Expat: Part 4: The Growing Pain

CHAPTERS

1)    Unexpected Treasures

2)    Meeting The Challenges

3)    Entropy

4)    Like A Flower

5)    Desert Bound

6)    Shake It Up, Baby

7)    Desert Snow

8)    Myas & Yuras

9)    Desert Storm

10)  Enjoy De Pain

11)  Desert Justice

12)  Wonderland

13)  Desert Dues

14)  Back To The Future

15)  No Pain, No Brain

16)  Timing Is Everything

17)  Rocket Man

18)  Changes

Chapter 1 – Unexpected Treasures

Forlorn and without glory, resounding nature and myself – unalone, is what the song says. I had written those words in 1974, nearly seven years prior. Having to leave Algeria in the middle of my second contract was overly distressing. Returning home to wilted roots and having to settle in my parents’ home was disheartening. But mostly, losing my wife, Shereen, was heartbreaking. I was angry at her, my parents, and the whole world for that matter. But once the anger wore off, my true conscience began to kick in. Call it stupid! Maybe I should have learned my lesson from years of tolerating Shereen’s mental abuse. Perhaps I should count it a blessing to be finally free of the ultimate shrew. But all that aside, I still missed her and felt that I had failed to preserve something precious – a sacred bond with my soul mate.

Yet at the same time, I was blessed with the most beautiful son I could ever imagine. I was surrounded by loving friends to help see me through my trouble. I had begun to truly reconnect with my Savior – Christ. And there was one member of my family who supported me not only as a relative, but as a fellow musician, and more importantly, as a friend – my brother, Richard.

The first week back in Houston, Richard tried to cheer me up by taking me out on the town. We went to the Double Tree Hotel on Westheimer, known for its first class dance hall. Things had drastically changed since the last time I had gone out in America. Girls donned risqué attire and a ton of makeup to attract men, but it had the opposite effect on me – I was totally turned off. After a couple of beers and a few dances, I was ready to leave when we spotted three Mexican girls sitting by themselves. In contrast to the others, they were dressed modestly, displaying their unspoiled features of smooth brown skin and large, round eyes. Two of the girls were pretty, but one was absolutely stunning. Her name was Esther.

They mistook us for Chicanos when we asked permission to join them. I sat with Esther and got to know her while Richard kept the other two amused. It felt good to be with a nice girl again. When Richard and I got up to go, we couldn’t believe that two hours had already passed. Esther hesitated when I asked her for her phone number. She pointed to my wedding ring and gave me a look of reprimand. My ring! My God! I had forgotten all about it! My attempt to explain earned me another reproving look before she yielded her phone number. But I would never call. I would also not remove the ring for another three months – romantic fool that I was.

I thought I could make a final endeavor to mend things with Shereen. With the prospect of Algeria and other distractions behind us, I fancied that she might come to her senses and do the right thing – make apologies to all those she hurt. I appealed to our friends and family for assistance. Our old friends, Keith and Diane, insisted that Shereen was in dire need of Jesus in her life, but were too far removed to influence her. I even sought assistance from a couple of her old friends that I was sure would jump at the opportunity to help. But they were uncomfortable about interfering. I appealed to her younger brother, Raja, but he was afraid to get involved. As a last resort, I arranged for Father Fuchs, the priest who married us, to baptize our son, Christopher. Shereen reluctantly agreed and we drove to Belleville for the baptism, but when Father Fuchs brought up the subject of the divorce, she practically bit his head off.

Shereen’s mother had flown all the way in from Saudi Arabia. I had called her Auntie Ghada since I was a little boy. Her main purpose for coming was to assist Shereen with the baby. But even she took a passive position in our affair. Uncle David and Auntie Mary – friends to both our families – were the only people to actively get involved. They made an appearance at my parents’ home, filled with twisted details and contorted preconceptions. By the time they left, I was ready to concede defeat.

Shereen says you used to strike her, Auntie Mary said tentatively.

What! I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. They must have thought she was divorcing a wife-beater. I recounted the one time that I slapped her almost five years earlier. I also reenacted one kick-fighting episode. It had started out in fun, holding each other’s wrists Indian-style and trading kicks. In the end, we wound up with a few serious kicks to the rump. Raja was there at the time and had witnessed the whole thing. I politely scolded Auntie Mary for having only done half her homework.

