Jejobar Luzviminda

I can never go around making friends with the neighbores, I mean neighbors, because I need my space. I run into them all the time, and to keep up with the customary small talk is a relentless burden. I can't deal with it. I just want to live in a state of blissful unawareness. But, you know how the neighbors never leave you alone, and it causes many problems. The day we moved into the house, the doorbell rang while my wife was still unpacking boxes in the bedroom. I came down to the foyer and saw the big white mess the movers left on the doormat. I shouted to my wife:

"There is white trash at the door!" And flung it open. Standing outside, in a state of shock, was a White couple, seemingly here to welcome us into the 'hood.

"Get rid of it!" my wife shouted back. They ran away, before I could grab the apple pie from their hands.

Later on, the guy who lives right next door hollered just as I stepped out of the house.

"Hey! Check it out. The Sun is shining today."

Save me, Jesus! "Sure, it is. "

"You think it will shine again tomorrow?"

"Sure … well, nice talking to you. I got to run …"

"Don't forget, tomorrow is the trash day."

"Oh yes! Well, I'll be seeing you … "

"When tomorrow is the trash day, you have to put out the trash cans tonight. You remember that, don't you? It is tricky, man."

"Right. I think I figured that one out." Like, the day after my birth.

"What do you say - nine tonight? "

"Eh?"

"Putting out the trash, duh!" He shook his head and rolled his eyes: "I saw you last week: putting it out all alone. I'm saying - to myself - Guilty me! I put out my stuff too early or I could give the fella some company. Then, I got thinking - to myself – we fellas gotta stick together when it comes to trash. We gotta sync-up so the womenfolk know we are having fun! I figured out - to myself – why not nine every Wednesday night, eh? Right between dinner and bedtime. We all need the exercise. Good time for you?"

"Uh … ok. Whatever."

"Right on. I will set up a recurring Evite and send it out to the Hillcrest group."

"Hillcrest group?"

"Yeah, that is our Yahoo page. Don't tell me you are not subscribed."

Great! (a) I just made a putting-out-the-garbage date with the Mr. Junk Foreman here, and (b) our tiny little street has its own Yahoo group. Why do I even endure this shit? Just because we are living on the same lane doesn't mean we got to know each other.

Then, there is Judge Judy, in the house opposite, who stares at me with unblinking recrimination. She thinks I'm trying to poison her creepy cat Frizzit, who likes nothing better than to litter on my porch. Judy got this wild idea when she caught me feeding expired milk to the cat. Let me say in my defense that we buy our milk at Costco. There is only so much Costco milk a family can consume before the milk expires or the family dies on lactose overdose. But, I can't bring myself to throw away a full carton of milk - someone has to drink it (just not my family). That is why I feed it to the boneless wonder. After all, it is malnourished – I hear we dump our expired drugs into Mozambique to treat sick children. How can this be worse?

But, really, the story I am here to tell you is the enigmatic guy who moved into the vacant house next door a month after we moved in. I just came back from buying a laptop and a WiFi router eager to set it up and download pirated Indian movies from the web. Clutching the bag, I reached out to unlock the door when I heard this:

"Lovely day!"

Is someone talking to me? Ignore, ignore, just get inside! I unlocked the door.

"It is at least eighty degrees!"

I paused with my hand on the door knob. Still safe. Just need two more seconds.

"Must be a good time for shopping!"

Darn! I turned around, and forced a smile.

"Hi."

He looked like a slightly built Vietnamese.

"Hi, I am your new neighbor. You are Indian, great! I love Indian food."

"Really, yeah I like your food too. Pho is good."

He frowned. "Pho? You think I'm Vietnamese? I'm a Filipino! What's the matter, bro, you can't tell a Filipino from a Vietnamese?"

Hell. "Sorry, of course, you are Filipino. It is just the shadows, you know, …"

"So, you like Pho? You should try Pho King. You will like Pho King." He burst out laughing.

Boy, heard that one before. What are you? Fifteen?

"Right, well …"

"You know where to go if you made a serious mistake and you need a coffee to clear your head? The joint called Pho Cup!"

That is a new one. But, he laughed so hard he spoiled the pun.

"Well, it is nice …"

"I know what you are thinking - What The Pho, bro! Well, that is a nice place too. Hee hee ha ha ha!" He was screaming laughs now.

