Episode 1: A Stranger In the Crowd
Heman's eyes darted over the chaotic sea of traffic, absorbing the frenzied dance of cars and the harsh stabs of brake lights. Drivers weaved recklessly in and out of lanes, punctuating their maneuvers with aggressive hand gestures that sliced through the air like knives.
The acrid stench of exhaust fumes and gasoline assaulted Heman's senses as he took a deep breath. The greasy aroma of fast food from nearby restaurants hung in the air, adding to the overwhelming sensory assault.
Heman dissected the tumultuous traffic, his gaze sharp on the drivers who brazenly cut across lanes without the slightest hint of signaling. A knot of anxiety twisted in his stomach, a familiar tension rising as he encountered the audacity of drivers who, instead of honking, would flash him a smug middle finger if he dared not mirror their reckless abandon. He navigated the chaos of State Street, leaving Provo behind as he pressed into Orem, determined to reach the University Place Mall and secure a simple black suit from Mr. Mac's clothing store.
A sour taste curled in Heman's mouth as thoughts of the heedless drivers swirled in his mind. He tried to shake the feeling, but it clung to him, leaving a bitter residue.
The cacophony of blaring horns and screeching brakes clashed with the persistent roar of traffic, a relentless symphony of noise. Amid this din, he caught snippets of blasting radios, each vehicle a mobile concert hall.
His fingers clamped around the steering wheel with a vise-like grip, knuckles blanching to a stark white. The leather seat beneath him radiated heat, sticking to his skin like a second layer in the oppressive summer warmth.
He had escaped from Jerusalem, chasing a dream of a better, different life. Yet, after the grueling journey from New York to Salt Lake City, he felt the piercing eyes of suspicion from those who observed him. Since setting foot in the United States, he had been under the constant, unyielding gaze of scrutiny. The primary lure to Utah was a lucrative offer to teach history as a professor, a beacon of opportunity.
But the deeper truth was his flight from the relentless shadow of war in Jerusalem. The aftermath of conflict echoed the haunting tales of the Holocaust, a grim reminder that the Jewish community might never receive the dignity and respect it so desperately deserved. Their ancient traditions were often ridiculed, with Israel seemingly frozen in time, unable to break free into the modern world.
As he maneuvered through the chaotic maze of the bustling mall, Heman's eyes flickered anxiously from store to store, desperately trying to locate the elusive clothing retailer he so desperately needed. The throng of people surged around him, some casting curious, almost scrutinizing glances in his direction, while others charged forward with laser-focused determination, oblivious to his presence. The mall's walls blazed with a kaleidoscope of colorful signs and blinding lights, their brilliance reflecting off the gleaming floors, creating a dizzying spectacle that only intensified his disorientation. He felt swallowed by the masses, adrift in a sea of faces, utterly lost and paralyzed by the uncertainty of seeking assistance.
As he lingered near the mall's entrance, a battle waged within him—a fierce tug-of-war between the urgent need to find the store and his overwhelming reluctance to ask for help. “Hello,” he ventured, his voice carrying the unmistakable timbre of a foreigner in Utah, a stranger in a strange land. “Could you…” he began, but his words crumbled into silence as he caught the peculiar, almost mocking gaze of a passerby who suppressed a smirk.
In that piercing moment, Heman felt not just invisible but profoundly alienated, as though the very ground beneath him rejected his presence. Why had he come here? He questioned if this place, with its storied reputation as a sacred city for Mormons, was any more welcoming than anywhere else. An unwelcome intruder, he felt the sting of being out of place, yet he wrestled with the haunting suspicion that it was all a product of his own mind. This dislocation cut deeper than the war-scarred hills of Israel, where at least he was enveloped in the familiarity of home, surrounded by those who did not meet him with such unsettling stares. Yet, paradoxically, a part of him was drawn to an intangible allure that held him captive, torn between the urge to flee and the inexplicable pull to remain.
It was a suffocating sense of displacement, as if the very atmosphere conspired against him, rejecting his existence. He felt like a bizarre alien entity in this uncharted territory, floundering to comprehend and navigate the intricate web of social norms and cultural mores. No amount of foresight or preparation could have steeled him for the crushing discomfort and profound unease that consumed him in this bewildering and hostile land.
He pushed past a display of holiday wreaths and wove between a cluster of perfume counters, the hum of recorded music blending with shoppers’ laughter. The fluorescent glare of the mall fell away as he slipped into Mr. Mac: a gallery of charcoal-gray pinstripes, snowy cotton collars, and shoes so highly polished they looked like ink spilled on leather. He ran his hands over a midnight-blue suit jacket—smooth wool warmed by the store lights—and picked out three French-cuffed dress shirts whose collars stood stiff and proud. On a velvet tray, a pair of silver cufflinks winked at him, tiny swirls of mother-of-pearl catching stray beams.
In the dressing room, he shrugged into the jacket, let the cotton shirt glide over his shoulders, and slid the cufflinks into place. He tugged at the crisp white collar, watching in the mirror as his posture straightened. The fabric’s cool, precise weight felt like armor, and he squared his jaw. A pulse of confidence—new, unexpected—rippled through him.
He stepped back into the mall corridor, where the air-conditioning’s chill brushed his neck. Through the glass doors, late-afternoon light and a crisp breeze greeted him. Near the entrance, a young man leaned against a planter, his faded denim jacket stained at the elbow. He scratched at a raw spot on his cheek, eyes flicking from one passerby to the next. Each time he thrust out a hand holding a battered Styrofoam cup, he received a shake of the head or a curt “No”—sometimes a shooing wave. His foot tapped, his shoulder jerked, as if he could shake away the rejection.
A woman passing by muttered over her shoulder, “What a waste of potential.” The words hung in the air, cold and accusing. Heman’s chest twinged: in Jerusalem as a boy, he’d heard that same phrase whispered when classmates realized his Hebrew accent was foreign. The sting of not belonging was a history he carried like a hidden scar.
He glanced at the young man’s trembling hand then to a little girl clutching a pink balloon by the planter. Her wide eyes met his, curious and kind. Heman drew out a crumpled five-dollar bill, folded it once, and slipped it into the young man’s inside pocket while the boy’s attention was on an approaching couple. The man didn’t look back; the girl did—her small nod and shy smile his only applause.
Without a word, Heman turned toward the parking lot. He felt calm, nothing more needed. By his car, a bumper sticker in bold orange on black caught his eye: You Are Enough!—the exclamation point dotted with a tiny heart. He paused under the late-day sun, chest warm, the words settling over him like a benediction.
