The Hoarder speaks softly, hoping that a female might mistake his dull platitudes for sophisticated witticisms. His droning voice mesmerizes the victim, whose polite nature prevents her from immediately extracting her limbs from the sticky web of saliva. Eventually, the Hoarder collapses the delicate skeletal system of his demure captive, squelching her under his hulking Barney Rubble physique.
VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED.
Steve D.’s apartment was the usual bachelor pad. The furnishings were all crappy dormitory leftovers, except for a huge-screen television. The floors weren’t all that clean, but at least a Gauguin poster of Tahitian maidens was an attempt at decorating.
“Do you live here by yourself?” she asked, trying to guess the rent.
“No, but my stoner roommate’s always at his girlfriend’s. He gets high and passes out there, like, every night.” He waited for the water to boil before he dropped in the dried noodle bricks. “You get Oriental Flavor because you’re Oriental,” he said.
“Yeah, but they don’t have Caucasian Flavor,” she replied.
“Did I hear a cock in that Asian?”
“You are out of control.” Lindsey shook her head in exaggerated dismay. She took a sip of her beer.
Steve set the table with folded paper napkins and pulled three jars of different kimchees out of the fridge, explaining the difference between each of them.
He served the ramen and placed utensils on the table.
Lindsey picked up a spoon and inspected it for cleanliness before dipping it into the salty broth.
“Oriental Flavor, huh?” she asked. “I don’t think I taste like this.”
“We’ll see about that later.” He winked at her from across the table as he used a fork to pile kimchee into his bowl.
A jar of pickled cabbage and many beers later, they lounged on his sofa watching a video of Apocalypse Now.
“Don’t you have any other tapes?” she asked. “Do you have Clueless?”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t admit to that. Guys don’t have shit like that around.”
“Oh.”
She was drowsy from her carbo load. Steve pulled her legs across his lap and rested his hands on her knees as he adjusted the tracking with the remote control.
Right about the time when Robert Duvall and his platoon torched the Vietnamese village, Steve D. and Lindsey started making out. They kissed for a long time, pausing occasionally to watch more scenes of the movie.
In the long run, the flesh was weak. Clothing was removed and bad judgments were made.
By the light of the television set, Steve removed her underwear and she did not protest, although she did insist on leaving on her socks. As he kissed her between her thighs, Lindsey was distracted by Marlon Brando getting bludgeoned, but she tried to think of something else.
Neither of them heard the roommate come in.
“Oh, sorry!” the stoner yelped. Steve and Lindsey both jumped up and grabbed for clothes, a blanket, anything.
In a complete state of bewilderment and shock, the roommate dropped a box of assorted Hostess snacks, while a half-eaten Twinkie tumbled from his lips.
“Shit, man! What are you doing here?” Steve zipped up his pants, grabbed his slow roommate by the shoulders, and spun him out of the room and back out the front door. Lindsey fumbled around for her panties, which had been tossed like caution to the wind.
Steve came back in. “He’s leaving. I mean, he left. I got rid of him.” By now, she had most of her clothes back on and was ready to leave.
“I gotta go,” she said.
“Want one for the road?” he asked, picking up one of the individually wrapped treats that had bounced onto the floor.
“No,” she said, bolting for the exit. Watching her go, Steve unwrapped the flimsy cellophane from a Twinkie, split open the yellow snackcake, and licked the cream out of it.
Honor Roll, Not Egg Roll
The next day at work, Lindsey checked her e-mail and found a message from Michael:
Dear Lindsey,
Hi. I’m in Hawaii. I won’t be home until after Thanksgiving. Can we get together when I get back?
She felt irrational jealousy bubbling up inside her as she imagined the possibility of him vacationing with a girlfriend. She tried not to resent him for having a good time while she felt tortured by unrequited love. Why was he in Hawaii, anyway? Who could suntan at a time like this?
After work, she decided on a whim to quickly duck into the stationery store. She hadn’t gone inside for years, and she hoped the old man did not recognize her face as the shoplifter from fifteen years ago. She skulked around the pastels and pen sets before quickly purchasing a tiny kit of watercolor paints, then scampered out the door like a hamster with a food pellet.