"I really got to go."

"Nice talking to you, bro. What is your name?"

Glad that he asked. There is one thing to be said about unpronounceable names. People think twice about approaching you again once they realize they have to master this unrepeatable word to keep up with the friendship. Ever notice John and Jenny have way too many friends while Phinnaeus and Guilluame are eating alone in Denny's? I keep different versions depending on how much I really want to hang out with the person. For the office guys, it is Bharad. For the drink buddies, it is Brad. For the rest,

"Bharadwaj."

Got the desired effect. He was startled.

"Eh? Got shorter version?"

"Nope. That is it, I'm afraid."

His face clouded. He was obviously ticked.

"Well, my name is Jejobar Luzviminda. Sorry, don't have a shorter version either."

Ha! The sword is double-edged. Even better for me! So long, bro. Maybe, in the next life, when you are Jim and I'm John, we will think about hanging out together. Adios.

So, imagine my surprise when a few days later, I was again entering the house when I heard this:

"How are you doing, Bha-rad-waj?"

The heckles on my neck stood up. I turned around. The Filipino stood there smiling with his arms crossed. I stammered something that I don't really recall. How does he still remember my name? I said it only once. No one here knows my name. I was still thinking about it when my wife and I were having dinner that night.

"Now, what do I do? All I recall about his name is that it sounds like Zanzibar Lascivious. That can't be right. It is a mystery how he remembered my name."

"Maybe he is good with Indian names," she said.

That is not possible. He had the same incomprehensible reaction everyone gives me when they hear my name the first time before they forever disappear from my life. I noticed the mail lying on the table. It suddenly came to me.

"I got it. He snooped!"

"What do you mean?"

"You know the mailboxes here don't have locks. He stole a letter addressed to me."

"Oh, come on!"

No, I'm right. There was no other way. Well, two can play this game. Better keep my plan to myself, if I want to finish this excellent dinner.

On the next Saturday, I watched him leave from my window. Then, the mailman came and stuffed his box with a pile of letters. This was it. The golden opportunity! No one was looking. Armed with a notepad, I pulled out the first letter I could reach from his mailbox. I jotted down the name. Jejobar Luzviminda! I got it, yeah!

"What in the world are you doing?" Judge Judy was right next to me, in her most chilling avatar.

"Oh hi!"

"Why are you stealing the Filipino's mail?"

"Really, oh. OH! I thought this is my mailbox."

"Don't fool me. I know you are the mail thief. I always knew it. Who else could it be?"

Unbeknownst to me, there was a kleptomaniac roaming in the neighborhood. This guy, for whatever reasons, only stole Bed Bath and Beyond coupons, so no one really bothered to complain, because, really, we were all sick of those coupons. Except Judge Judy here who started a one-person neighborhood watch just to catch him in the act so people can continue receiving that incessant stream of junk.

"Wait. Whoa! Hey. This is an honest mistake."

"We will see about it. You are not going anywhere until the cop shows up."

She called her cop friend who lives in the next street. He came over ambling and asked me a few questions. He went off to check on my background when the Filipino returned. Judy immediately pounced on him with a grossly exaggerated version. He was shocked.

"Why are you stealing my mail, bro?"

"Hey, I'm not stealing. I'm doing the same thing you did. Just snooping around to figure out your name."

The Filipino frowned. "I didn't snoop your mail, bro. Not cool."

"Well, then, how did you do it?"

"I'm not telling you."

I was burning with curiosity. The cop interrupted us.

"He is not your guy, ma'am."

Judy was livid. "Why not? I caught him red-handed. Listen, I'm a good witness. I won't turn hostile even though I realize my life is at stake. We will nail his ass to the wall."

The cop shook his head. "I think his story checks out. Look at the letter in his hands."

I held it up. It was a Fry's coupon. Not Bed Bath and Beyond.

"Doesn't fit the pattern," the cop said, and left me with a warning.

Judge Judy, obviously disappointed, muttered some curses under her breath and went back to her house, to her watch station behind the curtains. I caught the Filipino just before he stepped into his house.

"Jejobar, wait! How did you figure it out?"

He stopped at the doorway. "Well, if I tell you, will you hang out with me?"

