In the dimly-lit grotto of my computer desk where my monitor and my speakers rest, begging to be dusted, there hangs on the wall above said monitor something special. I bought it whilst in exile in Raleigh, North Carolina, year-before-last. Every weekend while there, rain or shine, they would have a gigantic flea market out at the North Carolina State Fairgrounds. I, missing the special atmosphere of bazaars in Turkey, went religiously every Saturday. By "special", I mean "socially acceptable to give the shiv to old ladies who grab something you want; also, you can bicker with people you don't know for something you need like you need holes drilled into your head with sidewalk-breakers." It was fantastic. I became very, very familiar with several of the vendors; namely, the ones who sold freak ethnographic artifacts. There was the Thai man who would show me his new merchandise, having ordered it specifically to suit my very desires; the Nepalese man who knew of my propensity for buying anything that was made to look like Ganesh, the Hindu god who removes obstacles and possessed of an elephant-head, and of course, the Turkish lady who would bring me food every weekend and who called me her lost American son. The Nepalese man was shrewdest. As I walked by on a crisp autumn afternoon, he fanned his wares attractively as he met my eye. New this week: a bumper-crop of masks.
Now, as you all know, I collect masks. Some people collect expensive purses or shoes or baseball cards; I collect masks, and the more hideous, the better. I have masks from more than seventeen countries, totalling more than eighty at this point. The funny part is how I get them: most are gifts from my friends and family, who delight me at every chance by getting me increasingly more disturbing masks as the years go by. One of my friends said once: "If I see a mask that I would never allow into my own home, I know I need to buy it for you." Tenderness!
So anyway, the Nepalese man knew he had me by the cojones. I stood there, bathed in the smoke from the incense he was always burning. Nothing says "weird" in North Carolina like when them ferriners burn that crazy crap. He eyed me and smiled his broad, blindingly white smile. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the "O.K. Corral" theme-song. A tumbleweed tattered past. He dramatically unveiled thirteen plaster masks of Nepalese demons and minor deities. My poker-face was about to be lost. He gestured grandly.
Hello, good sir. I have new masks today. How about you coming over here...for a look?
Look I did. In vivid colors I recognized Hanumaman, the monkey-god; Shiva, the destroyer, and many others. Amongst them were not one, but two masks of Ganesh. There was no going back.
With my bazaar mindset in place, I prepared for a battle that would rival the Bhagavad Gita. I asked how much he wanted for the two Ganesh masks. He shrugged. "Look", he said, "you have been buying my stuff for months. Nobody else does. I will give you all thirteen for twenty dollars."
For a brief moment I thought I was going insane. In that instant, he began packing them into sacks; he knew that I could not, nay, would not refuse such an offer. When I regained myself, I looked to his grin and his open palm, put a fresh twenty in it, and walked away before what I assumed would be a mugging took place.
Loyalty is rewarded sometimes.
So anyway, back to the original story. One day, I get to the fairgrounds and there is loud, non-English music coming from the agricultural display building. Emblazoned on the side of the corrugated steel building was, in fancy blue letters, the words "Raleigh Greek Festival." Now, I thought, THIS could be interesting. I carefully concealed my tattoo and made my way in. The air was thick with the smell of grilling meat, coffee and baklava. THOUSANDS of Greeks were inside, eating, smoking, drinking, and having a blast, right there in the middle of Piedmont North Carolina. In the corner of the building, Greek vendors hawked their wares. I knew what I wanted. OK, so a tee-shirt with Apollo all nekkid would have been fun, but having been to Greece once already, I knew what I had missed getting while there. An icon. An old man and his wife sat in a dim corner with hundreds of hand-painted Byzantine icons of thousands of saints. Of course I could have selected a baleful Virgin Mary or Saint Nicholas, but I wanted something more obscure. Partially obstructed by an icon depicting the crucifixion, a tiny icon lay gleaming. I thought; hmm, now that saint is more handsome than the rest. Maybe I will get him.
*sound of one-way ticket to Hell being punched*
Turns out he is Saint Elektherios. Saint Elektherios is the patron saint of the incurably ill. More interesting still, he is the patron saint of lost, hopeless causes.
As I sit here, my Turkish homework and Ottoman homework and French homework not doing itself and the beginnings of what I think is some sort of avian flu setting itself into my lungs, I look into the semidarkness to Saint Elektherios, whom I purchased because he was more handsome than St. Joseph, and wonder if even HE can help me now.
I think he just winked.
All the best for a night that is restful, peaceful and punctuated by sleep of some kind.
Dom (Demir)
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