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The Oasis was a party store owned by Assad, a second-generation American citizen of Arabian descent. He inherited the store from his father, who bought it in the seventies.
Assad was a short, balding, overweight, middle-aged man, who wore thick gold chains, and a Hawaiian-styled shirt.
Mark thought Assad resembled a modern-day version of a disco-dancing pimp. A real throwback from the ’70s, but for some reason, Assad could pull it off.
The Oasis was a party store that primarily sold liquor, but over the years, Assad had built it up to a first-class establishment.
It was a commercial building in a residential neighborhood and within a subdivision, but it was legal then, so his store was grandfathered in.
Assad would not be permitted to rebuild his store at another location or expand at his current one. But it could remain where it was, and the white community could do nothing about it.
Assad expanded the inside by adding extra freezers in the back, pizza ovens in the front, and remodeling the deli counter. He added Frozen Slurpee’s in addition to the flavored coffee machines and soda fountains, Lottery Tickets, and the newest edition was hand-dipped ice cream.
But a party story in an upscale sub-division was considered as tacky as it was convenient, no matter how first-rate.
Some believed a commercial building had no business in a predominately white residential neighborhood, and neither did an Arab like Assad. Just because he had money didn’t mean he would be accepted. Being non-white was the second strike against him.
Some regarded Assad no better than a low-life pimp who could afford to golf at the most expensive resorts in the World, with every member avoiding him like the plague because his money was just as illegitimate as he was.
The white community surrounding Assad was always overly polite to his face. But they all went to his store because it was very covenant, unlike the nearest supermarket that was easily fifteen miles away.
Assad knew he would never be accepted as one of “them,” the white establishment, and he knew they made fun of him behind his back—just another undesirable with money. But if a racist bought goods from his store, that was the highest compliment they could pay them.
The other members of the subdivision asked John if there was anything that could be done about the store. After all, he was an attorney; couldn’t he fix this?
John, who was a member, could do nothing to overturn federal law, but being a big-shot attorney downtown who had political connections, this still made him look bad.
So, the same people who went to Assad’s store spent money, shook hands, and were all smiles to his face -were the same ones who tried to change the zoning laws to have Assad ousted behind his back.
Mark’s father wouldn’t even go to his store, and he didn’t want Mark hanging around there, except that Assad gave him a job one summer.
He liked the fact that his son was willing to work. He used to work summers, so he thought it would be a good experience.
But Michigan was not California. It might have been known as a blue state, but not for its liberal views. Despite the inner city, the state still had a no-nonsense, work-hard, play-hard class mentality.
Arabic business owners were exempt from paying taxes (unlike every other hard-working, natural-born citizen) since the Jimmy Carter Administration secretly made them exempt from business taxes for seven years.
But worse than that, he could legally pass it on to a blood relative after seven years, which extended this loophole forever. The zoning changed soon after Assad’s father had bought the store.
Also, the first-generation Arabic culture was alien to America, and they were not the most friendly or hospitable. They were very guarded and suspicious -not the ideal trait(s) when dealing with the Public.
Yet despite all the racism, cultural differences, and language barriers, Dearborn, Michigan had acquired the second largest concentration of Arabs in the World, second only to the actual Middle Eastern countries they were native to, like Iran, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and even Pakistan.
But Assad tried very hard to be likable -unlike his father, Saeed. Assad was good at remembering names; if it were your birthday, he would give you a pack of cigarettes or a six-pack in the house.
Servicemen always got discounts, and he even refused to take their money if they were in uniform. Assad had a real knack for making people like him when he wanted to. He helped the elderly by carrying the heavier groceries to their cars.
Assad didn’t care anymore for Mark’s father, John. Then John cared for him. But he loved Mark. And Mark thought Assad was cool as ice, and God only knows why, but the two of them became the best of friends, despite their age, race, culture, and background.
For one thing, no matter how old Mark was, Assad never treated him like a child. Assad always treated Mark like he was more mature than his actual age.
For example, Assad would openly curse in front of Mark while they were watching wrestling or a baseball game on TV, and he would also explain the finer points of the game to Mark so he would understand what was going on. Assad even promised today him to the season’s opener at Commercial Park -if his dad would let him.