Roger, even Raja says he saw you kicking her.

Once a suggestion of impropriety is introduced, it is practically impossible to dispel.

You must have hit her when you were in Algeria. Shereen mentioned there were a few incidents. What the hell were they talking about! No one could blame you, Roger. She is a difficult girl.

I listened to that crap and considered how deluded someone had to be to shade their burden of guilt by using half-truths to insinuate false allegation. I again attempted to explain my side to them, but it was in vain. No matter what I said, it came out sounding like I needed absolution. Regardless, Auntie Mary was evidently willing to play down the accusations in the interest of reconciliation.

Let us forget about that for now, she finally said. It does not seem to be that serious. Is there a chance you can put your differences aside and make peace? For the baby’s sake, at least.

Auntie, the real issues haven’t been addressed. Shereen has been acting improperly for a long time. I put up with it for years and was even willing to try again, but after I see how she twists the truth, I don’t know. After a long pause, I asked, Did you ask her if she’s willing?

She is unwilling, Auntie Mary sadly admitted. We were hoping to begin with you, but now I see it is useless. And that was the end of that.

A few days had passed following our return from Algeria. After Auntie Mary’s visit, I decided to show my face at Shereen’s. Auntie Ghada received me like family, as usual, though Shereen was exceedingly hostile. Even Ghada rebuked her several times for her rudeness. What shocked me, however, was how she treated Chris. He was six months old by then and had developed a distinctive character, cute and keen. My presence there may have provoked her to raise her voice at him, but that was no excuse. The effect it had on me, however, was profound.

Up to that point, I was earnestly considering an overseas position, mainly to escape a situation too painful to bear – dealing with Shereen and both our families in the face of failure. For that concession, I was selfishly willing to give up being around my son. But as I witnessed Shereen being Shereen with poor Chris, I realized that he needed his father around. At that moment, I resolved to stay in Houston and rescue him from undeserved wrath.

I wasted no time in getting busy. My company, Kellogg, had offered me a position as an analyst at the home office in Greenway Plaza. The pay was terrible, but the job was painless and convenient, so I accepted it. My boss was a modern day rogue named Benjamin. He was in charge of Payroll Benefits and was the only one who actually knew the application well. Along with that job security trump, he was also the only Afro-American manager at Kellogg, so he played both cards quite effectively, setting his own hours and exercising his own policies. When the antiquated system required attention, however, he was there nights and weekends to revive it.

Benjamin took a liking to me right off the bat, treating me more like a friend than a subordinate. He recognized my technical skills and trusted me with the true internals of the Payroll Benefits system. Shortly into my stint, he discovered that layoffs were imminent at Kellogg. He was completely comfortable about his own position and he felt that my job was safe thanks to the valuable technical knowledge he had imparted to me. I appreciated him for that. Most of the old-timers in the company were also safe, but new hires to the enormous staff were prime candidates for the cutback. This included Bishop, my old manager from St. Luke’s who had recently joined Kellogg. What a small world!

Having resolved to remain in Houston, I subsequently reconsidered my academic situation. I still needed thirty-two hours of credits to complete my bachelor’s degree in Math. This meant twelve classes which included two labs. That was two complete semester loads for any normal full-time student. I did not look forward to returning to school, and I never wanted the degree to begin with. I had only gone back to college in 1975 for the sake of Shereen and her parents, and here she was – leaving me. But I hated to see the years I invested go to waste – like my marriage. So in a moment of heightened motivation, also known as insanity, my decrepit mind concocted an impossible plan.

I made my calculations with much optimism and little wisdom There were two six-week summer semesters coming up at UH. If I could complete six credits in the first semester and nine in the second, that would leave seventeen for the fall semester. I could actually graduate by the end of the year! I had to obtain counselor approval for the three classes in the second summer term. Six hours – two classes – were considered the maximum load during summer – once again, for a full-time student – and I also had every intention of working full-time. If I survived the summer, then I would deal with the remaining seven classes in the fall. Before I could change my mind, I signed up.

