The Thing

You disowned me. Why should I even listen to you?

One finger up in the air: "Look, son. These are my last words to you."

This announcement was the final straw, or so he could guess now. Slowly coming back to his senses, he noticed a sudden urgency in his body.

He had to pee, and the public cabins were right on the horizon.

Grandpa, go fuck yourself.

He had, of course, denounced him with another finger, which now seemed more likely to be the final straw as he thought.

But then, what about the first one? That pushed him back into his mind.

Inside, there was one toilet alafranga, a sink, some toilet papers and the light. He didn’t bother to take his rucksack off. Lowering the front of his shorts down with one hand and supporting his thing a bit upwards below with his thumb, he called it good to go. 

He’d waken up angry and confused in the morning. Two hours from Istanbul and two hours to his hometown, he left the bus to spend the night in a hotel.

All he wanted before going home was to pinpoint this: Why things always start going sour all of a sudden? What is the thing that triggers this souring process?

It was as if there was an expiration date for the joie de vivre. He always found himself back in darkness in the end. In the end, he peed a bit on his hand and his shorts.

He washed his right hand with a lick of water, and called it good to go. Now it was time for the second round.

...

Summer was kissing the town goodbye.

The plastic fun-fair on the beach was packed. The state of stillness was taking its strong stance back on sand. The plastic chairs outside the fish restaurants were placed upside-down on the tables.

There was only one roll of intestines cooking at the Kokoretsi kiosk ahead.

Celil was aware of none. He was only aware of the pavements he had to march on for a few hours more; not even that these “few hours” were eight hours to be exact. Exactitude was a privilege he lacked at this point.

The next -and the last- bus to Istanbul was at 2 A.M., and the small cabin inside the terminal was the last place to call home tonight.

Before making the cabin his final destination, there were two options standing in front of him:

1. He could keep walking until he can't.

2. He could get a bottle of wine.

The problem was: He only had seventy-five liras left after buying the bus ticket to Istanbul. Even some dog-killers would cost around twenty. And that one bottle wouldn't only leave him dry, but also with only fifty-five liras for... God knows for how long.

He had no idea, but he was dedicated enough not to make his already fucked up situation twenty liras more fucked up.

To sum up; a fifty, a twenty, and a five liras; some tobacco, a cellphone, a laptop and a rucksack full of clothes. That was all he had. No wine, no home, no car, no family.

However, none of them bothered him as much as not being able to pinpoint the thing that soured everything in the end.

At first, it was the summer of his life. He wasn’t only happy and content; he felt joyful, purposeful, meaningful and even sane. All summer, he was in the state of total bliss. 

Luck was also on his side: He’d finally landed a job he could announce to his family after two years of his de facto unemployment.

Matter of fact was: Not only had he been employed for a full year; his boss had given him a ten-year passport, a one-week business visa, a two-way plane ticket, and a few hundred Euros to spend in Germany. He decided to keep it all as a secret in order to keep getting money from his family.

He remembered how his stomach was about to fail as he watched his avatar move on he rail-track from Dusseldorf to Essen along the Rhine on his mobile. Over two thousand miles away from home, he was all alone in this unknown territory.

This was the first time he was abroad; but he didn't have any touristic privileges: Everyday was strictly about business from the hotel to the fair, and every evening came with more business behind the mask of community dines.

Nights made the difference: Nights turned him into a tourist consuming heroic amounts of Pilsner and bratwursts on the streets of Essen, and some more on the hotel bed.

On his last day in Germany, he didn’t even bother to visit the fair. Instead, he turned his laptop on, tapped “xn” on the search engine, and clicked on the first suggestion. The site wasn’t blocked by the decision dated x and numbered n of Presidency xx. It was quite unexpected, which made him super happy. He meditated on this unusual sense of freedom once, and once again, and once more, and one last time before packing up.

The first thing he noticed in Istanbul was the insane devaluation of the lira. The financial situation was going downhill fast.

He saw the hands of his boss trembling two months later. He explained Celil the obvious reason why they decided to downsize the enterprise. 

He was, yet again, unemployed; yet nothing was doom and gloom. He looked for a job, and landed one without a concern. He was going to start in September, so he had the whole summer for himself.

He planned to pay a visit to his family to share the news.

In return, he was expecting to get his mother's car to go for a middle-budget camping expedition somewhere close-by. On his way, however, he sensed the beginning of the souring again.

What if she would refuse? And even worse; what if she would refuse with a poor excuse? It was quite likely.

That got him thinking.