"Well, I got to …"

"No one hangs out with me because of my name. Please. I just want to have a friend with whom I can have a drink. Just once a month."

"All right. Just tell me how you did it."

"802.11n."

"What?"

"The Wi-Fi network you installed last week. It is unsecure. Everyone here gets on to it. It is like the Community Center. I got that tip from the Hillcrest Yahoo group." He paused. "Bro, all the stuff you download from the net, you just can't put it in a folder called "Technical." You think your wife can't figure that out?"

Tips for the India Traveler

All right! You are going to India this summer. Fantastic! Well, I hope these tips will help you.

Luggage:

1. Buy your external clothes in India because those sorry American clothes won't survive the Indian Wash Cycle. Let me explain how this wash cycle works. The garment is soaked in a river for five hours during which the entire village gets a chance to pee over it, to lower its Ph value. Then, the junior dhobi (Hindi for washerman) batters it repeatedly against a slab of rock smashing all buttons to smithereens. The spiritless cloth is then petrified in a boiling starch solution until it turns stiff as a plank. It is hung dry in blistering sun, when the senior dhobi takes over ironing it with a portable blast furnace while simultaneously reading the day's newspaper till he smells burning. The garment is done. Now, it is ready to wear the man.
   
   
   
   
   
   

   Dhobis in action: Notice the dhobi on the left beating the red-colored garment to death.
   

2. On the contrary, never buy male underwear in India. In particular, avoid a brand called VIP Frenchie. It should really be renamed VIP Wedgie, but that won't do it describe it accurately either. It is a windowless elastic fabric that soon after wearing it begins to rapidly contract to zero volume. If the secret design motive is to cull population growth, as some conspiracy theorists believe, there is nothing more effective than this.
   
   

   

   
   VIP Frenchie: Seen here 30 seconds before contracting to zero volume.
   

Flight:

1. Don't forget ear plugs. When they serve the Asian food, plug your nostrils.
   

Indian Airport:

1. For returning Indian families, there is a sound-proof family room right next to the gate. Whisk your children there for the good thrashing they deserve for being such a pain in the ass in countries where you can't thrash them. For the Americans, try this out. Your kids will never touch drugs.
   
2. Remember, your luggage only goes around once on the conveyor belt. Don't think it will come back once it disappears behind the loading curtain. If you walk in just as it is disappearing, dive after it.

Public Toilets:

1. The toilet is not inside the bathroom. The toilet is the bathroom. Men pee into it from outside. So, don't go searching for the toilet inside, unless you don't mind getting peed upon. It is quite simple - stand outside, open the door with the point of your shoe, and pee through the open doorway. You don't even have to flush anything. Point and shoot! Once in a year, a janitor comes around and chucks a couple of fragrant naphthalene balls on the floor to comply with the country's stringent hygiene standards.
   
2. Better, find an open place for urination. Choosing the right spot is a subject in itself outside the scope of this article, but you know there are many factors involved such as the direction of the wind, the clearance from ground, the type of soil, and the visibility from the nearest women's hangout place. But, you can't go wrong with trees. You are even nurturing them – our output is their daily water and minerals. Here is an excellent choice for the roadside urinator (term I coined to describe one who pees by the roadside).
   
   
   
   
   

   
   Mango Tree: Notice the strategic importance of its location for the roadside urinator.
   

   
   Observe the tree carefully.
   
   (a) conveniently close to the road,
   (b) the big shade,
   (c) the strong trunk to lean against for the torrential flows, and
   (d) the ground sloping away so the piss doesn't travel back to wet your shoes.
   
   You can even pluck a mango while you release, though I wouldn't eat it.
   

Drinking Water:

1. There are many different brands selling mineral water. Almost all come from the same source – a small borewell groundwater manual pump in a Kolkata street corner. True, though no one really knows why. So, they are all the same except one, which most people avoid: the Moraji Desai brand of mineral water. Moraji Desai was the first opposition party leader who became Prime Minister of India, introduced sweeping reforms to the Parliamentary powers, and created a secure fund for India's nuclear reactors. But, history only remembers him as the guy who drank his own urine. Historians say that he slipped some into the water glasses of his foreign guests Jimmy Carter and Margaret Thatcher. Just a small note: all three have or had long, healthy lives. Hey, maybe you should eat that mango you plucked from the tree.
   