Meanwhile, Auntie Ghada had graciously persuaded Shereen to allow me to see Chris whenever I wanted. So by then, I had made it a point to visit Chris every day on the way home from work, besides taking him home every weekend. Ninety percent of the time, Shereen was nowhere to be found, and Ghada or someone else baby-sat him. I was doubly grateful. I relished every second that I could see my son, and Shereen’s absence meant no browbeating. What became clear quickly was the unfortunate reality of how little Shereen cared for Chris.

As for the divorce, I had recruited a lawyer that Benjamin recommended for one-hundred-fifty dollars. I made his job effortless, agreeing to split our savings account fifty-fifty with Shereen just as my father-in-law had suggested. Incidentally, I had called him Uncle Nadim since childhood. I also offered four-hundred dollars a month for child support which would increase to five-hundred after age five. This was more than the standard amount for someone with my salary. Shereen’s lawyer even declared that ours was the most amenable divorce he had ever handled. After the mandatory ninety days waiting period, it became final. Fifty months into our marriage, we were divorced.

Before that day arrived, I stopped in one afternoon to visit Chris, expecting to see Auntie Ghada. Instead, I was treated to a rude surprise. Over a year before, we had celebrated Mardi Gras in Louisiana with Jill, Shereen’s friend from Algeria. We spent two nights at Jill’s boyfriend’s apartment in Baton Rouge. This guy was a real loser, the epitome of the word sleaze-ball. And now here he was answering the door at Shereen’s house. He didn’t even address me. After opening the door, he turned his back and re-secured his horizontal position on the couch like he owned the place. He was lounging.

Where’s Shereen? I asked.

She’s around, he grunted.

Naiveté taking hold, I then asked, So where’s Jill? I knew things were amiss when he snickered in response. Chris – now almost nine months old – heard my voice from the other room and came rolling in on his circular walker. His face and clothes filthy, he began crying when I reached for him. That was unusual for the ordinarily cheerful Chris. When I felt his wet diaper, my inkling was that he had been neglected. I fetched a clean diaper from the box Auntie kept in the living room closet and began changing him. Suddenly, Shereen stormed down the stairs, screaming for Chris to shut up and wearing a skimpy robe and her patent scowl.

What are you doing here? she growled having spotted me.

It took a few moments to put two and two together – Sleaze and Shereen had been shacking up. I looked over just in time to catch his greasy grin as he put out his cigarette. Before I could answer, Sleaze demanded, Get me a beer. When Shereen returned from the kitchen with his drink, I asked her if Chris had eaten. Her eyes practically popped out of their sockets.

It’s not your damn business to ask me that!

He looks hungry, I answered. Look, if you’re busy, I can feed him.

You’re not even welcome here. She thrust another dagger.

I just came by to see Chris.

You’ve seen him. Now leave.

Gloating, Shereen settled back onto the couch with her new beau. Sleaze lit up another cigarette, avoiding eye contact with me. And poor Chris wailed in complaint as I made my exit.

I drove away in torment.

Somehow, I wound up at The Summit, Houston’s new indoor event arena. Paying two dollars for a ticket in the nosebleed section, I thought I could console myself by watching a Rockets basketball game. When I arrived, there must have been a grand total of five hundred people in the whole stadium, so I moved all the way down to the front. There I watched the team warm up before the game. The highlight was Calvin Murphy, who was barely my height, dunking the ball during practice. That year, he broke the record for consecutive free throws. The Rockets were playing Washington or Cleveland or some such team from the Eastern conference, and completely annihilated them. They were magnificent! The star was a center by the name of Moses Malone. Along with Murphy, he was supported by Dunleavy, Loevell, Tomjonavich, Paultz, and Reid. Their coach was Del Harris who was then at his prime. The first inexcusable shame was the lack of attendance. Even well into the first half, the arena only boasted two thousand spectators. Later that year, the place would be sold out when Houston sneaked into the finals only to lose to the unbeatable Celtics. The second and unforgettable ignominy was the trade of Malone to Philadelphia where Moses promptly led that team to the Promised Land. Graced by an aging Dr. J and Maurice Cheeks, the Sixers won the world championship that following season.

