Guardian Angels

I spotted him in PSL, the largest lecture hall on campus, which easily holds one thousand students in one room. My first class during my freshman year at Berkeley was Chemistry. He sat alone, with his right leg crossed over his knee, and I could see he didn’t wear socks, just a pair of brown leather topsider boat shoes, and his bare ankles. Though he was only a year older, he looked much older than a lot of the other freshmen there. It was only 8am, but his face already sported an after-five shadow.

I noticed that he never wore baseball t-shirts or athleisure wear. He had his own quirky style, which made him stand out. He wore jeans and his essential, long, black wool coat to keep the Autumn chill off. He often paired his look with my favorite, a black, cotton button-down shirt printed with multi-colored confetti squares, folded twice at the sleeves, which exposed his hairy arms. And where the top of his shirt was unbuttoned, great tufts of dark brown hair were sprouting from there. It looked like soft bear fur, that I wanted to touch it to know what it felt like. Though he was an exotic mix of half-Swedish, half-Persian, he had a beautiful olive complexion, probably inherited from his Iranian father. He wore glasses, dark, square-shaped polycarbonate frames, which rested on his slim nose. To this day, I remember his dark, brown eyes and his thick black, eyelashes were so long that they crashed against the inside of his lenses. I remember that he often ran his hands through his thick, dark brown hair, especially when he was perplexed, and was concentrating on a really hard exam problem. He thought of himself as a nerd, but the way he smiled at you, and looked out from behind his glasses was so sexy, that I don’t think he was aware of the raw sexual power he had over the co-eds around him.

I was too shy to approach him, but how I wished he were in my Chem lab!

Later that afternoon, there he was, sitting on the cold marble floor by the door, waiting.

We were both first years at Berkeley, both unsure of how everything worked. He looked up and smiled when saw me, even though I was in dress blues, my military uniform.

“Hi, Are you here for the Chem Lab, Section X?”

“Uh-huh.” I replied.

“ROT-C?” he inquired, which was shorthand for Reserve Officer Trainer Course. Berkeley was a liberal university and most students viewed us with suspicion, disliked us, and all things dealing with violence or war. What the protesters didn’t understand is that we are taught the history behind the wars and the effects of the destructiveness of war and unrestrained military power. We chose to go to Berkeley because we’re liberal, too, and the world needs more open-minded liberal misfits to become officers in the military, so that we can be the voice of reason, during xenophobic trigger-happy moments, and especially during times of war.

“Air Force.” My monosyllabic answers must have made me sound so intellectual.

“Pre-Med?” he wondered about me.

“No, I’m supposed to be an Aeronautical Engineering for my scholarship, although I’m not in the Engineering College yet. And you?”

“My dad’s a doctor, and my mom’s a nurse. I’m supposed to be one, too.”

“A nurse?” I teased him.

“The other thing.” We both laughed.

“Ahhh. I guess we both sound like we want to be something other than what we’ve signed up for.”

“I hear most people don’t even graduate in their first major.”

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name?” I must’ve misheard. I thought he said something that sounded like Ramen, the instant noodle packet.

“Did you say, Robin or Roman?”

“If that was multiple choice test, I would’ve failed.”

Feeling more relaxed, I laughed louder this time.

“It’s Ramin. Ra-MEEN. Some people call me Ramen, like Top Ramen, the noodle.”

You’re funny, Ramin.”

Just then, others started congregating at the door, waiting for our Graduate Student Instructor to arrive.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t assigned to be his lab partner. This may have been a good thing, since I’m not sure I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate much on properly mixing dangerous chemicals together, if he was that close to me.

Over the course of the semester, while waiting for our reactions to complete, I got to know Ramin. His father was a surgeon in Las Vegas, and he was expected to become a doctor, like his older brother, so he signed up for the Pre-Med classes. He was the baby of the family, and was only allowed to attend Cal, an out-of-state college, since his older sister, Arezza, was already here. Somehow, he was able to convince his parents to let him take a gap year to travel around Europe on his own, whereas I was chaperoned everywhere I went, even to the mall. Ramin was only a year older, but he seemed so much older, more sophisticated than me.

We both but dropped Chemistry after that first semester; we’d bump into each other on campus, here and there. He gave up Pre-Med to pursue Anthropology, and I’d given up my military scholarship and was no longer an Aerospace Engineer, but was studying Economics. Coincidentally, we ended up taking an Archeology class together the following year.

After watching & loving the movie, “Indiana Jones and the Raiders of The Lost Ark,” I’d always wanted to be an archaeologist, which is how I ended up in an elective class with Ramin. He had a phenomenal memory for all the archaeological civilizations, dig sites, and dates. I mixed them all up. With a memory like that, he could’ve easily aced Med School, become a doctor like his Dad, but that wasn’t his calling. Anthropology, and later, Film Making was his passion, where he eventually moved to New York City, to fulfill his dream. But I’m getting ahead of myself...

