in the same position as the couple.