At home she locked her bedroom door, sat on the carpet, and studied her new miniature paint set. She retrieved a cup of water from the kitchen and experimented with the different colors, using the thin horsehair brush to make small lines of pigment across scraps of Arches paper she had saved from her college art class.
Back then, she had signed up for an Introduction to Painting course in the hopes of becoming the next Georgia O’Keeffe or Helen Frankenthaler. She’d wanted to paint gigantic, eerie paintings with shadows and light, liquidy drips, and thick, encaustic chunkiness. But the man who had taught the class had discouraged her from painting big or thinking big. Not that he hadn’t liked her. In fact, he’d told her she possessed better drawing skills than most of his students. But she was so petite. He’d said he visualized her painting delicate, decorative pieces, and he’d suggested she sit cross-legged on a lotus meditation pillow or tatami mat. Action painting was not for the faint of heart, he’d told her, and a frail, Oriental girl like her would probably not be able to muster up the power to create monolithic or expressionist works. Those types of paintings, he’d said, were best left to masculine hands.
So he’d encouraged her to work small. He’d even urged her to get in touch with her roots. Due to his incomprehensible way of mumbling behind his bushy mustache, Lindsey had first misunderstood his suggestion. She’d thought he wanted her to touch up her roots (her auburn highlights had, in fact, grown out about an inch and could have benefitted from a trip to the salon).
Week after week she would ask his opinion about her Rothko-esque paintings, and time after time he would suggest, “Why don’t you try calligraphy or small pen-and-ink landscapes?” Her abstract work had showed substantial talent, but he’d been fixated on the idea that Oriental girls should make classic Oriental paintings. He’d continued to give her average grades.
She’d loved the freedom of the large-sized canvases and the versatility of painting in oils, but she’d soon realized her dilemma. She wasn’t getting A’s. If she kept on her current path, this painting course was going to bring down her whole GPA for the semester. She’d cared desperately about her grades, so one week she’d tried switching to small watercolors and tiny floral studies to demonstrate that she was cooperative and open-minded.
Immediately her marks in the class had improved, despite the fact that she had felt little passion for the dainty still lifes. For her final project she had planned to return to large abstracts, but the instructor had kept urging her to “get really Oriental.” Frustrated and exhausted by her finals and essays for other classes, she’d dusted off her calligraphy brush from her St. Mary’s days. She’d traced symbols from a Chinese menu onto sheets of vellum paper and crafted a handmade book filled with a jumble of copied brushstrokes and Chinese characters. She’d passed off the whole booklet as a fourth-century Chinese poem describing the changing of seasons.
The teacher had been wholeheartedly pleased, feeling satisfied that he had inspired a young girl to embrace her culture. He’d had no idea that, in reality, her string of delicate calligraphy strokes had described the $3.99 lunch special at Kung Pao Express.
Lindsey got her A and learned that people see what they want to see about Chinese people and cultu
re. However, she did feel deceitful and guilty. She never took another painting class again.
But painting now, here in her room, she felt excited to be making small swirls and doodles. After twenty minutes, she got up and tiptoed toward Pau Pau’s room. Lindsey was alone in the apartment, but, nonetheless, she moved quietly as she selected a few of her grandmother’s old cheongsams with colorful patterns. She snuck them back to her own room and began to copy the shapes and designs onto the stiff rag paper. She was having fun, enjoying the detail and precision the designs required. She worked quietly on the floor for quite a while, hidden behind the mattress and boxspring of her bed. When she heard Pau Pau come home, she quickly stashed the paints and papers under the metal bedframe and bounded out to the kitchen to help make dinner.
Pau Pau was chopping bumpy bitter melon with a cleaver bigger than her head, and Lindsey sat and watched.
“Pau Pau, tell me about your life in China before you came here. What was it like?”
Pau Pau guillotined several zucchini with swift confidence.
“Nothing to tell,” she said, retrieving a slab of meat that had been marinating in soy sauce. She sliced the beef into cubes and fried a few chunks with bean sprouts, peppers, and minced ginger. She checked the temperature on her casserole of ground pork, shallots, and tofu, and as she lifted the lid, billows of white steam filled the kitchen.
