(2)
When his mother and Amir arrived at their new residence in the city of Azusa, sorrow took over her heart and soul. But she swore to make their living situation better for herself and superb for her son. Hope was the only fuel that kept his mother going amid the difficulties of starting a new life in a place she did not know and a language she did not understand.
Immediately after settling in, she searched for ways to generate income. She reviewed various possibilities, including different types of businesses to start and their cost. Considering the amount of money she had saved from the grip of thieves in power after the revolution, she had to be cautious. A high-risk business could have led to a loss of what they had.
In a one-bedroom apartment, in a crowded complex, on the one hand, she had to provide for Amir’s comfort, and on the other hand, she had to learn English. For some time, she attended an adult school nearby. She was testing her newly learned lessons by speaking with neighbors or anyone she could engage in conversation with. At the age of 46, Golrokh, Amir’s mother, had found more drive and ability to live than she had ever expected. She tried not to think about the past. She did not have an academic education but had read a lot of books and stories. With a dynamic yet coherent mind, Golrokh was able to handle any issue.
One day, on her way back home from an adult school, she was staring through the window of a bus. She was looking at an ice cream truck surrounded by kids who were buying and sucking on frozen-colored ice on a stick. The scene changed her and her son’s life’s direction forever. She still had four stops to reach her destination, but she got off the bus at the next station and walked toward the ice cream truck in the opposite direction.
As Golrokh was getting closer, the song that was coming from the ice cream truck elated her. She walked faster as if she was not feeling her legs like she was flying breezily toward the sound. When Golrokh reached the truck, she saw children lined up and waiting to purchase ice cream. Golrokh stood in line and reached the counter. A woman, smiling behind the counter, said, “Ola.” Not understanding, Golrokh pointed to ice cream and asked for the price of a few other items. She paid for the one she picked, went back, and once again carved the scene in her mind. Yes, she had found the solution.
When Amir returned from school, her mother told him about the idea and plan to buy an ice cream truck. She columned the figures on a piece of paper and showed them to her son. The ending line represented a monthly income, guessing the cost with respect to the probable sale that was not far from reality. Amir had not seen such a sparkle in his mother’s big black eyes since the revolution. Golrokh’s thin face with exaggerated cheekbones became as cheerful as a bloomed flower, a smiling face that affected Amir’s heart instantly. Mother’s sad face would always wound Amir’s heart, and her glow made him happy. And on that day, with that piece of paper full of printed promising figures, in front of them, Amir’s heart was beating with happiness.
The difficulties of finding an ice cream truck, haggling, passing through the legal process, and making the plan operational, though hard, presented no snags Golrokh could not overcome. His mother believed that no barrier could stand before anyone who knows what she or he wants. And determined, Golrokh had passed through many obstacles in her past: marrying a disciplined officer, fending off a circle of insidious people and charlatans whose only mission was to destroy the lives of others. But they all seemed to be a gateway to conquering the current barriers.
Amir remembered well how his mother was so exulted on the first day of launching her business. After Amir returned home from school, they jumped into the truck and hit the street. Mom had already bought and prepared the ice creams. They had not driven more than two streets, selling ice cream, when a car appeared out of nowhere and stopped them.
A man with a notebook and a pen approached them. He introduced himself as a Los Angeles County Health Department agent. Neither Golrokh nor Amir understood what the man was saying or what the health department had to do with them. He handed Golrokh his business card and pulled his thermometer out of his pocket and began to inspect. After a few minutes, he said something to Golrokh that seemed gibberish to her. Amir could not comprehend what the man was saying either. When the inspector found out that it was their first day of business, he detached a piece of paper from his notebook, gave it to Golrokh, and asked her to sign his log sheet. Golrokh and Amir both were now confused. On the piece of paper were instructions about how to keep the right level of temperature for various foods and snacks. When Golrokh saw the information, she felt at ease. The inspector had pitied them and gone. Although she was not sure everything was over at that moment, she did not care. What mattered was that they could continue selling ice cream.
On that morning in the detention center, Amir remembered that the battle had started on the fourth day. Although the sale’s result and net profit were not entirely satisfactory those first three days, in general, she was happy.
The colonel showed up on the fourth day. Golrokh had parked the truck on one of the streets in the neighborhood near their apartment. The usual ice cream song was playing to attract kids. An older man with white hair and a flushed face wearing a white cotton suit and light blue tie approached Golrokh. Anger had taken away his ability to speak smoothly. After a couple of seconds, Golrokh asked the man in Farsi: “Are you Iranian, sir?”
“Yes,” he continued with a formal tone in Persian, “and I’ve come to tell you that this area is my territory.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand, what territory?” Golrokh asked.
“I have a couple of ice cream trucks, and I am selling in this area. You cannot sell ice cream here.”
Surprised, Golrokh replied with a calm voice, “But who said that? Who determines what area belongs to whom?”
The old man was becoming angrier by the second. “I said it, I was already here. Go find your own area,” he demanded.
“Look, sir. What is your name anyway?” Golrokh played down man’s fervor by asking his name.
The old man wanted to show that he realized her move and with an authoritarian voice said, “Everyone calls me Colonel.”
“Look, Mr. Colonel, I won’t be bullied. Here, we have freedom. Everyone can sell her goods wherever she wants.”
The colonel was now stuttering from anger, which also showed in his facial lines. He paused and tried to swallow his anger so that he could talk. Then, he lowered his voice and said, “Looks like you don’t understand civilized manners. People like you were the cause that our country fell into the thugs’ hands. People like you are the reason that His Majesty, our beloved Shah, became a miserable, wanderer soul.”