On the single seat he barely fit into, sun beams creeping on the side was now gauging his eyes out. If only he could find the thing, and pinpoint it...

The man in the front seat attempted to lie his seat down on his lap.

Nope, nope, no… Sorry, sir! Can you please not lie it back?

He pointed at the small gap between his knee and the man’s seat. The man turned his head, checked him and the situation.

Because, you see, there isn’t enough space between our seats. 

The man said he was tired.

I understand, I really do. But I’m tired as well.

The man said he was coming from Ankara, and has been on the busses for almost a full day.

You can go to another seat, and lie down there… Please?

The man huffed, puffed, and then jumped to the double seat nearby. He was around two decades older than Celil. His body, on the other hand, was in a better shape. Probably a high-rank soldier, he thought.

Why else would anyone come from Ankara?

That was the question.

...

His grandfather gave him a big hug when he announced the end of his two-year de facto unemployed state: He said he knew that his son, his lion, would be something, eventually!

Grandpa, I am something since I was 20…

The grandfather nodded.

For almost ten years…

A nod.

Well, I was unemployed only for two years…

A nod.

You know there is an economic crisis, and…

A nod.

Everybody’s unemployed.

The grandfather kept nodding as he was waiting his lion's monologue to be over, so that he could give his attention back to the TV.

His mother was lying on the sofa next to the grandfather.

Celil sat down on the wooden armchair on the other side of the living-room, and tried to soothe himself with the beans his grandmother cooked. 

Beans could help one get through a lot: He knew that.

A while later, the TV caught his attention too: An Indiana Jones movie was on air. He never watched one of those before, and he couldn’t watch it now either: The TV was at his 2 o’clock, facing his mother lying on the sofa. Celil had a glimpse of a scene which got him thinking:

Was that the Galata Tower?

An oddity.

I thought I saw the Galata Tower.

The grandfather grinned: "Galata? GALATA? Give me a break! No, it’s Siberia! No, no; the North Pole!"

Celil blushed, but kept his smile. What was so funny about it, he didn’t understand; aren't people shooting movies in Istanbul? He wasn’t watching it anymore. He gave all his attention back to the beans in front of him.

“Did you like it, son?” His grandmother was out of the kitchen, and was at his 1 o’clock at the entrance of the living room.

I loved it!

She offered to serve him some more if he liked.

No, thanks.

But, then again...

I mean, I liked it, but that's enough.

He took his empty plate back to the kitchen, and grabbed an apple on his way back to the living room. His grandfather stared at it for some time.

He asked whether it was an apple in his hand.

Yes.

But, then again...

Ah! You mean this? No, no; see, it’s a watermelon!

A surprise.

Yes, grandpa; a watermelon!

It was his turn to laugh. His grandfather didn't smile. His mother interrupted: “Celil!”

Her demerit was a perfect fortissimo.

What? We’re just joking. Aren't we?

Silence.

...

This wasn’t the house he was born into. They bought it when he was nine. He remembered it right because he was circumcised that year. 

He remembered waiting in line like a chicken in a slaughterhouse. And the boys in the front line were crying. He remembered sitting on a chair with his pants down for quite some time. And his crotch was getting cold. He remembered knowing that it wasn’t supposed to hurt. And it was all he knew. He remembered someone profusely spraying coolant on his thing. And his crotch was now even colder. He remembered someone drilling the skin of his thing with a giant needle. And now it was totally numb.

He didn't remember his skin getting cut off as he never looked at it. But he felt the warmth of his blood spilling onto the parts of his clutch that weren't numb. He remembered his mother and her mother being there, smiling while taking a photo of him. But he looked quite pale and anxious in the photo.

He remembered watching the ceiling for half an hour as they needled the skin of his thing to the flesh of his thing. He remembered not feeling anything but the strange tickling coming with every stitch.

He remembered taking three painkillers a day. But he was still getting a fever from the pain the following nights. He remembered the first time he looked at his thing as he was peeing, and he remembered it wasn’t the first or the second day after the operation. He remembered holding whatever he wore away from his wound for a whole week if he had to walk.

He remembered lying on a bed forty days later. An imam was singing some hymns. They hadn't moved into this house by the central road when the ceremony took place; it was the house in the block. Neighbors and family friends were visiting him there, bringing presents. He didn't remember any of them except for a set of English-learning tapes and books. That was the only present he could keep after the ceremony. His family had seen no value in them. They needed money to buy the new house.

After they moved to the new house, he remembered the need to make sure that his mother remembered what he remembered as well:

I helped you buy this house. This is my house as well!

