The Things I Prefer To Be Forgotten

By Alexei Auld

Ethiopian expat and up-for-anything, Samson, prefers social diversion over self-analysis and parties as an escape from reality. Native American and certifiable germaphobe, Opie, embraces a different lifestyle. In an effort to find stability amongst chaos, he adheres to strict rules he's laid out for himself.

When Samson and Opie arrive at Columbia Law School, much more than a formal education is on the prestigious curriculum. Enter Trey, a hedonistic peer whose antics and ego are larger than life. He introduces Samson and Opie to an aberrant world which is alternately fascinating and revolting to them. Aggressive strippers, corrupt friends and rigged Ivy League school elections hint at what's in store for them. Not so subtly, adultery, a drunken Supreme Court Justice, the dump cake girls, and an international drug conspiracy become events they can't erase from memory. Not to mention the time they endure a hurricane of biblical proportions in New Orleans.

The Things I Prefer to Be Forgotten is an intimate and humorous portrait of two promising young men's struggle to find their place in an unpredictable world. As it reaches its conclusion, readers will be compelled to contemplate anew why the seemingly invincible fall from grace when they appear to have it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TemRose Publishing
• Release date: Apr 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692024294

Alexei Auld

Alexei Auld is an Off-Rez alum of Columbia Law School and Sundance's Native Writing Workshop. His writing has been featured in E! True Hollywood Story, Fondo Del Sol, and numerous curated festivals and publications.

Book preview

1

Trey’s First Protégé

TREY WAS LYING ON HIS BED watching a Lucky Ed porno with another man, not an uncommon thing for him to do. The other man’s name was Solomon.

So, what exactly is a Falasha again? Is it like the Nation of Islam on some shit? Trey asked.

No, we’re Jews.

Come again?

We’re Ethiopian Jews. Most of us live in Israel after the eighties airlift.

"So, are you guys kinda Jews, like how those motherfuckers in the Nation are kinda Muslims?"

No, we’re more authentic in our traditions than many of the European Jews are. One of the lost tribes. In fact, my brother warned me about losing my faith coming here.

What do you mean?

Before I came here, my brother told me not to put a damn thing in my mouth without asking what’s in it. He said you Americans put pork in everything. In your ice cream. In your juice. In your toothpaste. In your fruit. Even in your so-called vegetarian foods for some inexplicable reason. You apparently have some uncontrollable love for the pig.

Only the best, Solomon. The pig is a refined meat. Trey was paying rapt attention to Lucky Ed, who was ass-fucking a barely legal Asian hooker. I don’t know about no pork-fu, but Lucky Ed looks like he’s got chicken chow mein on his dick. Bitch didn’t give herself an enema before the scene. That’s what you get when you fuck cheap hos.

Solomon pulled out a yarmulke and put it on.

Are you fucking kidding me? Lucky Ed had just put his small, possibly shit-covered dick in the girl’s mouth. How is ATM legal? How old you think she is? Trey was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his thighs, as if he was wiping something off his hands. Again and again. He looked up at Solomon. What the fuck is that shit on your head? Is that a beanie?

It’s my yarmulke.

Wow. That is one elaborate fucking con. But, hey, it’ll get you some pussy. You could work the old school Lenny Kravitz angle, if you grow your hair out.

Solomon turned away from the TV, feeling a bit queasy. I don’t know about all that. I have made a lot of sacrifices in my life to get this chance to come to such an elite school and to get my degree. After having spent the last few years in the IDF, bombarded by rocks and bricks, disarming bombs in garbage cans, classrooms, and a mosque, I have done my time, and now I just want a peaceful life as a successful attorney, whether back home or here.

Fuck the peace shit. You got your hook, bruh. You’ve killed some motherfuckers, Rambo shit—

Actually, I haven’t killed anyone. At least, I don’t think I have.

Whatever, dude. Bitches love thugs, especially legit ones, like cops and soldiers. Especially after that 9/11 shit. Cops and firefighters got all the pussy. It was a pussy drought for the rest of us niggas. I thought about a uniform myself.

Wow, well, OK. But I am not going to embellish. What I did was dangerous, and that should be enough to impress the ladies. It was what it was.

A few hours later, Solomon and Trey were having some drinks with Solomon’s fellow LLM students. Solomon was nursing a Bud Light and tapping the tabletop. Padme, sitting across from him, was, in his mind, stunningly beautiful. Every time he looked at her, he couldn’t help conjuring an elaborate fantasy about their life together.

We’re not all as bad as the Western media has portrayed us. We try to connect with the Palestinians. For example, one time, when I was on patrol near Haifa, I tried to befriend a wary Palestinian kid.

Padme pushed a loose strand of shiny black hair behind her ear. So that’s it? One kumbaya story? How did it end? The age of sound ruined the film.

He ran off over a hill. Then a moment later, he and twenty of his friends start throwing rocks and bricks at us. I got knocked out when the same kid got me square in the head with a big rock.