As if on cue, my musical past arose to complicate matters. Aaron – our rhythm guitarist, composer, and vocalist – was spearheading the resurgence of our old band, Just Here. He was excited about two new associates of his. Jimmy was a vocal harmony specialist that played percussion. Aaron also recruited Zee through his seemingly boundless musical family. She was a slick promoter who had a few connections in the music industry. Larry – our lead guitarist and composer – was more than primed for our band’s reunion. Richard – now sporting a full drum set – was always ready for anything and everything. I had kept them all waiting too long with my long hiatus overseas. Everyone was relying on me to complete the equation.

Howard’s situation, on the other hand, was much different. He played lead guitar in one of our original rock bands in 1972. But I had not heard from him since he arranged our going-away party what-seemed-ages ago. We had been through a lot in our youth – bands, drugs, girls, etc. Shereen and I had bailed him out of financial trouble after we were first married. And now he had gotten deeply into debt through pure irresponsibility. He was unable to hold any professional position due to his alcoholism.

During three visits over the period of a week, Howard sold me his SG Systems amplifier, twentieth anniversary Gibson Les Paul guitar, and a thousand dollars in shares of a new investment company he was part-timing for. The company turned out to be a sham, so Howard was out of a job and I was out a thousand bucks. As much as I hated taking the guitar and amp from him, they were fine instruments, and he begged me for the money. In a matter of days, I had a full studio and a lot less money. I was practically starting all over again.

To top it off, I received a call at work one day from Howard. He was exercising his one phone call from the county jail. He had been arrested for a slew of hot checks that he had written over the past several months. He needed a sponsor with three-hundred dollars to bail him out. The money would cover the largest checks he owed and allow him to be released on his own recognizance. I immediately called Keith, who agreed to split the difference with me. We met at the county courthouse where they treated us as if we were the criminals. They couldn’t have delayed things more if they had tried, and we didn’t get out of there until nearly midnight.

I had never left my car parked on the downtown streets that late before, so we were only mildly shocked to find it broken into and the windows shattered. Nothing was missing, since nothing was worth stealing. I was more frustrated with the futility of the break-in than I was at the unjust reward I had duly received for the good deed just rendered. Regardless, Keith helped me clear away most of the glass so we could deliver Howard to his apartment.

We sat with our old friend for hours and preached Jesus as he listened intently. By the end of our spiel, Howard blew us away with his synopsis of the situation. According to him, he was evidently the victim of an FBI conspiracy. The feds must have recruited dark forces and evil spirits to cause his ruination. Keith and I looked at each other, having realized that our friend was in much deeper trouble than just hot checks. We could only pray for him. Before we left his place, Howard showed a miniscule sign of normalcy.

All right, you guys. I know you’re just trying to help me. You make it sound easy, but it’s hard – damn it! Then after a pause, he asked, How am I supposed to pray?

It was an age-old question. Keith and I tried our best to explain, but he lost focus again and went off on another rant. We would never get our money back, and sadly, Howard would never be the same again. But his question deserved an answer. Years later, it would come in the form of a soulful plea.

Teach Me How To Pray

Lord, teach me how to pray

I need to know your way

Lord, Father up above

Please, fill me with Your love

So holy is Your name

May Your children be the same

Lord, teach me to be still

As I come to seek Your will

And if I stumble then

Please, forgive me once again

As I absolve my friend

Please, deliver me from sin

CHORUS

So let Your glory shine

Send power through Your word divine

Lord, teach me how to pray

I seek Your heart today

CHORUS

As we worked hard to put the band back together, we were all crushed to hear that our bass player, Thibideaux, had committed suicide. No one in his family would respond to our inquiries, so we never learned how or why. He was a good kid from what seemed to be a solid family from Louisiana. All any of us could say was God rest his soul. And oddly enough, I would meet another bass player shortly thereafter.

