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STEVEN IVORY: Real Men Do It Arm in Arm
*Bina told me I'd love her father, and she was right.
A widowed 76-year old retired Indian ophthalmologist, Abhay's suave looks, head full of salt and pepper hair and correct posture reminded me of the legendary Egyptian actor Omar Sharif.
Quiet and introspective, Bina's daddy also loved to laugh and to talk, and he often clumsily peppered his perfect English with American catchphrases. Curiously, Abhay's love of R&B went beyond name brand Motown and '50s doo-wop; he listened to the Ohio Players (the Junie Morrison years, no less) and owned early records by Rance Allen and Millie Jackson.
In 1993 Abhay was visiting Bina and her husband Terrence in Los Angeles while on holiday from his native Mumbai, when she asked if I would be kind enough to take her pop to an old-school concert in town. A Hindu into the Dramatics? Abhay was a man after my heart.
I'd parked the car and the two of us, engaged in spirited small talk, were making our way across the parking lot toward the concert hall when, without warning, Abhay casually put his arm in mine. Gee.
In other parts of the world heterosexual men routinely walk hand in hand and arm in arm. Some even kiss when greeting. I know this. However, we weren't in India, Africa, the Middle East or on a pro football field or basketball court--the latter two being where most exhibitions of affection among straight American males occur.
As far as I, a novice to straight-man lovin,' was concerned, Abhay and I simply looked like two grown ass men headed into an R&B concert, arm in arm. I didn't know what I found more embarrassing--strolling with Abhay as if in an Easter parade, or the fact that his gesture of camaraderie made me so uncomfortable.
Thank God we had to unlock arms in order for me to collect our tickets at the box office window--but not before several people noticed, including two hulking brothers, one of whom snickered as the other gave us a confused, disdainful glare.
For the rest of our walk into the theater, I gave my arms more of a swing as I walked, to dissuade Abhay from latching on again. Once inside, we located our seats and then returned to the lobby before showtime to stand in line for something to drink--with, behind us, none other than those two big guys who eyed us earlier.
I was attempting to ignore their mumbled insults about us, when Abhay abruptly halted his subdued soliloquy regarding Indian and U.S relations and turned to the men.
"ARE YOU HUNGRY FOR A BITE?!" He loudly barked. "YOU HEARD ME! I SAID, ARE YOU HUNGRY FOR A BITE??!!"
The area went silent, as nearby patrons pondered the commotion. I prayed to the Embarrassment Gods for invisibility, to no avail. Abhay's sudden outburst left our adversaries speechless, perplexed, and so it seemed, just a little afraid.
"What's goin' on here," inquired a beefy middle-aged female security guard in braids, giving the four of us a disinterested once over as the talkie walkie on her waist cackled. Heckle and Jeckle shrugged ignorance and left our line for the other side of the concession stand as Abhay earnestly went into something about the men being disrespectful. The guard just listened, paying more attention to Abhay's accent than his words, before nodding and then turning to leave.
"By the way, badd ass," she dryly remarked as she sauntered off, "It's: 'Do you want a piece of me.'"
"Yes! Yes!" Abhay said, laughing heartily at himself. "This is what I meant to say!"
In our seats during the concert, I was a bit shamefaced. As the Dramatics' Willie Ford bellowed the immortal opening line to "Treat Me Like A Man" ("Treat me like a man/not any way you want to..."), I wanted to turn to Abhay and whisper apologies for my chickenshit attitude regarding his expression of cultural endearment out in the parking lot. But why bother--Abhay had been totally oblivious to my mortification. Or was he?
In the theater, there was no talking to him, anyway; he and the caramel-colored honey sitting to his right quietly chatted up a storm between songs, before Abhay finally escorted her and her girlfriend out into the lobby for libations.
After the show, I listened to Abhay gab all the way to the car about the joys of sweet soul music and his new infatuation with that delicacy known as the American soul sister, all as I quietly relished the bold and unusual yet undeniably delightful sensation of being on the arm of a real man.
Steven Ivory's book, FOOL IN LOVE (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster) is in stores now or at Amazon.com (www.Amazon.com) Respond to him via STEVRIVORY@AOL.COM.
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