I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about digital music, South Asia and my dad. Well, at least since I’ve been locked in this closet.
The maintenance closet itself isn’t particularly important, but I suppose there’s something to be said for setting. So, yes, here I am. I’m stuck in a closet at school. And I think God put me here.
The real problem started earlier this morning, and while I share some of the blame, a certain degree of fault can be attributed to my dad. For weeks now I’ve been asking my parents for an iPod. They might describe it as “badgering.” I call it requesting. Not that it matters. They weren’t listening.
So last night after dinner, I gave them a short PowerPoint presentation. Yes, I did that. I’m not proud.
It was actually professional and well-thought-out. I used a white background with a small Apple logo in the middle above three main bullet points. My father took notes.
First, I spoke of the burden of teen angst. While many of my peers tend to cope in more unseemly ways, my share of the angst could be lessened with a simple $250 purchase. I saw Dad jot down the price.
Next came the statistics. Roughly 47 percent of my classmates already possess some type of digital music player. I passed around a few pictures I had taken of students around school wearing headphones. They all looked happy. Before continuing, I mentioned that even Holly Vanderbeek owned one. This was out of bounds, and I knew it. Mr. Vanderbeek works in the same office as Dad, and they have basically the same job. Translation: They make the same amount of money. If he could buy one for his daughter, then my parents could afford one for me.
I should have skipped that point. Dad didn’t write anything here.
Finally, I concluded with a rather impassioned speech about revolutions. “Every generation,” I said, “has its revolution. For some, the cause might be independence or civil rights. Ours is the digital music revolution. Do we want to look back, years from now, and realize we let it pass us by? Would I be forced to tell my own children someday that I didn’t participate in my generation’s revolution?”
I said all this with a straight face.
As I took my seat, my mother asked if I was finally finished and then retreated to the kitchen. Dad just nodded and continued writing iPod-related notes on his pad. I told him I would be happy with any version of the player, even one of the smaller ones. I also informed him that he should buy me one quickly because technology progresses so fast. I didn’t want his purchase to become obsolete before I even took it out of the box. He wrote that down, too.
ANYWAY . . .
This morning Dad woke me up early. He shook me and said things like, “Come on. Get up. Don’t let the revolution pass you by.”
I rolled over and said, “iPod?”
Then he responded, and I quote, “Well, i-something or other.”
I dressed for school without realizing I was up an hour and a half earlier than usual and sprinted down the stairs. I could have been injured.
What was the surprise, you may be wondering? IHOP. That’s what it was.
“I thought about your request,” Dad said. “And I’ve decided to meet you halfway.”
Yes, that’s right. He took me to breakfast at the International House of Pancakes. “An early morning hangout with Dad,” he called it. My father thinks he’s funny.
If you must know—yes, breakfast was very good. Who doesn’t like pancakes? But I maintained a fairly sour expression on my face through the entire meal. I’m supposed to be angst-ridden.
In furtherance of my pain, and because my dad had to get to work, I was dropped off at school an hour and 10 minutes early. He told me that he loved me and then drove on after giving me a high five.
An Ally?
No one gets to school this early. Mr. Averdesian, the janitor, was there and maybe a few teachers. I sat down on the front steps and, for lack of a better word, pouted. When I want to, I can appear fairly downtrodden and put-upon, even when no one’s watching.
Before long, Mr. Averdesian walked outside with his broom and sat down beside me. In his thick South Asian accent, he asked why I looked so upset. Most everyone likes Mr. Averdesian, but most everyone also makes fun of his accent after he walks off down the hallway. They refer to him as Apu—you know, the owner of the Kwik-E-Mart on “The Simpsons.” I’ve never cared for that much. The man’s 50-something years old, and he spends his days cleaning up after us. He shouldn’t have to be the butt of our jokes.
I told him my side of the story. I spoke of my need for an iPod and of the digital music revolution in general. He kept nodding, so I thought he was following me, that I had finally gained an ally. Then I informed him of Dad’s iHOP “joke.” Mr. Averdesian laughed for what seemed like a very long time. When he stopped, he told me he wasn’t sure why they called it an international pancake house. He’d never seen one in his home country. He also said that my father sounded like a good man. Then he walked away whistling.
It was his whistling that got me. At first I was angry with him, of course. He clearly took my dad’s side. Maybe humor is a generational thing. But then I thought about his home. I’ve never claimed to follow the news, but my history teacher pointed out the other day that Mr. Averdesian is from Kashmir. At first, I thought he was talking about a type of sweater. Turns out it’s a region on the border of Pakistan and India and that one of the worst earthquakes ever pretty much destroyed the whole place a few years ago. About 80,000 people died, and 3 million were left homeless.
Mr. Averdesian probably knew some of those people. Maybe he had family over there.
And he’s walking around whistling.
The Closet
But that’s not why I’m trapped in a closet. I’m in here because of Holly Vanderbeek. As Mr. Averdesian walked off, he left his broom. And Holly Vanderbeek’s car pulled up to the curb. I could see her, with her iPod, through the window of her father’s SUV.
Have you ever been in one of those situations where people are arguing in front of you and you’re just sitting there trying to act like you’re not listening to them because you’re so preoccupied with something else, but, of course, you’re not? Well, Holly was yelling something unpleasant at her dad as she slammed the car door, and he was yelling something unpleasant back at her. So I pretended to be looking at a bush. Yes, that’s right, Holly. I got to school early this morning so I could examine this shrubbery.
“Hey, isn’t that Apu’s broom?” she said as she put on her headphones.
“Oh, yeah,” I responded, relieved to have something better to pretend to do than bush-watching, “I’m bringing it back to Mr. Averdesian. That’s what I’m doing.”
I don’t think she heard me, but I picked it up and headed toward the maintenance closet. And, yes, the door closed behind me, and I’ve been trapped in here for a while.
I still maintain that God put me in here. I guess I needed to ponder the relative importance of things. So I’ve been thinking about Mr. Averdesian, who whistles while he picks up our trash, and about how I’ve been fuming about being taken out for pancakes. And I’ve been wondering why he seems to be more grateful for his lot in life than I am with mine.
And then I thought about the 3 million people in his country who lost their homes and whether or not they survived when the Himalayan winter set in.
Mostly, I’ve been thinking about Dad and how we don’t spend our mornings yelling at each other and how he woke up early today to take me out for breakfast.
And, yes, I’d like to give him a call to say thanks. And I’d also like to ask him to come help me out of this closet.
But I don’t own a cell phone. Maybe I should ask him for one of those. 
