Captain finally located the brother-in-law of the Foreign Minister, an old childhood friend of his. We traveled northeast to meet him, a 7 hour car ride to the land of ancient persian mythology: Gorgan, a city in the Mazandaran provice, near the Caspian Sea. The area is well known for its magical mythical forces and dragons well documented in the (Shahnameh) Book Of Kings, by Ferdusi (a fine weave of sacred and profane Iranian history).

Gorgan also happens to be the city where my mother grew up and my grandfather had a jewelery store for several years; though back then, it was just a small town, well known only for its verdant forests that offer nice backpacking terrain and occult nomads.

I didn’t see any serpent shouldered kings or dragons upon arrival.

The place had radically transformed since 2000 when I had trekked out here in amaetur hopes of becoming a professional freestyle wrestler under the guidance of Captain. (This was my substitute for “studying away” during college. And it was shortlived. I contracted typhoid fever and had to drop out of several regional tournaments after 2.5 months of training.)

Gorgan was now a booming town with paved roads, bustling streets, palm trees and elaborate and colorful electric displays emulating fireworks and varying plant life. We had plans to meet Dr. Nazarimehr at 11pm. He is the brother-In Law of Mottaki, Iran’s Foreign Minister, and he happens to have a solid rank in Parliament , is a member of the National Olympic Committee, and headed President Ahmadinejad’s campaign for presidency in Northern Iran. He is also a retired dentist.

We were chowing down on fresh bbq liver and kidney when Captain broke the silence: “If this man can’t help up, no one can… It just took a while to track him down because he’s so busy. But this is his hometown and I grew up with him. Did you bring one of your folders?” (referring to the Iran Pitch Folder). I nodded and reached for my 8th skewer of liver/kidney/heart combo.

At 1046pm, we rolled up to a fruit stand to refuel, and Captain’s cellie buzzed. We got word that “doctor can’t meet with you tonight…he is stuck in Sari for the evening….I will contact you tomorrow to arrange for a meeting.” I kicked over a carton of apples and apologized.

We retired to Captain’s brother’s place, Ruholla, a hospitable man who looks like the Fonz, has a closet filled with the softest blankets in the world, and was named after Khomeini’s middle name. I spent the evening speeding through the forest aimlessly and blasting Iranian techno in a petite white car with Captain’s younger brother, Mohamad, a slim man of many mysteries, (who sluggishly runs Captain’s meat and mushroom farmer’s market style shack in Tehran, and with a devoted gravity of sarcasm).

The next day I woke at dawn and watched the sun rise over the snowy mountains. I felt hopeless about the visa situation. It was now over 20 days since I had arrived in Iran. I ate 7 Kopiko caramel bites and immediately felt better.

At around 4pm, Captain called me while I was in the dense woods meditating to Vajriyana chanting while in an elaborate warrior pose.

“Do I need to make an appointment to see you? Where have you been?… I got a hold of Doctor and we’re planning to see him shortly….”

It was the last day of the New Year’s 2 week celebratory binging, so everyone was out and about with their skewers, instruments and watermelons. And families. It was a national bbq festival. I was surprised this meeting was actually going to happen on such a day.

We rolled up to some dark backalley and a generous round old man opened a gate for us which revealed a backyard then a dark office space. He flicked on the lights and we appeared to be in an office space that blended into a large kitchen in the background. The kitchen seemed to flow into the office space greedily, as if competing for recognition. We sat and were offered pineapple juice and coca colas. I didn’t know what to expect. I thought we’d be in the midst of screaming children at Docs family quarters. In a few moments, Doctor Nazarimehr arrived with a reputable surgeon friend of his. Everyone embraced. Captain laid down the dough and with a unique urgency that I hadn’t seen before. It seemed like he was speaking to an old highschool buddy. No BS. Nazarimehr was a finetuned speaker and unlike Saydonlu, did not respond in a lofty drawn out nature. He was quicker, to the point, and less pensive. I gave him an I ran Pitch folder and revealed the hurdles over the last 3 years. His eyes seemed to intently size everything up and were notably compassionate eyes. His friend immediately tooted the potential benefit the project could have for the nation.
Doc said, “I can see you at Parliament in 3 days between9-11am. Drop in then and I’ll let you know what I’ve done for you.”

The light at the end of the tunnel.

On the day of our Parliament meeting, I woke up at 630am and brewed Kronung German coffee. I immediately noticed that my goldfish had died. I remembered trying to feed it bread crumbs the night before. Oopsie.

I phoned Captain and we made arrangements to meet at his Meat and Mushroom Market shack at 8am. I arrived earlier to enjoy some comic relief: Captain’s brother Mohamad running the shack with a Jon Lovetz essence. I tore open a bag of maz maz potato chips and watched from the sidelines. A few minutes later Captain arrived. “Did you bring a hat? We have to take the motorcycle. Traffic is heavy….where’s Mohamad?”