I was walking along Telegraph Avenue, one of the main streets that bounds the campus. I stopped in front of a typewriter repair shop across the road, and I stared at my reflection in the window. If I could make a wish, and be with anyone today, who would it be? We didn’t have lecture together that day, but in my heart, I thought of Ramin. If wishes could come true, I’d have liked to have seen him that day. It was my 19th birthday.

There were over 30,000 students at the Berkeley campus then, and would you believe, the one person in the whole world I wanted to see, tapped on my shoulder!

What are the chances that Ramin, in his same signature long, black trench coat would be there, standing before me!

“HU-low,” his melodious, lilting friendly way of greeting people.

I turned around and my heart jumped as I screamed, “Ramin! It’s my birthday today!”

“Well then, we have to celebrate! I want to take you out to lunch. I have a paper I have to finish, but afterwards, I’ll meet you at To-Go’s at 1pm?”

“I’d love that! At one then.”

I went to my next lecture, but nothing went in. I was like Charlie Brown trying to understand the gibberish that the adults were saying. All I could think about was one o’clock. My face hurt from grinning like the Cheshire cat in “Alice in Wonderland.”

I was so excited that I went to To-Go’s early. I sat at an empty table and waited inside until about 1:15pm.

He didn’t come. Oh well, at least I got to see him today.

As I headed out the door, I turned left, starting to head down Telegraph, when I heard a voice calling me, from behind.

“You didn’t think I was gonna show up, did you?” I turned around and ran back to the deli.

I didn’t answer. I just smiled from ear-to-ear. I was so glad that he was there, my eyes misting up with relief and joy.

Ramin was the sweetest, funniest guy I’d ever met, at that point in my life. He could have been a comedian, all the funny one liner jokes he told me that day. My favorite was “Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?” “No?” “Well, it closed. It had no atmosphere.”

He was a raconteur extraordinaire. I could have sat there and listened to him, laughing all day long. I wish I could recount them all, but unfortunately, I’m the worst joke teller in the world, usually failing to properly set the joke up, inevitably ruining the punchline.

After two hours of exchanging stories, it was time to come back down to Earth.

I grabbed my backpack, which was slung over the back of my chair, and I thought it was odd that it was open. I’m pretty sure I closed the zipper, as a matter of habit. On further inspection, someone who sat behind me, must have stolen my wallet. My ID, credit cards, and all my money was gone.

I was really shook up, and though Ramin had a class to go to, he graciously accompanied me to the campus police to report the theft and stayed with me, until I told him he should go to his class. He was already really late.

He felt badly about what happened, but I said I was really glad that he was here, with me.

“Are you going to be okay?” sounding concerned.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks for the lunch, Ramin. You made my birthday great!” Then he hugged me goodbye.

“If you need anything, call me. You have my number? I nodded.

“Bye.”

I tried going to my last class, but I just couldn’t concentrate. I just wanted to go home. On my way to the train station, I reached for my backside, where I normally kept my train ticket - in the back pocket of my jeans. But since today was my birthday, I felt like looking pretty, so I wore a flowing skirt to school, and put my train ticket in my purse! The stolen one.

I went back to the police station and to To-Go’s, hoping some Good Samaritan might have turned in my wallet. No luck.

I sat on a low wall at Sproul Plaza, at the edge of campus, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t even have any coins, to use a pay phone to call home. I suppose I could have asked to use the phone at the police station, but I wasn’t thinking properly.

Just then, a homeless-looking man came up to me, and asked me what was wrong. And I told him about what happened. Other than for Ramin, this stranger was the only other person who cared about my plight. He told me to wait here. "Sure, I had nowhere to go."

Within 15 minutes, somehow, he’d managed to beg $1.30 in small change, enough for my train fare, and he placed the coins in my hand.

I cried some more, but this time, at his immense generosity. I felt guilty taking his money. He looked like he needed it more than me.

“Now you can go home.”

“I’ll pay you back, tomorrow. I promise.” He smiled and waved goodbye to me, as we walked in opposite directions. Oh my gosh, I forgot to ask my Guardian Angel, what was his name!

The next day, and every day thereafter, I looked for him on Sproul Plaza, that $1.30 jingling in my backpack, reminding me of my unpaid debt. I found him, two years later, and I thanked him and hugged him for saving me that day. I cupped his hands in mine, as I poured the coins into his hands. He smiled a grateful smile. It looked like it had been a rough day for him today.

I probably should have given him more. He’s the type of man that shared what he had with those less fortunate, such as myself, 2 years ago. But he didn’t want more.

I don’t know if he remembered me, but I’ll never forget him, my Guardian Angel.

I am grateful, for I feel truly blessed.