Knights of Columbus

Abstract

Knights of Columbus Ben Peled (bio) AJ was tall and thin—starlit cazh—a rubber band a-jangle. Sergei at his side with his hair frizzed out: a rubber band sprung. It was April 1994, cool with early hints of spring, ten to midnight. On the other side of the glass, it was dark. Sergei shifted side to side: "You sure about this? We don't even know if they're home. I mean . . . I mean even if they are, they'll be pissed." "They said we could come whenever." Sergei put the borscht on, thick: "In US of A, you tell to friends . . . come whenever. In Soviet Russia . . . they come for you . . . whenever . . ." Another minute and through the glass a light came on. In boxers and a white undershirt, Surendra appeared at the top of the stairs, tentatively picking his way down one step at a time: "What's this?" he said, opening the door. "What's this, what's this?" "Surendra!" said A.J. Sergei couldn't parse the rest but he knew from tone. A.J.'s Hindi was butter. Surendra blinked himself into a Hindi that was . . . volcanic. A.J. drew back. "I told you," Sergei muttered. "I told you he'd be pissed." Switching to English, Surendra shook a fist in the air. "You prince, you prince, you little prince! You know what time it is?" A.J. flinched—the laughter bubbled out of him. "My man, tell him," he said, advancing Sergei by the arm. "He doesn't believe me." Sergei could scarce believe it himself. "We were at a show, like a concert. Rock bands. We met some girls . . ." "Hottentots!" A.J. shouted over his shoulder. "The real deal." "Hottentots, Hottentots, sure," Surendra groused—only to falter . . . A blue hatchback cut the corner, pulled into the empty space next to A.J.'s truck. Sergei was getting nervous. They'd managed to attract girls . . . like, real, live girls . . . to come away with them. They were bringing them back to—what? Surendra and his roommate, Abhishek, waited tables at Bombay Palace in the Castleton mall. A.J. worked there part-time himself, busing tables for five an hour, money he'd used to buy the old Dodge truck. Once, maybe twice a week, he and Sergei would cut school, swing by for lunch, Surendra comping them samosas, sodas, joining them at the table if the place was empty. At that hour it was always empty. Surendra liked the company. He liked to talk. [End Page 158] One time, memorably, he'd taken off his black loafers, slamming them down on the table. "What's this, what's this? Look, look, see? These, these—holes?" And A.J., pointing across the way: "Surendra, my man. The mall is right there. Get some new shoes." "New shoes? New shoes?! Abhishek, Abhishek, you hear the little prince? New shoes. With what Jagdish pays. Sub-minimum wage, sub-minimum, understand? And these tippers, these tippers, these . . . itsy-shitsy tippers. But oh! oh! oh! The little prince says, Get new shoes! Well! I'll just go then! With what I just spent on a new coat. A winter coat, man!—and my balls still frozen, still frozen, still!" Said A.J., "We're talking about shoes. Surendra! You can get a decent pair for like . . . forty bucks!" "Oh oh oh, Abhishek, Abhishek, you hear?" Abhishek with the moustache and mullet stood by the door, poised to receive customers should they materialize. He shrugged and sighed: "Ah-chaaa." "Forty bucks! Fort-y doll-ars! But you're a real NRI, aren't you, aren't you now? A real NRI prince." NRI—Sergei was lost. A.J. had to break it down: "Non-resident Indian. Like, an Indian who left India." "But," said Sergei, "aren't you all?" "There are NRIs," Surendra thundered, "and NRIs. Look at him, look, look. With his shoes and clothes. His car." "The car's a piece of shit!" And Sergei: "In America . . . car is piece of shit . . . but in Soviet Russia . . . piece of shit is car." Surendra ignored them both: once hot on the topic—the many gifts and easements rendered unto...