Padme was a Shiite from Lebanon. What did you expect? You spent time shooting kids, on rape patrols, bulldozing schools. Protecting those crazy settlers in the West Bank?

It’s more complicated than that. We protected the Palestinians, too. And they really appreciated the help we gave them. In fact, there’s this guy, Khaled. His daughter gave me a picture she drew—

Are you kidding me?

No. It was really nice. It was me, in my uniform, and her, riding a unicorn. Weird, but nice. I actually brought it here with me if you—

I can’t believe I’m sharing drinks with a guy who shoots kids that throw rocks. She turned away and started talking to the other LLMs at the table. Trey smiled at her. She nodded towards Solomon and rolled her eyes. Trey shook his head.

First of all, those rocks really, really hurt. Second, we used rubber bullets which—

I can’t talk to you. She got up, grabbed her olive canvas bag and walked off.

Trey was still shaking his head.

Mistake number one, bro. You, a Jew, trying to get some booty from a Muslim girl. You’re more likely to get a blowjob from a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Amazon bulldagger with a dick allergy. Lips all swoll up from the smell of dick.

No, you just don’t—

Her going into some anaphylactic shock. She’s on the ground. Choking. You call 911. But we’re in Harlem, so they asses ain’t coming for an hour. Bitch done died on you. You standing there. Dick all hanging out. Trying to explain shit.

But—

You try to explain to the EMTs and they’ve seen everything. Two to three girls died from dick allergies in last, like, three weeks and shit. He’ll tell you how dicks are worse for some dykes than peanuts.

Peanuts?

You need to hang out with some sistahs. There’re some I want you to meet.

The next night, Trey took him to a grungy, underground strip club in East Harlem. Solomon was engaged in an increasingly violent fight with a mostly toothless crack-ho trying to put her hand down his pants.

So, you feelin’ it, bruh? Trey asked. He had two particularly skanky strippers grinding each thigh while massaging his crotch.

Trey, I have seen bad things in war. I have had to clean up bombing sites after suicide bombers struck. Blood. Entrails. Brains. I have seen little girls burned alive. I have had to carry my friends, the mangled remains of their limbs dangling after having stepped on a homemade mine. This is worse that all of that.

Trey looked up at him, realization washing over his face. Oh, I get it. You’re a faggot. That’s cool, bruh. Come over here and give me a hug.

No, that’s not it—

Come here, it’s all good. A hug, man. A good tight one. I’m still your boy. Just don’t take it as an invitation for some shit.

I’m not gay. First off, these women are prostitutes.

The stripper who had been servicing Solomon said, Who the fuck are you calling a hooker?

I wasn’t talking to you.

She was yelling now. Yeah, but you were talking about me, nigga.

Didn’t you say I could ass-fuck you without a condom for sixty dollars?

And?

And that makes you a hooker, right?

She started putting her breasts back into her tube top. She leaned forward. I have my pride, nigga. All you have is that tiny, limp piece of shit you call a dick hiding in your cheap-ass jeans. Impotent, tiny dick, motherfucker.

On the drive home, they were silent. Until Trey turned to Solomon and said, Damn, Solly. In my twenty-three years on this planet, ten of them going to strip clubs, I’ve seen a lotta raw shit. But never, never, have I heard a nigga broken down so rawly by a skank. God damn. God damn! Trey reached out and patted Solomon’s shoulder. It’s all right, bruh. So you failed the skank test. We just need to get you some higher-class pussy.

Solomon shifted in his seat and sighed. I just want to focus on my studies.

There’s more to life than just studies. Studying and fucking are intertwined. It’s the total release theory of life. As Trey got serious, his voice changed. Less Curtis Jackson, more Henry Louis Gates. We’re filled with a bunch of ideas, thoughts, emotions, longings, yearnings. If we keep it all bottled up, we end up popping lithium like Tic-Tacs. Or we burn down our own apartment because of keeping that shit bottled up. That’s why you need an intellectual release. Studies. Projects. And the physical release. Hooking up with skanks or having a girlfriend you’re gonna marry and be with for the rest of your life. Preferably doing both at the same time.

Trey took it upon himself to set Solomon up on a double date at the Shark Bar, a buppie restaurant bustling with celebrities, wannabe players, and the women who loved them. Trey got Gina and Kara, two gorgeous black One Ls, to agree to the date, offering nothing more than some sweet emptiness.

The girls were drinking overpriced fruity drinks, the ones bars used to overcharge their patrons for a short pour mixed with some sugary nonsense. Solomon was drinking a fifteen-dollar glass of wine the waitress had embarrassed him into ordering. Trey was eating all the cornbread and lying about a near-fight he’d got into with Mike Tyson.

So there I was, minding my business. Mike Tyson ready to throw down with me, like I just robbed his mama. And there I was with no Vaseline, no gloves, no referee. Just straight street scrap. I mean the Mitch Green shit.

Gina asked, What happened next?

Trey sighed. Security had to separate us. I got escorted to the bar.

What happened to Mike? That was Kara.