“Nothing to tell,” she repeated. “What you want to know?” She kept careful watch on the pots and pans and did not look up.
“I want to know about your life in China, how you met Gung Gung, and how you got here.”
Pau Pau busily stirred the vegetables with her chopsticks, pulled pans from the fire, and scooped piping hot items off the stovetop and into serving dishes. She brought a plate to Lindsey and set it down on the table.
“China no good. Much better here.” With those words, the two began to eat and did not say much else for the remainder of the meal.
A Preference for White Meat
On Thanksgiving Day the soy imitation marshmallow topping just wouldn’t fluff right. Auntie Shirley whisked the concoction, but it wouldn’t stiffen into airy peaks like the picture in the Hippie Wisdom Cookbook. Lindsey peered into the bowl at the off-white liquid and felt sorry for the perfectly good yam slices that would soon be polluted by the drippy dollops.
Pau Pau was making a sticky rice stuffing with diced Chinese sausage and chestnuts. She liked to make it for herself, even though the turkey was already in the oven, packed with an American bread stuffing.
“Why do we always have the same thing?” Auntie Vivien complained, adjusting the rhinestone-studded straps on her black lace tank top. “We should have oyster stuffing. Oysters are an aphrodisiac, right, Lindsey?” Vivien elbowed her niece and gave her a knowing nod.
“Oysters, sheesh!” Pau Pau muttered, stirring the fatty, lopcheurng sausage into the cooked sticky rice, which globbed stubbornly onto her spoon. “Chinese stuffing the best.”
“Mom’s old-fashioned. You gotta get used to it,” Vivien said. “She doesn’t understand your generation, but I do. You want to have fun, go to clubs, do some coke, be more like me, am I right? Well, except for Stephanie. My daughter is so boring!” She prattled on, saying her mom’s values were obsolete. She talked as though Pau Pau were a child and couldn’t understand or hear them from two feet away.
“We should go clubbing some time, huh? You can show me all the new moves. I bet all the guys will think I’m your sister, huh? Shoot, I look so young—I dress hipper than you! You know, you really should put your hair in an up-do like mine. And you shouldn’t wear jeans all the time—gotta show it off, y’know?”
Lindsey wanted to crawl into the Magic Chef oven with the turkey. At least it would be quiet in there. Meanwhile, Shirley was gazing at the ceiling and asking the Universe to bond the soy molecules with pure rainbow light to create fluffiness for her marshmallow substitute.
The door buzzer rang.
“I’ll get it!” Lindsey bolted to the front door.
Mrs. Owyang came in carrying a seventeen-pound honey-glazed ham decorated with cloves and pineapple rings. Lindsey took the heavy tray from her mother, who affectionately slapped her face to bring some color to her cheeks.
After putting the ham down on the kitchen counter, Lindsey went to hug her father, who patted her shoulder lightly and dismissively, saying, “Okay, okay, that’s enough. Hi, hi.” Mr. Owyang looked around, noted the presence of his wife’s sisters, and retreated to the room with the largest television, where he would stay until his carving skills were needed.
Stephanie arrived with her sister Cammie, whom she had just retrieved from her gymnastics class. Mike was parking the car but soon entered carrying a red Jell-O mold with lychees. Lindsey planned to scrutinize his every move, but he floated out of the kitchen like a zombie in a trance, following a sixth sense that seemed to know ESPN could not be far. Like Mr. Owyang, he abandoned the females and parked himself in front of the television, falling into the abyss known as the Sports Channel.
Auntie Vivien and Lindsey’s mom paired off to compare jewelry. Mrs. Owyang admired a new three-karat sapphire ring on her sister’s finger but lost interest as soon as Vivien admitted it was artificial.
“Mommy,” Cammie said, tugging at her shoulder.
“Later, Cammie,” Vivien said, still captivated by her own glimmering faux gem.
“But Mommy, I forgot to tell you. Suzanne Somers called today.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?! I’ve got to call her back!”
Lindsey was across the room wiping down the silverware, but her ears perked up.
“Wow, does your mom really know her?” she asked Stephanie as they set the table.