I had made it a point to connect with my many Algeria expat friends who had also returned to Houston. The party-meister, Mentzer, located me upon his return and hooked me up with schoolteacher Missy and her new hubby, Daly. They had just gotten married and lived only five minutes up the road. Robinson the Irishman and Suzanne the chemist had given up the Algeria project after their wedding. They moved into a house fifteen minutes west of us on Westheimer. Even Rick, the Chinese Romeo, stopped in Houston long enough to sell me his couch, king-size bed, and 1974 chocolate brown Corvette. I would not receive the car until he completed his assignment in Houston in the spring of the following year. Meanwhile, he was just on his way to Toronto to meet his old boss, Mohyeddin. Coincidentally, his old boss was his gorgeous fiancée’s father. Rick would only be allowed to marry Ann once he converted to Islam. Another couple, Sue and Rich, had also returned to Houston, but unbelievably, they were splitting up. Rich flew small engine planes as a sideline to earn extra money and enough miles for his pilot’s license. And everyone’s wet dream in Algeria, Pat, had come back to Houston to complete her degree after leaving her husband. I met her by accident at the university one day. She definitely looked foxy, but I was in no condition for any kind of relationship. It seemed like everyone who returned from overseas was either getting married or divorced.

Then there was JB. He was a hip, good-old-boy from Georgia with whom I had become good friends and teammates in Algeria. When he returned to Texas from his overseas stint, he bought a small beach house in Galveston. At one of his famous beach parties, I met a strange individual named Walsh. He was quiet one minute and raucous the next. He heard me playing guitar at the party and took an instant liking to Chris and me. When he offered his bass-playing services, I invited him to audition with the band.

Back at the office, Benjamin had been monitoring my divorce situation closely, both from the perspective of benefits coverage and also as a friend. In addition, he became acutely concerned with my love life. At the beginning of the week, Benjamin assigned me to a small project with a cute Vietnamese girl named Hoi. She was petite and taut, with short hair and plump cheeks. After our first meeting, she unreservedly asked me about my son, Chris. From her question, I knew she had been well-briefed, and it was no mystery who the culprit was. She invited me and Chris over to her apartment for dinner that weekend. She lived just west of Gessner, hardly ten minutes away from my parents’ home.

The weather was nice, so we jumped into her swimming pool. Chris loved the water and couldn’t get enough. When he finally wore us out, we migrated inside to a light supper with wine. Hoi was excellent with Chris, but she was enamored with me – the single father. After Chris fell asleep, the evening grew romantic. I felt cozy and began to settle into the ambiance. Just on the verge of falling into the black hole, however, I heard her say, It’s so refreshing being with a nice man for a change. As if a bucket of water had hit me in the face, I awoke from my stupor, excused myself, and dashed out of there with my son and my freedom.

I began seeing Hoi more often after that, however. Like many old-school Vietnamese, she spoke fluent French. We had long, interesting conversations, and I called her by her French name – Aline. Chris was always with us when we were together, and for the most part, we kept our relationship clean. In fact, Chris was with me most of the time. My schedule had allowed me to pick him up Thursday nights and bring him back Monday mornings. Most Mondays, Shereen was unavailable, so I would keep him until Tuesday.

Near the end of June, 1981, I called my old boss, Mayberry. Two months back at the job as a regular employee was enough for my blood. I craved the pay and independence of a contractor. Furthermore, the rumors of layoffs ran rampant at Kellogg. Unfortunately, Mayberry had nothing for me, but he recommended me to a lady he had worked with at Arthur Andersen. Also a CPA and graduate from Rice, Susan was a single girl from Luchenbach, Texas who owned her own consulting company. She was now running the Wainoco Oil & Gas account and had worked out a magnificent two-year implementation plan to convert all systems from their old service bureau to an IBM 4331 that they just purchased. A phone call later, I accepted her offer of twenty-five dollars-per-hour plus health insurance.

She happily agreed to let me work thirty-two hours a week, whereby I might complete my maniacal plan to graduate at the end of the year. When I informed Benjamin that I was leaving Kellogg, he only smiled and laid some skin on me. I had to submit my resignation to his boss, our section manager, who pointed out that I wasn’t even on the RIF list. Because of my decision, however, one less employee would get terminated. Ironically, it turned out to be Bishop. No one ever told him that my departure bought him another year before he could move his family to their dream state of Colorado.