Probably raped some cocktail waitress and snacked on a finger on the way to his limo. As much beef as I have with Tyson, he don’t do nothin’ half-assed. And you know Tyson. When he gets mad, he has to rape a motherfucker.

Gina asked what Solomon would have done.

Probably walked away.

No. He’s in your grill, about to bust you in the face. Gina leaned into Solomon’s face. What do you do about it?

Duck. Hard palm to the diaphragm to knock the wind out of him. If he hasn’t lost consciousness yet, get him in a Kimura lock and make him lose the use of his right arm for three months.

Trey rolled his eyes. Do you know what the fuck you’re talking about?

Maybe two and a half months, given his muscle mass and the angle in which I apply the hold. Then again, if the torque is correct I could—

When the fuck have you ever performed a Kimodo lock in your life?

You mean Kimura lock. The last time?

The last time? A fucking comedian, he said to the women, shaking his head. OK, I’ll play. The last time.

About three years ago.

Kara shifted in her seat and flashed a toothy smile at him. Gina grabbed Solomon’s hand and asked, Why did you have to do it?

We were on patrol when I was in the Force. Someone jumped me. They were trying to get my weapon. It happened really quick.

You are something else, Solomon, Kara said, leaning in to him. You were in the military?

Trey frowned. Yeah, Sammy Davis the Third claims that he was some Israeli commando in real life. Apparently G.I. Joe wasn’t hiring.

Gina asked, What is he talking about?

Back in Israel, I was in the military service.

Back in Israel? You one of them Black Hebrews on Times Square? Kara asked.

No. Just a Hebrew. I have seen those guys and I have no idea what they are.

So you don’t go to church? Gina asked.

I go to temple.

The AME Temple on 125th? Kara wondered.

The B’Nai Brith Temple in Crown Heights.

Trey rubbed his face and sighed. The ladies rolled their eyes in tandem.

Crown Heights? Didn’t they kill ninety brothers back in ’93? Trey said, his head askance, chewing on a breadstick. He had eaten the first piece of bread in the basket, the last one, and every one in between. This was his dinner, and it was time he reclaimed it.

You don’t eat pork? Gina’s eyes were bugging out.

You got something against pork? Trey interrogated. Solomon just looked at him blankly.

Nothing. I heard they put it in everything here. And that’s… cool.

You don’t consider Jesus Christ to be your personal savior? Kara said, putting her hand over Solomon’s hand.

No, but I think he would’ve made a very good friend.

Trey stared at Solomon the whole dinner. No one spoke. The minute Solomon finished his dinner, Trey bellowed, Check, please.

When the waitress arrived Solomon asked, Excuse me. I just want to make sure. There wasn’t any pork in the tuna? And also, that was a port wine reduction, right? Not a pork reduction?

Gina had her own question. You mean this nigga is for real about this pork shit?

Trey covered his face with a napkin. Behind the napkin, he was smiling. Oh, sweet Jesus…

After dinner, Trey, with doggy bag in hand, fumed at Solomon.

I can’t believe we had solid gold plate pussy lined up for sixty-nine dollars, which is what that dinner cost. And think about that number, motherfucker. It was a fucking message from God. The real, Christian one. We could’ve been fucking the shit out of those hos, and you had to bring out all that Sammy Davis kung-fu shit and ruin it. I mean just ruin it.

I—

All you had to do was sit down, smile, and shut the fuck up. They was down, man. But you had to try to be all special and shit. I tried, I really tried to let you do your thang, but this bullshit has to stop. Here in America, you are a nigger. Nobody gives a flying fuck about Israel, Ethiopia, or any other special nigga shit you try to pull to make yourself seem all different.

The next afternoon, Solomon was walking out of Lenfest Cafeteria at Columbia Law when Trey saw him and scuttled over to him.

Bruh, I have another idea, he said, grabbing Solomon about the shoulders.

You know, I was really pissed about what you said-–

That was yesterday. Come with me.

Fifteen minutes later, Solomon and Trey were in Trey’s room, sitting in front of his computer.

So what is this J-Date thing? Solomon asked.

Online dating site for Jewish folks. Look, I think you’re better off trying to stick to your own kind. Maybe you should play down the black part of it. Why don’t you put in twenty-eight-year-old Sephardic Israeli?

Because I’m not.

This is the internet. Everybody makes up shit about themselves. Take all those women who don’t put their pictures up. They’re either fat ex-cons or hot supermodels. You just don’t know. And that is the beauty.

Solomon went with Trey’s plan. It got him a lot of dates. And a lot of grief. On his first date, he nervously, but giddily, took a seat across from an attractive J-Dater who was taken aback.

Um. Someone’s about to join me…

Elaine?

Her face dropped.

I think there’s been some kind of mistake.

No. I’m Solomon.

It’s not funny manipulating someone’s emotions, hopes, and expectations because you want to fuck a Jewish girl.

The second date was fine with who he was, but asked, You know gay guys wear tampons in their butts? Weird, I know, right? They leak from all the butt sex.

Are you serious?

It’s true. She leaned in and whispered, "Poop.