As Mark got older, Assad would tell him dirty jokes, make fun of the obnoxious white customers, and even let Mark flip thru all the girlie magazines he sold on the rack. He even gave Mark one of his illegal Cuban cigars, and they both smoked together in the back.
But the absolute best was when Mark spotted Assad and four of his identical-looking brothers-in-law, drunk off their asses, celebrating a wedding. They were loading four kegs of beer into the back of their expensive SUV.
While riding his bike on his way home from a softball game, they were also passing around a fifth of Jack Daniels and speaking to Mark what sounded like gibberish behind the dumpster as he approached.
Mark surprised them all by suddenly popping out from the other side. When they saw him, everybody froze except Assad, who was not facing him. When Assad turned to see who it was, Mark looked at his identical relatives (with a confused look) and yelled, “Assad where did you go?!”
Assad instantly translated what Mark said into Arabic, and everybody laughed hysterically.
Mark thought Assad had translated what he had said directly into Arabic, but Assad had given his own interpretation, and it was more like, “Oh yea, this is the son of that Asshole I was telling you about.” Then he handed Mark the bottle and put his arm around him.
Everyone was drunk off their asses, and Mark even had to help Assad keep his balance as everyone came up to kiss Mark on the cheek, which is how the family greeted each other in their culture.
The group introduced themselves in Arabic, while Assad roughly translated what for them. Assad had made Mark feel like family. Never had Mark felt so adult in his entire life -all thirteen years of it! After that, at least in Mark’s eyes, Assad could do no wrong.
Mark even helped them load the two remaining kegs into each of their new SUVs, and Assad invited Mark to come with them to the reception. Mark said he was coming home late from a game, and he only stopped to check on the store because he thought someone might be breaking into the back. Besides, he was probably in trouble as it was, and if his dad caught him coming in any later, he’d get a beating.
“Fifteen minutes?” Assad said.
“I can’t,” Mark replied.
“I’ll let you drive,” Assad shrugged.
Assad was so drunk that Mark had to drive for him. He loved that SUV, and when Assad threw him the keys, that was all the coaxing Mark needed to hear.
He put his bike in the back of Assad’s SUV and jumped in the driver’s seat, and once inside, he slowly followed the other two Mercedes SUVs in front of him.
Assad was impressed at what a good driver Mark was. And he told him it was because his parents had a cabin up-north with a four-wheel jeep and that his dad let him drive in a circle around their property.
Once they were at the hall where the reception was being held, Mark followed Assad to his table; then, he was introduced to the bride and groom, which was a huge honor, and they made their way to the buffet line.
They ate together, and Mark was even served wine. Assad was filling Mark in on the back road of some of the more important people at the wedding.
After he ate, the band began to play, and Mark had drunk enough to walk to the center of the floor and dance with two beautiful Mediterranean girls several years older than himself. They were already on the dance floor, but that did stop him from getting in between them.
Well before long, fifteen minutes turned into two hours, and it was way past midnight, Assad and his crew played cards in the back, and Mark sobered up enough to hug Assad from behind and told him he had to get home.
Assad looked at the clock and told him to stay and play poker with them since he was already in trouble.
Assad said he would stake him and handed Mark a fist full of hundred-dollar bills. Mark had never seen so much money on one table in his life.
But Mark refused, shaking his head, “Obviously, you forgot about our gun trigger city prosecutor with a bad temper who would love to beat my underage ass for coming home drunk and embarrassing him publicly.
“Okay,” Assad agreed, “I’ll drive you home.”
But when he tried to get up, he stumbled; unlike Mark, Assad had never stopped drinking.
“Assad, your drunker than I am,” Mark said. “You can’t drive. You shouldn’t even be walking.”
Assad nodded his head like, you know you might have something there. Most times, Mark acted more responsibly than he did.
“The car’s open,” Assad said.
Mark kissed Assad (on the cheek) and said, “Hey, thank these guys for me. You throw a great party.”
Assad laughed, waved him off, and spoke Arabic; everybody at the table cheered and waved goodbye as Mark left.
When Mark got home that night, he snuck upstairs by climbing up to his second-story bedroom from the outside without waking his parents, which was a miracle considering he even stumbled and fell loudly on his way to his bed. He didn’t wake up until almost noon the following day.
It was no secret that Assad sold some of the best all-natural hand-dipped ice creams in the county. So, Mark had taken Jeanie to the right place.79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPtqIpE48bg