After work, Benjamin invited me for a farewell drink at the Greenway Bar downstairs. He introduced me to the barmaid whom he seemed well-acquainted with. Michelle was quite attractive and became ultra-friendly with me since Benjamin kept talking me up to her. He seemed to be hooking us up which I felt a bit uncomfortable about. However, after two beers and an hour into the gathering, I decided to ask her out when Benjamin bent over to whisper something to me.

Michelle used to be Michael, he mused. He – that is – she had a sex change last year. Great job, huh? When I couldn’t answer – or breathe for that matter – he continued, You gotta look for the Adam’s apple. That’s the real giveaway.

For the next half-hour, I sat perplexed in my seat. I felt like a fool – falling for a guy for God’s sake! I convinced myself that I could see the protrusion in Michelle’s throat when she passed our table several times. Eventually I began to feel sick inside and unable to complete my drink.

Let’s go, I finally beckoned sheepishly.

After we exited the bar, Benjamin slapped my back hard. Damn, man! You believed me! I been knowin’ that girl for two years now. Don’t you know I was jus’ kiddin’? She’s one of the nicest, sweetest chicks I know. Roj, you gotta get you a woman, man. You been alone for too long.

I didn’t know whether to kick his ass or kiss him or go back in or what. I just bottled up, found my car, and headed into the sunset like the confused loser I felt I was evolving into.

Since I had joined the Kellogg softball team while still employed, I was allowed to continue playing until the end of the season. So I thought. The prior week, I had thrown my arm out. That came an hour before my commitment to play left field for JB’s team in their championship game. Our old friend, Harold, had coached them to their final game. With the best left fielder in the world out with a bad back, there I was filling in for him with a noodle for an arm. I made a couple of great catches, but it didn’t take long for the opposition to realize my physical dilemma. The final two innings, after fielding the ball, I shed my glove and began throwing it in with my left hand. We won the game in the end and I actually received a trophy for my less-than-stellar performance. That was last week.

This week, during my final practice with the Kellogg team, I was stationed at second base because the outfield was already manned. We had almost finished our drills when our fine shortstop took his turn at the plate. As customary, he would run the bases for his final swing. He slapped a liner between first and second, so both the first baseman and I went for it. I trapped it fortuitously in the web of my glove. If our lazy pitcher would have done his job, it would have been an easy toss to first. Instead, I had to hustle and tag the base in order to record the out. It was a close race, and at the last second, I dived, left arm outstretched for the bag. The next thing I knew, I was writhing on the ground in searing pain! The runner had inadvertently kicked me full-force in the shoulder while stretching for the bag.

I didn’t know it yet, but I had dislocated my shoulder. It felt like an electric wire was being applied to my very nerve. Something had to make it stop! I was toppling on the edge of a towering cliff and begging for closure, one way or the other. Then I vaguely remembered someone running in from the outfield, grabbing my arm, leveraging his foot against my underarm, and pulling until I felt the nasty pop. Finally, the seething agony ceased. Afterwards, came normal agony – painful, but tolerable. I was able to drive myself to the emergency room on Beechnut. They wrapped me up in a sling and issued me painkillers, which I promptly disposed of. That was the end of my season and my sports career until the end of the year.

My new assignment with Susan began in the midst of turmoil. How else? Wainoco Oil & Gas had hired their own data processing staff in anticipation of the conversion project. Three programmers, two keypunchers, a systems programmer, and a data specialist all reported to Atkinson – a tough, but fair DP manager. He was an urban cowboy type and good drinking buddies with the Accounting manager, Bravenec. I remembered Bravenec and his right hand man, Roosevelt, from my previous stint with Wainoco. Rosie – as his friends called him – had an enormous Afro and an even bigger smile. He welcomed me with soulful hospitality, but the rest of the crew seemed unreceptive to our presence. Considering its formidable staff, what did Wainoco need the services of Susan and myself for anyway?

The answer became quickly clear. To begin with, Atkinson knew his hardware, but Oil & Gas Accounting was not his forté. In addition, he was not accomplished in the area of project management. On paper, Susan was prepared for both those challenges. Her credentials qualified her in the areas of scheduling, planning, project reporting, etc. Her unique knowledge of FINPAC was invaluable, both for customizing accounting parameters and generating design specifications for the Cobol interface and report programs. I was commissioned to carry out the programming tasks. My experience with Cobol, FINPAC, and DOS/VS qualified me for that.

