Midnight (51 page)

As we walked over, I saw the Reverend approaching from the distance. I elbowed Chris to bring it to his attention.

“Young man,” the Reverend called to his son.

“Yes, father.” Chris tensed up to attention and responded respectfully.

“So you have been joined by your friends,” he said dryly. “Well, good for them. Where were you fellas last night when Chris needed you?”

He glanced over at the girls gathered and waiting for us.

“Let’s go, gentlemen, step into my chambers.” We followed silently. The Reverend pronounced to his secretary, “I need some time with my son, make sure no one disturbs us.”

My eyes bounced around the walls of his private office. The images were all foreign to me.

“When you three first met, you were boys. Now you are young men. There is a difference, you know. Boys play. Young men handle their business,” the Reverend lectured, no laughter or doubt in his style. He was seated upright in his big black leather chair.

I was listening, but at the same time, I was still looking at the wall over his head. Plastered there was his picture of Jesus. I thought to myself that there is not one Muslim, out
of the three billion Muslims in the world, who believes he has a picture of God, or that God could ever be captured in a photograph or painting. In a mosque, we do not have images or pictures or snapshots or symbols or idols on our walls or anywhere else, for that matter.

Muslims acknowledge the great works and life of Jesus. However, we don’t believe that Jesus is God, or the son of God. We believe that Jesus was a Prophet, a chosen messenger of God, selected as other prophets were selected by God to carry out and perform incredible and extraordinary works and deeds, like Moses even.

“Boys do things because they want to. Boys respond to impulse. Young men do things because they should. They are in the process of setting up to be responsible, to carry their weight. Are you young men listening? Are you understanding me?”

I looked at Ameer, his arm draped around the chair where he was sitting. He was checking the place out same as I was. I knew when we left here, he would have something sharp to say about all of this.

Chris had his head bowed, listening as though he heard these lessons every day.

“As you grow older, you have to weigh your decisions. Everything you do means something. Your actions all have a value. When you’re doing
nothing
, you are losing something valuable, either
time or money
or both. And, they are both the
same thing.
” The Reverend was tapping his huge finger on his desktop to emphasize his important words.

“It’s easy for you fellas to
lose money
, because
it’s not your money
, directly. It’s easy to waste your
father’s money
and your
father’s time.
As a man, it’s my job to stop you from wasting money and time, especially
my money, my time.

“Chris is going to be the first to stop. He’s not going to be attending the karate class anymore until he can live a
responsible life. He’s not going to be playing in any basketball league until he can demonstrate that he understands what is important and what it takes to earn real money. Chris is going to focus on hitting the books, getting top marks in school, and working for his father.
Only
by working with his father will he become careful with his
father’s money
.”

Ameer waited for the Reverend to take a breath and jumped right in.

“Sir, the party we went to last night only cost five dollars. And when we play ball we earn
our own money
.” He was trying to counter the Reverend’s assumptions.

“What do you know about money? Do you even have insurance?” he asked Ameer.

Ameer smirked. He probably didn’t know what the Rev was talking about, because I sure didn’t.

“When you go to apply for insurance, the insurance agent asks several questions about how you live your life every day. They want to know how big of a fool you are, what type of risks and gambles you take with your own life. It’s the only way they can figure out how much risk is involved in doing business with you.

“Now you three went to a party, most likely looking for girls, in a neighborhood that is
not your own
, with people who are complete
strangers to you
.

“If I was an insurance agent, on a scale of one to ten, I would say that you three rank a ten as far as fools are concerned,” the Reverend said with an angry scowl.

“Who cares that you paid the five-dollar entry fee?” he barked on Ameer.

“I have invested
real money
in Chris, $5,000 on his braces, $20,000 a year for his private schooling, and about $15,000 on his martial arts training, to date. I’ve sunk a lot of
money
into this one son, and as you know, he has a younger brother and sister.” He leaned back now in his big chair.

“Not only is this church a corporation,
his life is a corporation
and
so is yours
, whether you know it or not.”

I wasn’t mad at the Reverend as I listened. I started to enjoy the way he was throwing the numbers around. I liked any talk about business, setting it up and earning money, as long as the person talking could get around to the point. Then the Reverend continued.

“Last night, before I received the phone call from the police, I was looking through my tax receipts for this year. Counting them up is a big job. I got a couple of crates filled with receipts that have to be sorted out and added up. Every year, every man in business in America has to submit a record of his expenses. Every purchase a man makes matters, has to be documented and reported. You know why?” the Reverend asked. We three sat there silent.

“Chris knows why. A
real friend
doesn’t play dumb. Chris, teach these boys what you already know. Share with them what I taught you,” he ordered his son.

Chris lifted his head and answered, “Because half of everything a businessman earns in America belongs to the United States government. And every April 15th, that money is due and every businessman has got to pay it.” Chris spoke like an automated recording or telephone operator.

“Now tell them what happens to businessmen who don’t collect receipts, keep proper records, and pay the government half of their earnings,” the Reverend told Chris.

“They pay fines and interest on their debt and they go to jail,” Chris answered.

“Straight to jail. Do not pass go, like the Monopoly game. The only thing is, real life is not a game,” the Reverend emphasized.

We three spent the rest of Sunday with pencils in our hand and paper at our table, sorting and counting the Reverend’s receipts without the help of a calculator. Chris told
us that all of it was just busywork, just the start of a string of punishments. He said his father had two expensive accountants, and had actually already filed his taxes, because April 15th had passed more than a week ago and his dad never misses deadlines. He also said that churches don’t pay taxes like other corporations do, but his father has other businesses and personal expenses to account for.