He remembered his mother pointing at the steel entrance door where his rucksack now stood by: “See this door? This is yours. That's how much you helped.”

...

He grabbed his rucksack next to the door of his own, and carried it up the stairs into the bedroom. He emptied it as he threw his clothes on the bed.

Shit!

He forgot to ask his mother for the car. He went downstairs again.

I want to have a camping trip before the job starts.

A frown.

Can I take the car for a few days?

A rejection.

Why not?

A poor excuse.

So you won’t give me the car?

An approval.

Good. Shove it up your ass, then!

An oddity.

Stupid cunt!

He yelled as he moved towards his entrance door.

Go get married, and play hard to get with your husband, not with me!

He kept yelling as he climbed the stairs up to the bedroom. He kept yelling as he folded and stuffed his clothes back into his rucksack.

The fuck do you want from me?

A t-shirt.

I am tired!

A t-shirt.

Don’t you see? I am sick!

A t-shirt

And tired!

His outcries winded downstairs. He could imagine all three of them standing up, circumambulating the wood burning heating stove in the center. The TV had fallen from grace, leaving the center of the stage to what should have occupied it in the first place: the stove.

Why? Why do you keep doing it? Why?

A sound. The grandfather was walking upstairs.

Despite being over seventy; this man in his faded grey, cheap old pajamas stood pretty stiff. Having the largest feet and the slippers, his decisive steps echoed in the hollow stairways. He was bulky, but not overweight, and had the figure of a handsome man with green eyes and dark skin stretching over his ever expanding face as years went by.

He asked him why he was yelling.

I am having a breakdown, grandpa.

The same question.

I am distressed. Depressed. Can’t I have a breakdown? Do I always have to put on a smiley face?

He recommended him to go see a psychologist instead of yelling, and kept questioning the reason why he was having a breakdown while he was in the middle of one.

Oh, I’ve seen some psychologists. Am I the only one that needs it in this family?

An approval.

Celil knew where it was going: It was moving on the same track as usual, and this was normally where Celil had to step back; but this time he was wondering what the next station looked like.

So, you are the normal one?

An approval.

Can’t I be distressed? Can’t I go angry? Can’t I have a breakdown? Am I not allowed?

He knew what he needed right now: A hug, or at least a pound on his shoulder. The grandfather, on the other hand, was a man of priorities, not of surprises: "If you’re gonna act like this, get the fuck out."

OK. I’m leaving anyways.

A patriarch, not a Christ: "You sure are, get the fuck out my house."

Oh, it’s your house?

An approval.

His mother came to find them eye to eye in a dangerously close distance. She seemed bothered by the potentials this proximity carried: “Father, OK, please calm down.”

He was already calm: "What do you mean calm down, girl? He is acting like a punk!"

Oh, am I a punk now?

An approval.

I am not a punk, and that’s the problem. You need a punk for a grandson, not me!

Silence.

You deserve someone to beat you up and steal your money! I’m not your cup of tea.

A question: "Do you want me to get my gun and shoot you?"

Oh, you think you’re the only one with a handgun?

A disapproval.

I guess acorn doesn’t fall far. I am your grandson after all.

A denial.

So, you never crushed that thick glass ashtray right on my grandmother’s face?

Silence. An accusation of lunacy. And then denouncements and disownments. Celil had to filter them out to keep packing up. The grandfather left the room only to come back almost a minute later: "Look son. I’ll tell you something."

You disowned me; why should I listen to you?

...

Now the weather was cold. He sat on a bench by the terminal, and put his rucksack next to him. He had six more hours to go as he’d calculated.

He felt home on the street. The whole logic ticks in his mind like a clockwork: It was all clear now: He was sacrificed to the gods of sanity. That was for the greater good. Everybody would approve it: Indiana Jones, the man from Ankara, his ex boss, the Presidency xx…

Who was his mother to disagree?

She stood there silently with a blank stare on the large, red carpet. After the man who actually had a handgun somewhere in his house left the room for the last time, she was alone with her son.

Mom.

She wasn’t quite conscious.

Mom!

She was startled.

Give me some money, will you?

She trembled towards her room, and came back with a hundred liras: “Is this enough?”

Enough for what? For the week? For the month? For the rest of his life?

Yeah, yeah, sure. That’s enough. Thanks.

There was nothing new around the stove. No hugs, no kisses, no propitiation, and no second coming: Everybody was coming clean, and he was leaving home with his rucksack full of clothes, a hundred liras and the thing that sours everything in the end.