Chatting with the Imam

I used to see the Imam on a regular basis a year or so ago. His main line of work is being a business prof, and in that capacity I'd help him out because he is not that adept with computers. Now that his classes use different software he doesn't require my assistance. Still, I liked to drop by for a chat.

Coming from Egypt, he recognizes and values what many native born Americans often take for granted: our attempts to follow our profession of equality and fairness under the law. He is as dismayed as anyone else at his co-religionists slaughtering each other in the Middle East.

He was happy to see me. And why not? I don't seem particularly arrogant or look down on people with less technological expertise. Any number of times I've said that much of what passes for technical expertise is transient knowledge, easily obviated by newer software or methods. The technical expertise is often just a tech edition of Trivial Pursuit.

Also, we just seem to get along

About a year ago, when it appeared that my position was in jeopardy he was one of the faculty who were prepared to go to the mat for me. I didn't fully realize it at the time, something that embarrasses me now, but now I get practically weepy remembering it. So when he asks, "How are things?" it is not a nicety - he's concerned.

I said it looks like I'm doing OK, how about you.

Not so well it turns out. He's not getting any younger and one friend, a friend since childhood recently "expired" in the hospital. We reflected on the term. It was as if his friend had lived too long. Another old friend had called him recently to inform the Imam that he had cancer which was now affecting his brain and the call would probably be his last.

I asked if, like some of his colleagues, he was going to take early retirement. He said no. He didn't have a talent like others who painted or played a musical instrument. He'd keep on teaching. (He's much more accepting than other professors whose chagrin at a decline in the quality of the students drove their acceptance of early retirement.)

With those portents of mortality, the Imam went out and bought a Mercedes SUV. Really? Yes, it's right over there. The tan one. I offered to scratch it for him so he wouldn't have to deal with the uncertainty of it getting scratched. He declined my offer. He said the Mercedes was a wonderful car. People treated him with more respect. The guys at the gas station now called him sir even though he doesn't spend any more money than before.

I told him about the time I was watching TV with my mother (always an experience) when I responded to an ad for a Porsche by saying, "I could never own a car like that." Quick to challenge my perceived inferiority complex, my mother shot back, "Why not?" Well mom, I'd worry about it getting scratched and, well it's a fine piece of machinery which deserves to be well taken care of - something which unfortunately isn't my style.

(I keep as a model of car ownership a wealthy distant relative who, along with his acquaintances of similar means, had a master mechanic on retainer. On one occasion, after brunch at my parent's house he discovered sap from a maple on his Porsche. He quickly came inside and called his mechanic to arrange for the car to be cleaned and re-waxed. This was in the days before cell phones.)

We parted. He to enjoy his SUV. Me to play with computers.