Are you Israeli?

The Pret a Manger at Union Station.

This story was originally written in June 2016 and published on the now defunct Bourbon and Chai website.

I was standing in DC's bustling Union Station outside the H&M facing the Pret a Manger. I had purposely situated myself out of the way so I wouldn’t block other commuters as they to-ed and fro-ed. Rolling suitcases were clicking and clacking across the red tile floor.

Listening to Pandora, I was busy minding my own business and idly waiting for my girlfriend to arrive. We were catching a train to Philly. The Red Line, as usual, was having issues.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch an eager looking gentleman trying to get my attention. Medium height, shaved head, bushy eyebrows, dark eyes, olive skin, but with a few extra pounds around his waist line. Polo shirt untucked, jeans looking neatly pressed. If I was honest, he looked like a Telly Savalas-Igal Naor hybrid.

'Is my music too loud,' I thought to myself. It wasn't.

He smiled, nodded his head.

I acknowledged him, with a returned head nod--the type guys do the world over.

"Are you Israeli?" he asks with a perceptible accent that told me he was both foreign born, but fully comfortable in English.

‘Ah, shit, here we go,’ I thought. ‘the where are you from game…fun.’ I’ve kept a running tally of places folks have guessed: Bosnia, Japan, Argentina to name a few.

"No," I said shaking my head, not sure I wanted to play this game.

"Do you speak Hebrew?" Maybe he wasn't so comfortable in English after all, hoping a conversation in a shared second, more familiar language would be easier.

"I’m sorry, no to that, too.”

"Jewish?"

"Nope." I’m starting to chuckle a bit. He’s getting frustrated. Striking out on his attempts to make a connection.

"Where are you from?" he said, exhausting all of his presumed options.

Telly Savalas.

"Kentucky." He gives me a sincere look of 'what the fuck.' The inner monologue was nearly audible. It's the same look I often get when I tell people I'm from Kentucky without providing context.

"But my dad is Iranian," I explain, because clarification is almost always needed.

"Ahh," there was a perceptible light bulb moment as if that explained his mistake perceiving me to be Jewish and was enough for him to be comfortable to continue the conversation. "Are you Muslim?"

"Yes, but only as much as one can be growing up in rural Kentucky."

With the formalities of feeling me out completed, he asks, "My friend, last night I lost my wallet, my train ticket, everything. Could you help be buy a bus ticket back to Boston? I have no money. I'll send you a check when I get back. I promise"

I hesitate.

"Consider it as an exercise in cross-cultural engagement."

'Fuck, he knows my weakness.' I literally love this stuff. People helping people. Folks thrown together through live’s curveballs sorting it as a team because it’s the right thing to do.

"Sure, how much do you need?"

"The ticket costs $40. There's an ATM right over there," he said pointing to the ATM in front of the H&M.

'This guy has really scoped this place out. Is he scamming me? Or maybe he's just been here a while.'

I walked over towards the ATM, started to insert my card, and saw the sign that read out of order. Was that an omen? Should I turn back now? Give up on the potential cross-cultural bridge building? As I turn, I catch his face looking hopeful, for the first time all day, someone will finally help him make that 8 hour bus ride back to Boston.

Igal Naor.

"I think there's another ATM around the corner," I said, "This one's broken."

"Thank you for helping me. My friend, what's your name?"

'Oh crap, he's not going to believe I'm not Jewish.'

"David," I respond, chuckling to myself, as I shake his hand.

"Eli, my name is Eli."

'Should I tell him my middle name? No, absolutely not, don't do that. He's really going to think you're lying to him about not being Jewish.'

"Again, thank you for helping me," he said smiling, relieved that his time in the purgatory of DC’s Union Station was coming to a close.

There's a line at the two ATMs through two sliding glass doors and around the corner from Pret. They sit just across from the doors where folks can enter and exit the metro and close to another door beyond which they can board or exit MARC and Amtrak trains. Both of us sit in an awkward silence that lasted all of two minutes but felt like eternity. Finally, it was my turn. I go through the familiar motions of withdrawing funds from a cash machine, sliding my card in, punching in my pin, then selecting a withdrawal amount. I pulled out $60, an extra $20 for myself. Transaction completed.

As I hand him the $40, he most certainly had seen me pull three twenties from the machine, Eli asks, "Can I have $20 more for some food along the way? It's an 8 hour trip."

'Let's not ruin this moment of cross-cultural bridge building, Eli,' I thought.

"I'm sorry that extra $20 is for me," I said, almost immediately regretting it because it sounded way too harsh. Looking back on it, I should have just given him the extra cash. It was cruel on my part. Unnecessary, because if I had needed cash, I could always just go back to an ATM, a luxury that Eli wasn’t afforded.

"Ahh, no worries, friend. Thank you for this. But, please, give me your phone number or address, I will send you a check when I get back to Boston," he insisted.

"Pay it forward, my friend. When someone asks you for help, help them. That's how you can pay me back," I responded sounding almost sanctimonious, rather than benevolent.

Union Station’s Main Hall.

"Thank you, Thank you, I will," he said smiling as he walked to buy his bus ticket.

I should have at least exchanged numbers with him. Because, now, looking back after nearly seven years, I’d like to know how the guy is getting on in the world. Is he somewhere in Boston sitting comfortably sipping coffee or tea, and periodically thinking about our interaction at Union Station? I wonder if he ever found anyone to buy him food or if he waited, hunger pangs unabated, until he got home. Did he pay it forward? Does he curse me because I didn’t give him my extra twenty? How did he lose all his stuff?

It's been seven years and what still sticks out the most, what makes me laugh is that of all the people scurrying through Union Station, he picked me solely because I looked the most Jewish. 

I get it, though. I still regularly pick my doctors solely based on my perceptions of their Iranianness.