if you're a journalist, help us

I am walking to my favorite kebob house for lunch when I see an old woman sitting on the sidewalk, screaming. She is well dressed and she is clutching another woman who seems helpless and embarrassed. There are many leather jacketed men moving in and out of a furniture store like bees after their hive has been cracked open. I know this store. I bought a desk chair there once. But they don’t want to talk to me and so, after standing around for a while with the other gawkers, I go in to have my lunch.

Inside I am seated directly in front of the TV which is loud enough to make my teeth rattle. The program is a talk show in which we are shown tight close-ups of bearded men talking about the corruption problem in government. Then an ad comes on which shows a turbaned genie perched on a village wall. I know he is a genie because there are video-effect bubbles hovering around his head like swollen luminescent gnats. The genie is telling a farmer to warn the police about IEDs. The man seems surprised. It’s the right thing to do, says the genie. OK, says farmer. He runs and flags down some approaching police jeeps. “Look!” the farmer shouts, and points to a landmine which looks something like a lime green bicycle gear embedded in the dusty road. “Thanks!” say the police. The farmer’s son thanks the genie who promptly snaps his fingers and disappears. It's like the persian version of those subway posters.






Outside the screaming woman is gone and the crowd is dispersed and the leather jacket crowd at the furniture company are more amenable to speak. In fact. they spot me and flag me down. “We have big news!” they say. For a moment I wonder if they are trying to sell me another chair. But then I see the manager has blood on her hand which has spattered onto her shirt. “If you are a journalist, please help us," she says. “They came in, they kicked everybody they kicked everything." It takes a while to get the story. They are subcontracting a cell phone project to a shady dude in the east who came in this morning to demand more and more money. An hour after he left, the ‘special crimes unit’ police arrived. They wore no uniforms. They dragged away the owner, and smashed his cell phone when he tried to call for help. “He has a heart condition,” says his daughter.

As I'm sitting listening to this story, one of the "policemen" come back! He says he needs the man's heart medication. His daughter screams and jumps into the car to go home to get the medication. The cop sits looking bored. I fear the worst.

I am writing this while sitting on the desk chair he sold me.

I’ll call tomorrow to see what happened.