I looked over to a crowd of 12 waiting on the register. Hmmm.

“He was here a minute ago.”

“Look after the shop for a minute while I look for him”.

“Um wait, I uh”…Captain walked away. This was Captain’s other shack, and I had no idea how to run anything. But before I knew it, the masses engulfed me with their orders, and I was selling mushrooms and whole uncooked chicken and eggs and sausage links (kosher of course) and frozen goat parts. The rush was incredible.

“Give me a larger chicken!”

“Are those fresh chicken?”

“Give me a smaller chicken!”

“Do you have mozzarella cheese?”

“How about prime rib?”

“I want larger links!”

Questions poured in like crackly playground noisiness. There was no line. Everyone budged forward and showed off their vocal ranges like the NY Stock Exchange in the late 90’s.

I had no idea what else was inside the freezers or refrigerators either. Captain didn’t answer his phone for 20 minutes and slim shady Mohamad never came back. I also didn’t know what anything cost except for eggs.

I probably sold 82 chicken and a hundreds of eggs in that time. I rounded up, down, guessed several values, asked customers what they paid last, etc. Not knowing how to properly weigh in kilos because of the messy farsi fonts didn’t help much either. It was mayhem.

Captain returned without any news of Mohamad.

“Has he returned yet?…..That %$^#&^%$”

He took over the register and the scooping of mushrooms as I manned the large buckets of whole chicken in ice, receptive to incessant predator fingers pointing at their iced prey. I took breaks to load massive cartons of eggs onto the counter. This required utmost concentration as the cartons housed over 150 eggs. Ocasionally, I’d sell sausage links too. This went on until 9am, when Mohamad returned nonchalantly, as if he was taking a stroll in the park.

It was a cool breezy day, winds north west at 14 and clear skies.
Captain closed the drawer of scattered bills, and slowly walked over to Mohamad.
Mohamad was smoking a Winston light and gazing off.

The earth stopped rotating. . .

“what cemetery were you hanging out at for the last hour?!”

“I just went for a walk… Why’re you so revved up?”

“ You *%^&$”

Captain began fuming at the mouth chu chu mania. Face to face, slim shady Mohamad was no match for this retired freestyle wrestling champion that requires 8 men to get a proper workout. Captain’s yelling rapidly grew to dragon heat proportions. Nearby fruit vendors paused mid watermelon grab, plastic bags refused to open, children stopped chewing their snickers, and old ladies searching passionately for deals suddenly turned into statues. For the duration of Captain’s rant, the 9 adjacent shacks and all vendors including innocent bystanders and all customers stood poised facing Captain, reverentially, as if they were all waiting for the National Anthem.

Mohamad walked off then all of a sudden, and Captain resumed at the register. Everything immediately restored to supercharged farmers market caliber. No questions were asked. Plastic bags opened again.

We were going to be late to Parliament. I mumbled &%$^%#@. I understood it was about an hour drive from where we were at, and Captain couldn’t leave the meat shack. It was too busy and no one to man it now. I was tempted to take off but as I stared at the crowd I couldn’t find it in my heart to leave Captain alone. Also, Parliament is another world with several layers of security, and I wasn’t confident I could navigate through to Doc.

A large truck of chicken arrived with one thousand more whole chicken on ice. I resumed selling meat.

“Don’t worry, we’ll track Doctor down tonight and see him.”

The meat shack stayed open until about 2pm then it closed for 2 hours, along with all the other vendors. I felt like an overworked pole dancer. My body was beat. My hands were wrecked. I had also cut myself pretty badly. But somehow, while standing their in my slacks and now chicken and egg-stained parliament worthy outfit, a feeling of deep accomplishment wandered through me with the oncoming breeze. I had sold over 300 chicken and over 1k kilos of mushrooms, sausage links, and mozzarella cheese. I imagined marching through Tehran with Iranian police officers/ catalogue models, among mushroom blimps and gargantuan blow-up chicken. I rode one of the chicken valiantly, while using sausage links as a lasso to fetch Tyler’s visa that rested on one of the mushroom.

Jazz music blasted from the mushrooms, the world cheered…. I was smiling and laughing…But then I realized my finger was still bleeding. And I still did not have Tyler’s visa. After tending to my wound and closing down the shop, I hopped Captain’s motorcycle and we sped off to eat kabobs. I decided to crash on his couch as he went back to work; he said he’d get a hold of Doc later tonight. Upon waking, I baked a cake with a ten year old then hopped a cab to a nearby mall. There I found a store selling hippi type merchandise and playing relaxing nature sounds. I stood in meditation. Then I accidentally knocked over a porcelain vase and broke it. The smiling owner wrapped it up without a word and handed it over with a hefty cost.

Captain called me around 11:24pm: “I spoke to Doctor on the phone. He said he can see us at exactly 10am tomorrow. He sounds excited about the project and says he’s going to do everything he can to make this happen…”