   
   
   
   

   The famous Kolkata borewell: Source for Aquafina, Dasani, Evian, Ganga, Godavari. The women are corporate employees.
   

Sickness:

1. Westerners, oh yeah, I know the vocabulary you grew up with – vaccines, mountain spring water, pasteurized milk, processed meats, vitamins, minerals, Botox, flu shots. Heck, even Airborne, though I have no idea what it is. Does it throw up an impenetrable virus shield around the head? Bridge to Captain, Airborne Defense System has been activated.
   Intruders will vaporize on contact.
   
   Well, get used to a new word – mosquitoes. A few bites and all the vitamins and the *bornes in the world won't help you. The insects have a special love for foreigners. I can almost hear them cry when they see fresh meat: "Loookeeee! A spotless White guy! Last one to the bridge of his nose is a rotten egg." Best way to fight sickness? Become sick. Don't be the spotless White guy.
   
   

Transportation:

1. Let me give you a general tip about India's roads. Walking gets you to your destination fastest, because you can walk anywhere. On the sidewalks, in the middle of the road, and through someone's backyard. Cycling is the next fastest. Auto-rickshaws next, followed by buses, and finally cars. Counter-intuitive? You bet, that is what makes this a uniquely great country. The faster the vehicle, the slower the travel. Never take a Ferrari on Indian roads, you will be cut off by the vehicle whose 0-60 is 3 hours better known as the water buffalo.
   
2. There are many airlines for domestic travel. You want a quick-rich scheme? (a) Take Deccan Airlines. (b) Buy flight insurance. Only one out of every two Deccan flights reach their destinations. Most Deccan passengers in mid-air don't worry about that statistic. They just pray for the flight to reach a destination, doesn't matter where.
   
3. Trains are the other alternative. If you can find a place to sit. Or stand.
   

People:

1. Never go around smiling at strangers on the street going "How Ya Doin'?" They will be startled. They think you are some kind of con man. True, the most affable Indians are usually the con artists. In fact, the proper way to greet is to snarl and growl at strangers. If they respond in kind, you know you just made a cultural connection.
   

2. Don't be startled when your male Indian acquaintance there slips his arm around your waist. He is not gay. He is just trying to be your buddy. He also expects you to slip your arm around his waist, don't disappoint him. Guys holding hands in interlocked grips when crossing streets is very normal. But, never touch a girl in public even if she is your wife.
   
   

Guys holding hands: They are not gay. Just friends.

So, there you are. I hope you learned something. One last tip: doodle around, just live on your feet. That is one thing seldom done over here. As for me, I just can't wait for my trip in May. Got to find that Mango Tree.

So you dinked a car in the parking lot …

After circling the mall parking lot forever, I finally saw a vacant spot by the entrance wall next to a shiny BMW. My inner voice woke up. Looks a bit small, it warned me, not gonna make it. But in a quick split-second decision, I swung into the lot.

Rrrriiiippppp!

Heard it. The sound of damage. The clamorous entry for a new record in world-class stupidity. Grinding score for "I'm so screwed now." Told you so, my inner voice said, before dozing off again. I just dinked a shiny new BMW with my old Corolla. I'm in shock, almost ready to cry. I'd give anything for the last three seconds. Now that it is over, I'm thinking, hearing, and seeing a whole lot better. In fact, I just see the new parking lot extension on the other side of road, wide and empty. Why I didn't see that extension in half an hour of driving right past it beats me. Intense feelings of self-loathing take over: I'm Maximus Doofus, Fool-iana, Jellybean Jackass, Joe the Neanderthal.

Of course, what is done is done. The right thing to do is to leave the own-up note on the BMW with my insurance number. But, the wise thing to do, on the other hand, is to run the hell out of there, which I did. I refer to this table when in doubt.

Table: Best course of action when you dink a car.

You are …	Action
Bill Gates	A check for a new car, and a complimentary copy of Halo 3
Art of Living student	Leave the note, and concentrate on the purity of your soul, for god's sake!
Engineer in dead economy (no crowd)	Run
Engineer in dead economy (crowd)	Leave a note that reads: Sorry, dinked your car, I have no intention to own up, just pretending to leave my contact details.

So, I backed out from the lot.

Rrrriipppp.

