5. THE GREEN ONION

ALI was at a loss, arriving in Utica.

Though he was 39, he had never lived on his own. “I didn’t have that much experience,” he said. He had never done laundry. Or cleaned. “My mom and my sisters didn’t allow it.”

He did not enjoy the whiff of freedom.

His mother ran a lively household, with extended family and friends dropping by. Suddenly, he was in a small efficiency apartment in North Utica, which his friend Einas, also an interpreter, had found. She had encouraged him to move to Utica; she said she would help him find work.

He was grateful: She stocked the furnished studio with toothbrushes and soap, and pots and pans from the Family Dollar store. But the place was forlorn: a kitchen table and a bed.

Einas put him in touch with the refugee center, which housed a translation service that needed interpreters. While there, he started chatting with a Middle Eastern refugee, who was very friendly. Hearing that Ali had recently arrived, the man mentioned a nearby pub, the Green Onion. “He said it’s a small bar, very nice,” Ali said. “He knows people there.”

Ali does not drink—and rarely goes to bars. But he had been in Utica a couple of weeks without meeting anyone, and he was lonely.

He has a protocol when in a pub: “I order a juice,” he said, “so I don’t make people nervous.”

That evening, Heidi—a small, sturdily built woman with blue eyes—was sitting alone in a booth at the Green Onion, feeling as if she was unraveling. She was in the process of leaving her husband of 20 years, the father of her three children.

“This is not something women do every day,” she said, wryly. “It’s usually something the man does.”

She was the one moving out. Her kids—two teenage boys and a 10-year-old girl—whom she loved, would remain with their dad. She would see them every day, going back to help with homework and to cook dinner. She knew there were good reasons for her decision to leave.

But that evening, she sat there, worrying: Was she an evil person?

And what was she even doing in a bar?

“For months, I’d been acting like a fool,” she said, as she coped with the trauma of leaving and with feelings of shame.

But that evening, Heidi—who works in the claims department of a large pharmacy—decided to grab another beer and try to shake these thoughts.

Approaching the bar, she saw a tall man walk in. He had dark eyes and thick eyebrows—and wore a skull cap over his bald head.

He looked lost.

Heidi, 41, decided to somehow engage. She was on home turf: She had known the owners for years, college friends who had wanted to open a neighborhood bar. The man with the thick eyebrows was from somewhere else.

Out of her mouth sprang an odd question: “Do you want to arm wrestle?”

Ali’s face lit up.

Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Come on,” and led him back to her booth. Rolling up her sleeve, she bent her arm, held out her hand, and waited.

Ali stared at her. Then, grinning, he rolled up his sleeve, grabbed her hand, and clenched it in a tight grip.

She felt a jolt of clarity.

Then came a rush of adrenaline. For a moment, Heidi—who is strong—held her own against Ali, who is powerfully built.

But then he brought her arm down gently. On his forearm, she noticed a tattoo with Arabic writing. Their hands still connected across the table, she asked him what it said.

“ ‘God is great.’ ”

Tears welled in Heidi’s eyes. “Yes,” she said.

The next day, Ali stood at an ATM in a panic. The machine had rejected his credit card.

He had not realized it had expired. It was Saturday, and the bank was closed. But his rent was due.

It hit him: He was a newcomer in a city where he knew no one except for Einas. And he would never ask her for help. She had a husband and kids, and was not well off.

Yet, he would not have asked even a close friend for a favor. “I would lend money to someone,” he said. “But for me to take money would not be acceptable.”

Later that day—out of the blue—he got a text from Heidi: How are you doing?

He quickly texted her what had happened.

She wrote back, Don’t worry!

“That day, she paid my rent—$650,” Ali said, shaking his head. “Of course, I paid it back right away. But I was shocked.”

“Why was she doing this? In Iraq if you need anything—if you are hungry—people will help. You don’t have to return anything. But here?”

“I was a stranger,” he added, marveling. “What made her think I’d give it back?”