FEATURE

Los Angeles Times | Glendale News-Press | 2004 September 18

Time does not heal all wounds

This is the first of two parts

I did not live in Glendale in 1991, but I was a frequent visitor. I
was about to run out of gas when I pulled my dark blue Saab 900 into a
gas station on Colorado Street. It was 1:30 a.m. An ethnically
ambiguous station attendant approached me and offered his assistance:
“Hi, I am Mike. May I fill it up?”

“Yes, super unleaded please.”

It was a time when oil companies were offering incentives to improve
their sales. I was at a Mobil gas station; full serve was available at
the price of self. It was not long ago, but times were drastically
different. Full serve was an option, and Saab was still a Swedish
company.

As the attendant began to pump my distinctly Swedish tank, I decided
to check the oil level. I was apprehensive; my beloved car had not
gotten a lube job for more than 12,000 miles. I opened the unusual
hood it opened from the back end and grabbed a hold of the oil
stick. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a noisy little motorcycle
speeding on Colorado; the two men were barely holding onto the tiny
seat. Suddenly, the exhaust backfired and filled the night air with
what sounded like a small explosion. The men burst into
laughter. “Ay!!! Oww!!!”

In contrast to the nightriders’ lighthearted reaction, the gas station
attendant dropped the gas pump, and hit the concrete floor on his
back. I left the oil gauge halfway in the engine, and stepped aside to
see why Mike was on the floor.

The unleaded gas was darkening the light gray concrete while it went
wild on the ground. The vaporous liquid was gradually approaching
Mike’s light blue corporate shirt. The inevitable invasion of his
garment was fast approaching.

I positioned myself over him, leaned forward slightly and placed my
hands on my knees for support. His glazed eyes were fixated on the
sky. “Are you OK?” I asked.

He looked at me in despair. By now, his shirt was a few shades darker;
it had been taken over by the precious petroleum.

I picked up the pump, placed it in its compartment and offered Mike my
hand. He stood up and apologized: “I am sorry, I don’t know what
happened to me.”

My response was instinctive: “You are from Beirut, aren’t you?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

—

Greg was in civilian clothes. On his off days, he visited Van Bakery
in downtown Baghdad.

“Good morning. Greg. Same thing today?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sourj (coffee, in Armenian) and pagharj (a pastry from
the Van province in Eastern Turkey/Western Armenian), please.”

“Coming up.”

“Mrs. Carmella, I never asked how you learned to speak such good
English.”

“Let me get your order first, and then I will tell you a story.”

Greg Hauser was 21. He had joined the Marines from Glendale
College. He had befriended the middle-aged couple who owned the
bakery, Sahak and Carmella. Greg was in his third month of assignment
in Baghdad and had mixed feelings about his mission. On the one hand,
he still believed he was there to bring democracy to the Iraqi people,
and on the other, he had a difficult time understanding the
anti-American sentiment among some locals.

“OK, Greg. Here is your usual breakfast. Your sourj with foam on top,
and your pagharj, on the sweet side.”

“Thank you, ma’am. So what’s the story, how come you speak English?”

Carmella remained standing up. She wiped her hands on her pink apron
and responded: “Greg, did I tell you I have a son named Grikor? Same
name as yours in Armenian. We call him Gogo.”

“That sounds funny! Gogo!?”

“He lives in Glendale. He is studying civil engineering at USC.”

“Maybe I can visit him some day when my assignment is finished here in
Iraq. And your story?”

“Oh, yes. My grandmother is from the city of Van just north of Iraq,
in what’s now Turkey. When she fled the killings of 1915, she came
down south with her only surviving daughter. A Muslim Arab nomadic
family first sheltered them. Eventually, my grandmother and mom found
their way to Kirkuk, where they were cared for at a British military
camp. Since then, my grandmother has had high regards for Western
military personnel and the importance of knowing the English
language. When I was 5, she made my parents hire an English tutor for
me.”

“Your tutor must have been British. You have a slight British accent.”

“Actually, she was a Hindi lady from Bombay.”

“I see. The coffee was very good, Miss Carmella. May I have another
one?”

“Of course, dghas (my son), I will be right back,”

As Carmella passed the gray tape-covered glass door and stepped
inside, an explosion shook the ground. The pieces of shattered glass
barely remained in place, as intended by the thick gray tape. Carmella
rushed outside to learn about the fate of the young man.

She spotted him. His face was covered in dirt, and his lower body was
indistinguishable.

Carmella approached Greg and knelt down hesitantly: “Stay with me,
dghas. Stay with me.”

Patrick Azadian lives and works in Glendale. He is an identity and
branding consultant for the retail industry.
Reach him at padania@earthlink.net
Reach the Glendale News-Press at gnp@latimes.com