15
“THAT WAS SO WRONG, WHAT YOU JUST SAID, DAD,” Harrison shouted as they got into the van, the cold air almost instantly freezing his moussed hair. “You have no idea.”
“Pah. Tsarles no understand Greek, Haralambos.” Mr. Michaels shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat.
“He didn’t have to! You were obvious, Dad. You hurt his feelings.”
“Tsarles is good boy,” Mr. Michaels said. “Clean.
Respect the grown-ups. If I make him feel bad, I sorry.”
“Okay, thanks,” Harrison said. “I’ll tell him.”
“But he is not good friend for you. What you did? This bad thing. Look at you. A boy—with makeup!”
“Dad, it’s a play. Theater. You wear makeup and do your hair in the theater. The Greeks invented theater.”
“The Greeks don’t do like this, the boys with the boys!” Mr. Michaels said, pounding the steering wheel.
“Depends which history you read,” Harrison replied.
“Haralambos!”
This conversation was veering into a place Harrison hated to go. A place he had always avoided. His dad’s comments—the sexist and homophobic remarks, the winks and nudges, the snarky comments in Greek—it was like something from a parallel reality. Something you always explained away. Dad was Dad, he didn’t mean it, it was cultural, it was just joking, blah blah blah.
Except when it wasn’t.
“What Brianna thinking?” Mr. Michaels said, turning left onto the highway. “She nice girl. Beautiful. She looking at you and maybe she think you are . . . different.”
“Different?”
“You know. Like Tsarles.”
“You mean, funny, talented, smart, and loyal?” Harrison asked. “You mean, like a really good friend?”
“The girls, Haralambos, they like the real man. Not like the boys in the musiki. Talking about the makeup and the yeetee yeetee yeetee,” Mr. Michaels said, raising his voice to a comical high pitch.
Harrison groaned. “Oh God, Dad. I don’t know where to begin . . . ”
“You, me—we Greeks. We like a little ooh-la-la! So many beautiful girls in you high school. They growing up. They ladies.”
“With nice legs.”
“Ooh-la-la.”
“And the two big round bezia.”
“Ho! Etsi bravo!”
Mr. Michaels laughed. He pulled into the Kostas Korner lot and parked near the kitchen entrance. Looking greatly relieved, he turned and gave Harrison a friendly punch in the arm. “Atta boy.”
Harrison sighed and sat back deeply. His father hadn’t caught the sarcasm at all.
Tuesday, January 22, 19:27:09
armchair_holiness: he didn’t mean it, charles, he really likes you
SCOPASCETIC: malaka is not a nice word, harrison. i looked it up on google
armchair_holiness: he calls EVERYONE malaka
armchair_holiness: including guillermo . . .
armchair_holiness: the guy who supplies fish . . .
armchair_holiness: his own bro, my uncle elias (stavros’s dad) . . .
SCOPASCETIC: he calls his brother a faggot? it means faggot.
armchair_holiness: it’s just a word. he’s old school. they’re all into politics and sports. everything else is name-calling.
armchair_holiness: hair and makeup are not on the radar screen. kinda freaks him out.
armchair_holiness: he always puts his foot in his mouth, he feels bad about it
SCOPASCETIC: sure was pleasant for me too
SCOPASCETIC: gtg, Harrison. one question—“armchair holiness”? what the? i never asked.
armchair_holiness: anagram for harrison michaels.
SCOPASCETIC: ah. well, thank you for the lesson in greek etiquette, now i gotta get my 8 hours
SCOPASCETIC: so I can sack troy
armchair_holiness: kill a running boar with your bare hands like a real man heh heh
SCOPASCETIC: :: spits, adjusts his jockstrap ::
SCOPASCETIC: toodles
SCOPASCETIC: i mean, later dude.
SCOPASCETIC has signed off.