More BMW damage. Going back the same way apparently has the same result. But, once the decision to run is made, the mind at peace. Yes, the damage is awful. Yes, it does look like the beamer got a personal carwash from Edward Scissorhands. But I have a job to do. I must run, drive up my Corolla to the parking lot in the opposite street, in a spot shrouded in the darkness. A bit of touch-up paint on the bumper gets rid of any evidence.

Now, before you feign outrage, it is not that I never tried owning up. The very first time I dinked a car, I left a note on the windshield. For a minor scratch on a really spotty Nissan 240SX. I thought the owner will call the insurance directly like most normal human beings do. I even imagined that he will appreciate my integrity. Here is a good citizen, the owner would think, I for one am lucky he left me a note.

Half an hour later, my phone rang. I picked it up.

"Hey! You banged my car!"

Several things ran through my head. First, this guy was an Asian Indian. Second, why didn't I think of that possibility before leaving the note?

"Yes, but I left my insurance card number..."

"Hey Banger! You banged my car. You can't bang cars and talk nonsense. Come over here right now!"

Five minutes later, I met the guy in the parking lot. He looked he just swallowed a gallon of petrol and, for some reason, was trying to keep it down.

"Do you know what you have done? Do you know what a Nissan 240SX is? Have you ever been in one in your entire sorry life?"

He regarded me with such utter contempt I had to look away. I wished I had at least shaved my furry chin and looked like someone who had indeed been in a Nissan 240SX even if only as a passenger.

"What did you bang it with?"

I pointed at the Corolla. He looked shocked - how could a common Corolla dink the magnificent 240SX? That was like William Hung stealing a kiss from Scarlett Johansson.

I had to follow him to the Body Shop. There, he managed to get every scratch outside and inside into the claim. The Body Shop came up with a $1500 estimate.

"Man, you are lucky," said the dinked one.

"Really?" I asked.

"My brother says it would cost at least $4000. That would be major damage to your insurance."

"How is your brother an expert? Does his car get dinked often?"

"No, he works on rockets for Lockheed Martin. He knows stuff." Right, that made his brother an expert. Part of rocket science. Lucky for me, his brother was wrong on this occasion.

My insurance got him a rental car: a Mazda Protégé. The same evening, he swapped it for an SUV without informing me. Obviously, I had to cover for the difference from my own pocket. He said that the Protégé was too small for his groceries. Unless he bought Elk wholesale, I couldn't figure out why a car is not big enough for groceries.

So, all I got from writing the note was a guy spitting in my face and taking me for a ride. You can't blame me for running.

I get back to the mall, walking through the parking lot. I'm trying to see if the BMW owner discovered the damage. I hear conversation, in German. I spot a boy picking up something from the ground and showing it to his father.

Papa, Betrachten Sie diesen! (Dad, look what I found)

Ah! Sie wissen, was dies ist? The father bellows, picking up the piece of scrap from his son. He is tall, at least 6'7", looks like a brick wall, with flaming blond hair.

Es ist ein Stück eines Bumper Sticker!

A piece of bumper sticker! Oh shoot, part of my bumper sticker must have ripped off in the collision. But, how can he possibly tell anything from it?

Es ist gelb. Siehe gibt es noch eine halbe Schreiben sichtbar, ein schwarz M.

Oh no, the piece has a black M in a yellow background. I hope it is not ...

Ich habe diesen vor. Es ist ein Mystery Spot Bumper Sticker.

Oh no! It is the Mystery Spot bumper sticker.

Was ist Mysterys Spot, Papa?

Es ist ein Ort, wo Indianer fahren Corollas hängen aus.

He knows! He knows that most people who go to Mystery Spot are Indians driving Corollas. Just then, he spots me. I freeze.

"Hey you, you Indian! Do you drive a Corolla?" That is it. I can't deal with this. I run.

Papa, ist der Mann, der zerstörten unser Auto?

Ja. Fang der Bastard. Ich werde ihn töten.

