The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (part 19)

Printer-friendly versionSend to friendPDF versionPiffy was stunned. He sat there for some time in the coffee bar as the patrol officers from the visitors center rushed about looking for an escaped prisoner. Of course, they were looking for ‘him,’ but he was no longer ‘him,’ he was something else—something he had wanted to be, older, but too much of a good thing could be devastating and Piffy was devastated. Being turned into a ten-year-old boy was one thing—thirty extra years of life stuck in Carl 'Alfalfa' Switzer's slim body wouldn’t be a disaster—but to be turned into a doddering old wreck with one foot in the grave and a coronary lurking behind every tick of the clock was too much. He looked at his hands—they were ugly and they were shaking. What was he supposed to do? Sit on them? He was too old to cry but not too old to be angry—and angry he was! Oh, he would get bint Marwan for this! He had said that before, of course—many times. Well, he couldn’t sit in the coffee bar forever. They would be closing the place and he would have to leave. He went through his pockets. He had plenty of money—bint Marwan had seen to that. Maybe he should be thankful. Yeah, maybe it was his fault for not immediately counting to ten like he had been instructed. Somehow he got back to his apartment. He couldn’t sleep. He paced the floor. What the hell was he to do? He moped around for the better part of the next day. Should he call Algernon A. Algernon? No, he would rather die. But whom else did he know? Bint Marwan was out of the question. She was in Cairo and he had no way of contacting her. Besides, she only appeared when she felt like it. So he prayed to St. Anthony. Maybe he didn’t pray hard enough; maybe St. Anthony no longer wanted to have anything to do with him. He was so old and decrepit; he ached all over and could die any minute. He was in a Hard Rock Café gnawing on a burger with what was left of his teeth when his eye fell on the Daily Mail and the Andy Capp comic strip. Andy Capp! Now there was a chap who knew how to cope with the vagaries and vicissitudes of life on planet earth. And he had the same answer for every problem he came across whether it was nuclear fallout or hemorrhoids—he would tie one on. Yeah, he would tie one on like Otis Campbell or Willie Lump-lump! And that is what Piffy would do—he would tie one on; he would get hammered; he would get plowed! He hadn’t had a drink in a long time but already he was feeling better. He finished his burger and took a deep breath, the first one he had dared take since his ‘conversion.’ It was hours later and he wasn’t quite sure how he got there. It was a dingy little bar on a side street, full of solitary drinkers with a barkeep not given to conversation. By then he had lost track of how many he had had. He sat down on a stool next to a chap that looked like Otis from The Andy Griffith Show. The barkeep set a beer in front of him. Otis stirred, eyed the octogenarian sitting next to him and nodded. “How are you doing old-timer?” he asked. Piffy grimaced. “That’s a stupid question to ask a man in the prime of life who’s been turned into a doddering old fool by a woman,” he said. Otis grinned. “Been there; done that,” he said. It was the beginning of a great though short-lived friendship. Piffy needed someone to talk to and Otis was it—and Piffy talked and the story came out, not the entire story, not even half of it, but enough to impress Otis. It was Holy Communion between two drunks—a High Mass for the Dead, for the repose of the soul of one Bernard Piffy. “So you see, “ said Piffy, “it was that woman, bint Marwan, that turned me into this nauseating physical wreck you see sitting next to you in this dirty stinking miserable bar.” Otis was overwhelmed. “What you need is a wizard to turn you back into a fairy prince,” he said. “Fat chance of finding a wizard in the East End,” said Piffy. “How about Harry Potter?” said Otis. “He can change you back into a fairy prince.” “You know Harry Potter?” said Piffy. “No, but I know where I can find a wizard.” “Where?” “At Hogwarts.” “Is that near Quahog?” asked Piffy. “Come, I’ll take you there,” offered Otis. “It’s only a short piece.” They staggered out into the night. Otis fell twice but true to his word it was only a short piece for they soon came to a sign along the side of the road that proclaimed “This Way to Hogwarts.” It was too good to be true. A few more steps took them to a tumbledown house. It was Hogwarts. Two life-size cardboard mockups of Peter Griffin stood to either side of a crumbling entranceway. Piffy was dismayed—drunk but dismayed. “This is a gyp,” he said. “Who’s there?” a voice called from inside Hogwarts. “Friends,” said Otis. A clanking noise came from inside the shack and a portly man in a caftan and a turban emerged. “That’s not Harry Potter,” said Piffy. “I didn’t promise you Harry Potter,” said Otis. “I promised you a wizard and this is a wizard.” The wizard glared at Piffy. “Who dares mention Harry Potter?” he snarled. Otis tugged at Piffy’s sleeve. “Don’t mention Harry Potter again,” he said nervously. “Habib hates Harry Potter. Habib tried to Islamicize the Hufflepuffians and Harry threw him out of Hogwarts. It was on TV and everything. Habib has never forgiven Harry. And he hates the Hufflepuffians too. He was disgraced. So shush!” Hufflepuffians? Islamicize? Had Piffy taken one drink too many? The wizard looked them up and down, squinting fiercely at Piffy’s companion. “Is that you, Otis?” he asked. “Yes,” said Otis. “I have brought a friend.” “Ah,” said Habib. “He was once a proud fairy prince,” said Otis, “but a wicked sorceress turned him into what you see here—a pathetic, disgusting old man. He wants to be a prince again.” “Allahu akbar!” said Habib. “I will see what I can do.” He studied Piffy closely; then looked at Otis. “Is he a dhimmi?” he asked. Otis frowned. “I never thought to ask,” he said. “It’s okay, isn’t it?” “If he’s a