Ethnic Profiling
After a hot summer night celebrating the end of summer school finals with two-dollar pitchers, stale popcorn and grab ass with Vicky the waitress at Gatsby’s, we stumble half-cocked into Ahmed’s Fantastic Falafel Factory at the end of the strip for a late night rendezvous with three falafels for five bucks.
Tom hasn’t said much since Vicky shot him down and would rather be eating a nuked burrito at the 7-11 next door then expanding his culinary horizons. He looks up from our table bleary-eyed and still seething from Vicky’s snub when two Middle Eastern-looking students walk in and chat up the girl working behind the counter.
“Fuck Iran,” Tom mumbles.
Chester, who knows Tom better than I do, giggles. The two students pay no attention to us and after they place their order, grab a table near the counter and pull out books from book bags.
“Knock it off, you guys,” I say, hurrying to finish my falafel stuffed in pita bread, just in case.
Tom, on the other hand, is intent on making a scene. “Fuck Iran.” This time he says it louder, just an octave above an order sizzling on the grill and the late night DJ banter from WTAO. He spits out a mouthful of falafel in a napkin.
This time the students can hear Tom, but engage in whatever study chatter needs to be exchanged to ignore Tom.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Chester says wiping a dab of hot sauce off the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go to 7-11 and get a burrito.”
Tom and Chester are the first ones to stumble out the door.
When I pass the table where the two students are studying, one of them looks up and says, “We’re not from Iran.”
I know that but try telling that to Tom who just got snubbed by Vicky and whose propensity for anything Middle Eastern is commensurate with how pissed off he is after watching Ted Koppel’s hostage update on Nightline.