There were thousands of receipts. We were just trying to help Chris out, hoping that if we did a good job, his father would respect us enough to let Chris at least continue in the martial arts. We knew the basketball league was out for Chris.

His father did not know that there was a big money prize involved in the game. He did not know it was the Hustler’s League. If we told him, we would get the same result, no Chris. Shit is fucked up, I thought to myself. I wish the Reverend and some of his crew had sponsored the league. Then the hustlers wouldn’t have to.

When the church cooks brought plates of food back for each of us to eat, I kept thinking, “This church is a corporation.” As I looked at the food plate, I saw a separate price tag hanging over each item in my mind. I felt I needed to leave my money on the table for this meal, even for the two glasses of water I drank. The Reverend had convinced me that everything had a price no matter how small.

During our twenty-minute food break, I tried to think about what my father would say about the Reverend’s words and opinions.

My father is a deep thinker and planner, and extremely successful in business. When he spoke the truth, it punctured everyone’s fantasy bubble.

After a while my father’s words came to me, streaming clear-cut across my mind. My father would say, “All men are
risks, and all men must take risks. There is no insurance or guarantee. Only Allah can give that, only Allah can take it away.”

My father would have his head pressed to the ground, thanking Allah for granting my narrow escape.

“Half of everything a businessman in America earns belongs to the United States government.” “Collect receipts, keep proper records.” “If not, go straight to jail.” It was eye-opening, new information for me, and mind-blowing.

Sunday night I got more serious. I sat down and got my thoughts organized. Then I began to organize everything else. I pulled out the jewels for Akemi. I sat down with the pen and the pad and wrote out the
agid
. I asked Umma to write out in Arabic the
nikah
, the words Akemi would recite and questions she would be asked during the short and simple ceremony. I would translate the Arabic into English myself. Then I would have the English translated into Japanese for Akemi. Umma was right. Akemi is a jewel and I would have to work very hard to get her and keep her for myself.

I wanted to go by her school and see her. I wanted to make sure she was okay, feeling well and still wanting to be mine. I wanted to see what effect her family was having on her thinking and choices.

I wanted to give her a copy of both the
agid
and the
nikah
, so she could make all of her decisions with a full understanding. I wanted to give her the jewels and other gifts as the
mahr
, or dowry.

After I had everything which concerned Akemi straight, we studied, Umma and I. The citizenship was, after all, a matter of business. Joining the United States of America
was not emotional, not a matter of faith or patriotism. It was something I had to study for and pay for and continue paying for in taxes. It was because my life is a corporation and yours is too.

Monday the grind was on. By 10:00
A.M.
I was at the lawyer’s office with the paperwork for the possible house purchase. The lawyer’s secretary wanted five hundred dollars to make a folder with our family name on it, slide my papers inside, and have the attorney look at it and give us a call.

“Is that the total fee?” I asked her.

“That’s the total right now,” she replied. I left and tried the next lawyer. There was a whole block of them, fifteen in a row. I figured maybe that was a good thing. A professional competition might drive one or two of them to lower their fees.

I found one who would do the closing on the house for two hundred fifty dollars total. She was a “first-year lawyer no experience.” She was an African American attorney who at least greeted her potential clients, and not with the standard “fuck you” face.

Monica Abraham, Esq., said she could have the documents reviewed by tomorrow morning. She said she would check the register to verify that Mr. Saul Slerzberg was the actual owner and that there were no outstanding debts and liens against his property. She even bothered to explain some of the concepts to me, which I appreciated a lot.

I agreed to meet her at 10:00
A.M.
tomorrow morning but told her I would be in a rush because I had to go to class, referring to Sensei without referring to him.

She said, “I think you’re wonderful to carry such big responsibilities on your shoulders, to conduct business for your mom and family, to translate so carefully and cautiously
your mother’s expectations. You’re rare. If you were older I’d introduce you to my younger sister.”

I contacted Sensei by phone, asking if it was okay for me to stop by and speak with him for a minute. He said I could, so I headed right over.

“Do you know a place in New York where a Japanese person could take an English language course?” I asked Sensei.

“But of course,” he answered.

“Would you be willing to give me their contact information?” I asked. He went into his card file, flipping slowly, his fingers pausing on top of one card. He wrote out the information onto a piece of paper and handed it to me. “You could have asked me this question over the telephone. Is there something else you wanted to say or ask?”

“If I need to get something translated, something written in English translated into Japanese in a hurry?” I asked.

“I can do it,” he said.

I paused. “I was not wanting to bother you. I was thinking that if you could recommend someone.”

“Someone who doesn’t know you, to drop everything they are doing and start translating something for you right then and there while you stand and wait?” he stated out loud to show me how absurd I was to him right now.

“If this is what the person does professionally, I could pay the fee and they could provide the translation for me as soon as possible,” I corrected myself.

Sensei seemed disappointed for some reason. He said to me, “The address I have given you, which you are holding in your hand, will serve all of your needs for classes and translations of at least seven different languages. The businesses, as you can see, are all located at Rockefeller Center. There they are used to assisting immigrants and foreigners. There you will find a professional stranger to do as you wish, anything concerning language. If this is good enough, I do have another matter to tend to.”

“
Arigato gozamasu,
Senseian,” I said, thanking him respectfully. I left.

“Fifty dollars extra for a rush job, no problem,” I told the Japanese woman who agreed to translate my documents into Japanese and have them nicely typed and presentable on quality stationery.

“Come back in two hours,” she said. The clock read ten minutes past noon.