The Last Dolma

Note: many names have been changed because of privacy concerns.

Ari died on July 5, 1976. He lived long enough for America to see its 200^th birthday, but I doubt he was aware of it; he had been in a coma for two weeks.

I cried during his funeral, as did his four brothers and sisters. His parents stared at the coffin being lowered into the ground, dry-eyed and, not surprisingly, seeming just a little bit smaller than they had been. The mom clung to her two youngest kids while the dad draped his two large arms around the eldest, squeezing their shoulders and keeping them as close to himself as possible.

I was part of this, but still separate. I couldn’t comfort anyone, especially myself. My tears wouldn’t stop, though I tried like hell to stop them. They fell, unchecked, obeying their own rules.

Lost in my misery, I flinched when a hand touched my shoulder. I looked up into the dim eyes of Mrs. Argiros. She tried to smile but it never reached her eyes.

“Come, eat with us and share your stories about our Ari.”

I didn’t want to, but I did. I wiped away my childish tears and let the adult ones fall.

                                                     **************

                                                               1968

I met Ari at the Amarillo Community Center. It was summer, and all the kids there were there because their parents worked — or simply didn’t want to deal with them when school was out. Ari and I were the former. My mom worked because my dad had left for greener pastures (he never found them), and Ari’s parents wanted Ari to enjoy himself rather than work in the diner they owned.

“You’re lucky. My dad always wanted me to work.” I said one day. We were sitting at the edge of the deep end of the pool, watching other kids dive off the board. It’s a wonder none of us got seriously hurt, for the employees paid us little, if any, attention.

“Mmm. Let’s sneak out and go to the dirty magazine shop.” Ari looked at me and grinned.

The dirty magazine shop was really an antique shop that sold lots of sketchy memorabilia, and the Penthouse magazines were simply the personal property of the owner. He had a habit of laying them around the shop, and we had a habit of leafing through them when he was busy with a customer. When we tired of looking at nudes, we gravitated to the pinball machine. The pinball machine broke our hearts gently, and only asked for a dime to try to repair it.

As the years — and summers — progressed, the magazines would become more alluring and the pinball machine less so. And life, the ultimate bugaboo for kids our age, would suddenly jump up and let us know we weren’t in charge of anything.

                                                             *******

                                                                1972

My last summer at the community center. Ari was quieter than usual, and more prone to lashing out. One of the boys at the center started making fun of Ari, and Ari punched the kid in the face. The kid got a bloody nose and Ari sprained his wrist. The next day, I cracked three ribs while attempting to set the unofficial Amarillo Community Center record for number of consecutive back flips on the trampoline. I got to number thirty-seven before I hit the edge of the trampoline, bounced off the edge, and landed on the gym floor, gasping in pain.

Ari leaned over me and told me that I was still five short of the record. I nodded, unable to talk.

The doctor wrapped my ribs and sent me home. My mom scolded me for being so stupid, then she hugged me and told me she loved me.

Ari’s mom, along with Ari, visited me at home and brought over pieces of lamb on a skewer, with tzatziki sauce. I had never had anything like it. This was accompanied by meat and rice wrapped in cabbage. His mom apologized for not having grape leaves to wrap the mixture in. I told her it was ok because I had no idea what it was supposed to be wrapped in anyway.

I was back at the community center in a week, though my ribs still hurt a little. Ari and I played chess instead. I was better at first, but he became better than me before the end of summer. We would play a couple of games and then ramble around the neighborhood.

The dirty magazine shop was still our favorite haunt, but we also made cameo appearances in the five-and-dime shop, the local convenience store nearest us, and a record shop. Ari and I had a deep love of rock ‘n roll, mainly because our parents hated it.

But all good things must end, so the broken bones and nude women were bestowed on the younger boys coming through the center. Ari continued to go to the community center another year, but I got a summer job at a restaurant. My needed the money — and the food I pilfered.

Ari told me it wasn’t the same after I left, and he was pissed at me for not trying to break the record after my ribs healed. I told him I was pissed at him for not breaking that kid’s nose.

We were officially and irrevocably best friends forever.

                                                             *******

                                                                1974

I had a job and a used car, though I was only 16 years old and devoid of a regular driver’s license. Ari had neither and was quite happy with it. He would spend his days after school at his parents’ diner. During the summers, I worked the graveyard shift, so I had plenty of daylight hours to spend with Ari and his family.

The family that no longer smiled.

That is, the smiles stretched and thinned their lips but never altered the rest of their faces. The only one with a genuine sunrise on his face was Ari, and, when I learned of his condition, I was puzzled and amazed.

Dinner at the Argiros household was a study in gluttony and misery. They ate well, and they expected me to eat well. Then, suddenly, the mom would start crying and dash from the table. Everyone would be silent for a moment, then continue eating. She would return, her eyes red and puffy, and she would scold anyone who wasn’t actively shoveling food into their mouth.

I shoveled food into my mouth. When in Athens…

Ari revealed his secret to me right before Christmas. I told him I couldn’t get him much for Christmas because all of my money went to helping my mom pay the bills.

“’S ok. My parents are rich.”

His parents were rich compared to mine. But they were also suffering from Ari’s condition. A fatal one, as it turned out.

I didn’t say anything after Ari told me. I just sat there and avoided looking at him. I didn’t want him to see me trying not to cry.

“Can I visit you the next time you go to the hospital?”

Ari looked at me with eyes that should have been sad, but weren’t.

“Yeah. That’d be great. Maybe my mom’ll stop crying if you’re there.”

