Hassan @ work & GF

“Hassan You are late. Why can you not be anywhere on time? I thought your mother and I raised you better than this.” He can be very quiet when he needs to. I am clumsy to have let him sneak up on me in my daydreaming. I know he’s angry, not just being a dick because he can, because he’s talking in Arabic, normally exclusively for home use. He’s probably stressed out because of the large number of customers I see looking up for the first time around the room.
Hearing someone behind him, Hassan answers in English, “Of course, father. I’ll be sure to doublecheck the toner cartridges, right away.” He turns to the middle aged gentlemen who had walked up behind him,
”Welcome to Kinko’s, sir. Is there any way I may assist you?” Hassan asks.
“Yes. I was beginning to wonder if anyone worked here. I’m looking to have some flyers printed.” The man, wearing a business suit, with briefcase, wheels to follow Hassan, already on his way toward the far side of the store.

It is late, mostly, when he returns home from helping his father at the store. His mother knows Hassan can make his way home without incident; and is very proud of him for working so hard. She herself does not work outside of the home, but cooks and keeps things neat around the house. Hassan’s mother, for all purposes, and most any point of view, raised the children.
“Tell me, son, how was school today? What are some of the things they taught you?” His mother always asks him these types of questions, because she loves him, he knows, and because she is truly interested.
“I had a math test, which I’ll get back tomorrow. We discussed a reading of American history, starting with the Civil War, leading up to WWII,” he pronounces this dubya dubya too, much to the annoyance of his father, who has just taken a seat at the dinner table.
“Hassan Speak proper English What will people think of us if they hear you talking like this?” His father speaks in Arabic, his tone carrying both disappointment and anger.
“Father,” Hassan, answering in Arabic, “all of my friends say it like this, I do not see the problem.”
“The problem is that you do not listen to your father And you were late to work today, did he tell you that, Mother?”
“It was only a few minutes, and I helped the customers the moment I walked in the door,“ Hassan tries in his defense.
“Hassan, you know that is not a valid excuse,” his mother says, not looking at the boy. “You will let us know, what your score is on test you took today, yes?”

Later that night, long after his parents had gone to sleep, Hassan stands in the kitchen of their second floor apartment, having avoided the noisy spots in the hallway floor, passing the room vacated by his brother and sister. His sister had left not long ago, for college in northern California. He missed them both, and was beginning to notice more scrutiny and less tolerance from his parents.
Dial tone. He punches in the numbers that will ring Samantha, on her cellphone. Her father works at Northrop Grumman, her mother works a register at the local Vons, where Sam packs groceries after school.
“Hello?” She was speaking quietly, which indicated to him that her mother was still awake, most likely in the living room, which was right next to Samantha’s room.
“Sam, it’s me, Hassan.”
“Hi, baby. What’s the matter?”
“What do you mean, what’s the matter?
“You sound upset, is all,” she says. Since they had met, that first day in eighth grade, he could keep nothing from her. “Listen, Hassan, I can’t talk. My mom is still up. Let me call you later. Bye”
Dial tone, once again.