One of the seasoned programmers, Mike, was hardly involved in the project. Eventually, he would do something we all criticized but secretly envied. He resigned his perfectly wonderful technical position to open a small butcher shop in Galveston. The oldest of the programmers, Dwight, was actually a trainee. Professing his call as a reverend, he was an extremely nice guy, but rarely accomplished any of his assignments. This left Whitton, an energetic Scotsman with reasonable experience. Yet he possessed superior analytical and programming skills.

Whitton must have been skeptical of me at first, but he didn’t show it. On the contrary, he was friendly and gave me a chance to prove myself. I did my best to excel in my technical duties, but I found that my true niche on the project was communication. I helped bridge the gap between Susan, a girlish and emotional consultant, and Atkinson, a seemingly unyielding DP manager. When he properly weighed his options, Atkinson usually made the right decision. The trick was to get him to listen to all the facts. In that environment, Susan’s style was ineffective. Expecting respect and cooperation simply out of protocol, most of her proposals went neglected. Charts and graphs may have sufficed for bean counters and upper management, but old hardware veterans needed something they could sink their teeth into. That’s where Whitton and I came in.

Whitton appreciated my effort to keep both sides connected for the sake of project success and joined me in discreet intervention. We formed an alliance, and the project would eventually succeed. Furthermore, we formed a lasting friendship. We were the same age, both musicians and peace lovers. Whitton played the bagpipes and ate the haggis like a real Scot. He had a wife and three young kids, his youngest named Chris, almost the same age as my Chris. He opened up his home to us, where we ate, sang, smoked together, and enjoyed the latest Star Trek movie, Wrath of Khan. At work, we held the fabric together and wasted Clingons in Trek, a rudimentary computer version of Battleship. Whitton helped make my assignment at Wainoco a joy and a success.

Chapter 2 – Meeting The Challenges

I was grateful when Uncle Nadim offered me the use of the 1976 Skyhawk that sat outside their townhouse. It was a small hatchback, but the six cylinder engine greatly surpassed its torque requirements, rendering it an extremely fast car. It did nevertheless come with its set of problems. Every two days or so, the carburetor would clog, causing the engine to sputter. The old Skyhawk stalled on me several times during the most inopportune moments. It died on me once while climbing the ramp from 59 North to 610 South. I was forced to pull over to the quasi-shoulder, remove the fuel filter, and blow out the junk with my mouth while traffic made its way around me.

Nevertheless, the vehicle and my now-ex-father-in-law’s gesture were invaluable to me. I could hardly afford anything else at the time. I had helped Richard purchase a four-wheel pickup, but it was impossible to share it all the time. Uncle Nadim had given Shereen his 280ZX and her mother’s Caprice, but she remained unhappy that I was allowed to use the old car that their cousin in California had dumped on them. I offered to pay Uncle Nadim for the car to which he promptly and adamantly refused.

I survived the first summer term due to some fortunate breaks. I took a math class with my old professor, Dr. Fajtlowicz who always liked me and cut me some slack. He allowed me to skip classes as long as I completed the work. Likewise, my second class – Political Science – had required a project paper. Fortunately, my fresh experience in Algeria empowered me to produce an acceptable term paper. I titled it Pour Le Peuple et Par Le Peuple after the Algerian national newspaper. I aced both courses, and registered for three more in the following summer term – Advanced Abstract Algebra, Probability and Statistics, and Physics. Fajtlowicz guaranteed me whatever support I needed. And after much persuasion, Richard agreed to give college a try and registered with me for the Physics class. I was stoked.

On a hot and muggy August Tuesday, the weather drastically turned sour in the afternoon as it was known to do in Houston. It began to rain heavily. It came down in torrents. By the time Richard and I left the university, the streets were hopelessly flooded. We could only take the freeway for a couple of miles because of the ridiculous traffic. Houston during rush hour was already crazy. But when it rained, everything came to a standstill. I could never accept sitting motionless on the road, so we exited and took the back streets. By then, the water was two to three feet high on most roads, and everyone was either pulling