He says he will kill me. I tear away with their footsteps pounding behind me.

griEvite

An Evite pops into my mailbox this morning: from baby Jimmy for his first birthday party. The program is smashing - green cake, cheese pizza, and a clown. The only problem is that Ramon’s party is also scheduled for the same time. Ramon’s party is simpler - beer, cigar, and a stripper. Of course, there are no Evites for bachelor parties, just a terse message from a shifty-eyed guy at the water cooler giving the time and location. It is a tough choice to make. Much as I like the kid, I have given my word to Ramon. I just have to reject this Evite, sorry, Jimmy. Oh wait! Oh no! My wife’s name is on the invitation list too. Oh no! Please … ! Argh! She has already accepted. With two guests – that is me and our kid.

I call my wife. Hi! Can I get out of this? I have work to do. (pause) Yes, I know, Jimmy’s parents came to our homewarming. Got it, the Reciprocity Law. But, I must go to work. (Pause) Right, they are the only American buddies we have…

She’s right. Jimmy’s parents are the only White Americans left in our network. We are holding on to these guys with dear life. The others gave up trying to understand our accent.

Listen, I can’t go, but you can still go without me. (Pause) I will iron all your clothes for the next two weeks. No? (Pause) Wait, hold on. I will hunt down the pesky rats in our crawl space. (Pause) There are no rats in our crawl space? Ok, all right, I have a better idea. I’ll stop making fun of your parents. Honest! (long pause)

Whew, she’s considering the offer. The jokes on her parents must be hitting a raw nerve.

I’ll get them a nice gift when we visit India next month. (Pause) Fantastic! Wonderful!

She agrees! I’m free! Wow!

Thanks. Have fun at Jimmy’s party! (Pause) Hey, when we visit your parents, I’ll even bear your father’s nutty philately collection. Ha ha ha! Oops. (Pause) Hello? Hello? Are you still there?

I blew it. I blew a once-in-a-blue-moon chance with that dig at her father. No use ruing about it now. All right, I have to go to this infernal kid’s party, but it is just a couple of hours in a long life…big deal, right? Wrong.

First, the unforgiving last minute trip to Babies R’Us for the gift. The only likeable part about this store is that you don’t need driving directions. Just follow the first minivan on the highway with the yellow “Baby On Board” sign stuck on the rear window. But, the store is huge, and we find ourselves moving around in circles trying to find that elusive toy, while dodging pregnant women bouncing down the aisles like giant rubber balls. Suddenly, we are running out of time. We just have to get anything. After some more hypertension, we finally find something: a decoy remote control. The minor difference to a real remote is that this one sings. Right, some Jimbo thought that a singing remote control fools a baby. But, we still take it. It is better than the dancing vacuum cleaner and the talkative rice cooker. Ok, so all we need is a gift bag now…, hold on! Are you telling me that the gift bag is more expensive than the toy? You can’t be serious.

Ok, I take the bag, and finally get into the cashier line when I realize the bloody irony. The three women ahead of me are pregnant. So are the two women behind. I’m the lone guy standing right in the middle of five pregnant women. Not exactly the scenario I planned for when the day began.

We go to Jimmy's party. Only kids have chairs, the adults are gathered around like a human version of Stonehenge. The food is just great - the cheese pizza is cold and the pepsi is warm. But I'm too nervous to eat. There are balloons everywhere. They are big and moving slowly. Moving balloons give me the heebie-jeebies. Just the thought of a pricked balloon is frightening to me. Oh crap! A beastly kid is creeping up on the large bumper-sized buster right in front of me. I need to find a corner to roll into a fetal position to prep for the blast. I get down on the floor and wait there with my head in my knees, but the balloon never bursts. I just hear lot of cheering and look up. The kid is gone. The danger has passed.

It is the cake cutting part of the ceremony. The adults who have been clinging to the walls like barnacles swoop down finding something to talk about. Oh the cake is wonderful! Look at the plastic doll holding the candle, it looks so cute! Guys, you know, HP has a new device that prints the icing on the cake. Supports 705.39c protocol.

The chatter runs out its course after a while, but the birthday kid is still not appearing. I don't know if you ever noticed, but birthday babies are big party poopers. All they want to do is hunker down under their blankets and sleep, but their parents drag them out in front of suffering grow-ups who sing "Happy Birthday to You" with the same gusto as prison inmates singing the National Anthem.

It is over. Now, I can go home. My son is turning one in a few weeks. Got to plan his party. I hope you are going to make it. It will be great fun. Look out for the Evite in your mailbox. Please come and make it a success.