My heart exploded with pain, for Ari and for his mom. I tried to imagine how my mom would feel if I were in Ari’s situation, but I couldn’t. The ache seemed to be too much, too deep, too powerful to overcome.

But I vowed not to cry in front of him. He was getting enough of that already.

                                                             *******

                                                                1975

“I didn’t know your real name was Aristotle.”

Ari was propped up on two pillows, anxious to get out of the hospital and back home. His dad was busy signing papers downstairs, and his mom was bustling in and out of his room, toting flowers and balloons.

“Yep. Just like the philosopher. Know anything about him?”

“Yeah. He kicks my ass at chess and has the best rock ‘n roll record collection of anyone I know.”

We laughed loudly at this, and his mom came back into the room. She looked at both of us and then pointedly ignored us. We looked at each other again and exploded with renewed laughter when she left. Adults just don’t get it.

“Hey, I have a license now. A real one.”

“Good. I worried about being thrown in jail, riding around with you. They don’t treat my kind well.”

I looked at him, not realizing he was joking. Until he grinned.

It still amazed me, how he could be so genuinely happy. The guy wasn’t going to live much longer. He was much thinner than when we first me, and his face looked haggard and droopy, like he was dealing with pain and the inevitability of his death.

I kept on trying not to cry.

“I got us two tickets to see ZZ Top. Amarillo Convention Center, two weeks from now.” I held up the tickets to him. They were never out of my possession.

“Really? Wow! How did you get those?”

“Traded ten steaks for ‘em.”

Ari gave me a severe look, and I knew he was his mother’s child.

“You should steal for your family, not for concert tickets.”

His questionable moralizing aside, he was right. In our world, stealing for family was accepted and encouraged.

“No problem. My mom got a raise, and ten steaks weren’t all I liberated. Let’s just say that bacon and chicken will be featured on the family menu for the foreseeable future.”

“You talk like a professor now.”

“But I steal like a pirate.”

Another round of raucous laughter, this time in front of his dad. He looked from one to the other, expecting us to explain.

“Just laughing about pirates, dad.”

The father accepted the explanation, but he would accept anything from Ari at this point.

We went to the concert, had a great time, and tried not to worry about the ringing in our ears. We hustled back to his house so his parents wouldn’t worry about him, and we spent the night in twin beds, discussing how clever we were in pilfering some of the cheap wine his father had, and replacing it with grape juice.

I later found out the father knew. He knew all along.

                                                              *******

                                                                 1976

The Argiros house, a pretty big one, was crammed full of people by the time I got there. Everyone was loud, and all were eating and drinking. No one was laughing, though.

I had never seen so much food on one table. Greek dishes, many of which I didn’t recognize, steamed and glistened and wafted forth terrific scents. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want to be scolded for not eating, so I nibbled.

Ari had enough aunts, uncles, and cousins to populate a small country. They all had the same intense, thoughtful look, a sharpness in their eyes and their demeanor that spoke of a culture I didn’t understand very well. I felt out of place, again, but I was welcomed like I was family.

The dolmades, Ari’s favorite, were disappearing at an alarming rate. By the time I made my way there, only one was left. It was a true dolma, wrapped in grape leaves and winking at me. But I couldn’t take the last one. That would be rude, or so my mother always told me.

A hand on the shoulder. Mrs. Argiros.

“Take it. Ari would want you to enjoy his favorite food.”

I took it, stared at it, and then stared at Mrs. Argiros. The tears came again, and Ari’s mom pulled my head to her shoulder, patting my back as the tears and the heaves overtook me.

“There, there,” she murmured over and over.

I finally stopped crying and stepped back, ashamed of myself. Mrs. Argiros smiled, and it reached her eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that she was happy.

“Ari wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of leaving us.”

I knew I was included in that last word.

She then did something that surprised the hell out of me. She ruffled my hair and kissed my cheek. I whispered an awkward thank you to her and left as fast as I could, before I started crying again. I don’t think I took a breath before I got to my car.

My head hurt and my heart was set to detonation mode. I squeezed the dolma and slammed it to the ground, yelling and crying and beating my fists on my car. I continued to do this until I was exhausted. No more tears came as I sat in the car, but I continued beating up the car, and myself. It seemed like the right thing to do.

None of it was fair, and that’s what I hated. I was being selfish, and I knew it. I would miss Ari like hell. No more chess games, no more sneaking wine, no more dirty magazines to ogle over, no more discussing how Led Zeppelin was the greatest band in the world. My world dimmed considerably.

I went to Thompson Park, not wanting, at this moment, to visit a sad mom and a refrigerator full of stolen poultry. The day was hot, but it felt good in the shade. I watched the little kids playing as their moms watched them behind sunglasses and jugs full of iced tea. Couples were making out and thin guys with short shorts were jogging on the paths. Life without Ari continued, just as it had when he was alive.

My apartment was dark and hot. I had checked on my mom earlier; she was asleep, as was my sister and brother. I stuffed a few more purloined items in there and left before I woke anyone up. Like my small place on the cheap side of town, the house reverberated with emptiness and sadness.

I turned on the record player and listened to Led Zeppelin until I fell asleep.

                                                           *******

The years passed and the pain dimmed, but it never left. A part of me houses memories of Ari’s strength and courage, Ari’s sweet innocence when we first met. He grew up fast before he died; I took much longer. Even at my advanced age, I don’t think I’m as grown up as Ari was.

He would smile at this, and agree with me. Then he would kick my ass at chess.