“No,” her cousin replied, rolling her eyes. “Suzanne Somers hosts a jewelry show on the QVC Channel. I think there’s an automatic dial message that calls and reminds shoppers to watch the show.” She smirked and shook her head.
There were not enough seats at the dinner table by the time everyone arrived, so the family ate in shifts. Kevin surprised everyone by bringing a girlfriend, named Karen, Feeling proprietary, Lindsey forgot all about scrutinizing Mike the White Guy and instead focused her attentions on this new intruder. She watched her, noticing how Chinesey she was. Karen was so meek and deferential that Lindsey disliked her immediately, abhorring how she personifed such a stereotype of female servitude.
It wasn’t just Karen’s tortured, permed hair or the synthetic fabric of her Nordstrom Rack blouse. And it wasn’t even the midcalf length of her polyester skirt or the rounded toes of her schoolmarmish pumps. What really disturbed Lindsey was the way she rushed to help each time Kevin reached for more stuffing or a slice of ham. Even though she was the guest, Karen constantly asked Kevin if he needed anything or if she could get him a beverage. And as if her actions weren’t bad enough, Kevin simply sat back and let her pamper him, seeming proud of the way she jumped each time he yawned or looked at his watch.
Oh, please, Lindsey thought, sitting as far away from them as possible while still able to spy on them and disdain them from afar. After a few bites, she lost her appetite when she heard Karen speaking in Shanghainese, complimenting Pau Pau on the tastiness of her sticky rice stuffing. As they talked and Lindsey could no longer follow what they were saying, she leaned forward and shot her brother a dirty look. He caught her glaring at him and grinned. She got up and brought her plate into the kitchen.
Brandon came by himself, late. As he stacked his plate with food, he picked around the turkey carcass in search of some dark meat, which had mostly been eaten.
He called over to his cousin, “Hey, Lindsey, there’s plenty of white meat here for ya!”
She stuck out her tongue at him as she scraped bones from her plate into the trash.
Mr. Owyang came into the kitchen during a commercial break. He asked his nephew, “Why are you the latest when you live the nearest?”
Brandon stabbed slabs of ham and a turkey
leg with his fork.
“I don’t live the nearest—she does!” he replied, gesturing toward Lindsey.
“Yeah, she does!” Mr. Owyang repeated. “Good rent, too. Pays nothing!” They erupted in hyena-like laughter as Lindsey finished rinsing a stack of plates. She didn’t know why her cousin was hooting; Uncle Donald owned the apartment building where Brandon lived, and he didn’t pay any rent, either.
Later on, the guys were still watching sports, Karen was massaging tiger balm into Pau Pau’s stiff elbow, and Mrs. Owyang and Stephanie were discussing freshwater vs. saltwater pearls. No one was watching Cammie as she squirted an entire bottle of shampoo into the bathroom sink and overflowed the basin with soap bubbles.
“She’s such a Chinabug.” Vivien scowled as she, Shirley and Lindsey cleaned up the kitchen. “I bet she doesn’t even know what Gucci is.”
“Shh, Karen’s still here, you know,” Lindsey whispered.
“So what—she’s in the other room.” After a few moments, Vivien added, “She’s fresh off the boat. Your brother can do way better than that.”
“Her blouse isn’t so bad,” Shirley piped in. “Peach is such a high-vibration color.”
Lindsey said nothing, but she sided with Vivien on this one. She couldn’t believe how swiftly and effortlessly Karen seemed to be ingratiating herself into the family. Fawning over her brother, soothing her grandmother. Lindsey would have to destroy her.
“Kevin is a good catch,” Vivien mused. “He needs someone high-class, you know. More like me. Too bad for him I’m his auntie!” she laughed in her high-pitched wheeze, delighting only herself.
“How come nobody ate my soy marshmallow yams?” Shirley asked, realizing no one but her had touched the “candied” tubers. “Lindsey, honey, c’mon and try some.”
“Oh, I’m so full. I just can’t. Really.”
“Maybe later then, okay? I’ll save lots for you.”
Lindsey tried to smile but merely showed her teeth.
The Dim Sum of All Things Page 15