dhimmi,” said Habib, “there will be a surcharge of one thousand pounds.” “Oh, ‘e doesn’t have one thousand pounds,” said Otis, “”E ‘as three quid.” Somehow or other he knew exactly how much money Piffy had. The wizard thought it over for a while. Maybe he was mentally subtracting Piffy’s three quid from a thousand pounds. “Well,” he said carefully, “perhaps we can make an exception in his case. He seems to be a worthy gentleman—though I normally don’t do charity. If you will follow me…” He led them through a room piled nearly to the ceiling with used furniture to a tiny alcove at the rear. There was nowhere to sit down. He looked at Otis and nodded at Piffy. “If your friend will convert to Islam,” he said, “I will give him ten percent off.” Piffy was aghast. “Convert to Islam?” he said. “Take it,” urged Otis. “Are you crazy?” said Piffy. “I will do nothing of the sort! The Pope would kick me out of the Church! It would kill my Aunt!” “You’re going to make the wizard mad!” warned Otis. Piffy took a handful of coins from his pocket and laid them on a cluttered table. “This is all I’ve got,” he said. “You can take it or leave it!” Habib was not one to reject a stipend of any kind. He counted the money, pulled a purse from beneath his caftan, deposited Piffy’s three quid and then smiled graciously. “Now that that is out of the way,” he said, “I will change you into a fairy prince though I cannot guarantee you will be the exact same prince you were before. There will be some erosion.” Piffy was already having second thoughts. “What the Hell am I doing here?” he asked. Otis snuggled up as close to Piffy as he could get. “This is exciting!” he said. Habib rose up on his toes, brought his hands up near the top of his head and gestured. It was a good gesture—not as good as a Harry Potter gesture; it was more on the order of Mandrake the Magician, but it was a good gesture. But nothing happened—it didn’t take. Piffy was still a broken down old man but Otis seemed to have been affected and was having trouble staying on his feet. Habib gestured again…and again… and again. And each time nothing happened. Nada! Zilch! Sweat had popped out on his brow. He tried again…and again. Piffy had had enough. He had paid this man—this charlatan—good money to turn him into a fairy prince and nothing had happened! There was only so much he could take. He got angry. He got Mike Hammer angry. Maybe it was the beer; maybe it was the surroundings; maybe it was the suggestion he convert to Islam. “I want my money back, Mandrake!” he said. “Sorry,” said Habib. He was sweating profusely by now “There are no refunds. All sales are final.” That was the last straw. “Why, you stupid camel jockey,” said Piffy, “if I were fifty years younger I would trash you to within an inch of your miserable life!” The wizard bristled. “Vile Christian dog!” he snarled. “You dare to insult the great Habib?” “Who you calling a Christian dog, you lop-eared son of a Muslim sea cook?” grated Piffy. “Careful, dhimmi swine, or I will turn you into a pig!” “You couldn’t turn Arnold Ziffle into a pig if you were standing on Mohammed's butt!" roared Piffy. “Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” screamed Habib. Piffy turned to Otis. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “This place stinks worse than bin Laden’s bladder.” Otis peeked out a window. “It’s pouring down rain,” he said. There was a strange look on his face. Something had happened to him; he had changed. His eyes seemed beady, piggish and his nostrils had widened to twice their normal size and were spread across his face like craters on a moonscape. Piffy was shocked. What the hell had happened to Otis? He had been standing close to Piffy—too close perhaps! Piffy swallowed nervously. He was on the verge of panic. Could this be the reason Harry Potter had thrown Habib out of the Hufflepuffians? Was Habib not merely incompetent, but—worse yet—criminally incompetent? Then he got a-hold of himself. He was too old to be frightened—too old to give a damn about anything. So what if Otis looked more like Arnold Ziffel than Otis Campbell? Suddenly Habib was solicitous. “It’s raining,” he said. “You will get wet.” He took two raincoats from a hook on the wall. “Here—take these. They will protect you from the elements. You can return them later.” Piffy was impressed—after all that ugly talk the wizard was proving to be as human as the next guy. He took the raincoat, put it on and then helped Otis struggle into the other coat. There was something on the back of the garment, a symbol of some sort, but Piffy couldn’t make it out in the gloom. It was a yellow star of some kind. No matter, he was glad to get out of the wizard’s shack. They were not much more than a block from Hogwarts when a gang of hoodlums materialized from out of the driving rain and before Piffy and Otis realized it they had been surrounded. It could have been a scene out of The Blackboard Jungle. “Kuffar swine!” screamed one of the thugs. “Jew pigs!” cried another. A short squat imp circled round and round Otis and Piffy, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Zionist scum!” he hissed. One of them had something in his hand that looked like a ball peen hammer. There was enough light coming from a nearby Esso Petrol Station for Piffy to see the logo on the back of Otis’ raincoat. It was the Star of David. My god—the Star of David! It was large enough to be seen at a hundred paces! Piffy guessed the same Star of David was plastered across the back of the raincoat he was wearing. Oy, vay! Habib was having his revenge and it was too late to run! Otis looked at Piffy. Otis wasn’t Alan Ladd and it wasn’t Grafton’s Saloon. “There’s too many,” he said. One would have been too many. It was a drunk and an eighty-year-old man against the ‘Asians’ and the drunk wouldn’t be any more help than Little Joey had been to Shane. Then something hit Piffy along the side of the head and he went down like a steer in a Chicago slaughterhouse! (To be continued)