That night the high school kids were gathering around the window sill where ice cream was served. All chatty and chill, hats, curly hair, patterned shirt, second-hand Honda. I felt lucky that I was born there and was here.
I remembered the pistachio flavor was not done right at the gelato shop, but I was not sure. He still wanted to try it, for in his home he had eaten so much pistachio for so long. Somehow everything there would turn into a memory from home.
I took the ice cream and hopped onto the table, dropping my hiking shoes on the chair. He did the same. He was a tall guy, but he hunched like a child.
He told me I was right after the bite. The pistachio was horrible. It did taste like plastic.
He started to talk about his days in Iranian military, and he just squinted his eyes. What it was I could not quite tell — concern, sadness, hatred, fear and pride. In the bunk room there would be 50 people, all snoring. And one time they almost met the Pakistani army. Nothing happened.
He told me about the beans, that all they ate at the army were beans. An anonymous buddy in his camp ate too many, and what came of it required a shovel, and had to be divided into six. Six, he said with his hand cutting the air.
I told him we also have military camp back home, from primary school to uni. I always held a grudge that my surname started with Z, which gave me the privilege of being number 56 out of 57 in the brotherhood. So 53, 55 and I got assigned to the dorm forgotten, with dust, occupied beds, and a bad lamp. Since it was in the corner right next to the bathroom, we had to take care of cleaning the whole bathroom. 53 always tried to escape the chore.
One month later I walked thirty minutes to the shop and thirty minutes back. I ordered the pistachio. It still tasted like flavored plastic.