Charlie Chan Is Dead 2

by Jessica Hagedorn

  Track change.

  Art punches Virgo in the face. Virgo tackles him. The two bear-wrestle downstage. Vince and Shane join them. The crowd rises, stands on their seats to watch the brawl.

  “Vibe-o-lo-gy,” Paula Abdul, the former LA Lakers cheerleader turned-choreographer-turned-diva, sings in the background.

  The stage transforms into a snake pit with bodies writhing, tossing, pinning and getting pinned.

  Throughout the “Vibeology” number, Vince, Shane, Art, and Virgo get so wrapped up beating each other up that they forget who the enemy is. Pounce, grab, takedown. And the battle over who owns Kalihi is now buried in an avalanche of sweat.

  The mood changes from funk to light rock. Spotlight on Kenzo, suspended in midair, hovering over the bodies. On his back, huge feathered wings he attempts to flap.

  “Prometheus is coming / and he’s calling your name,” Kenzo sings as he descends onto the stage. “The world’s collapsing / time to make your peace.”

  “Peace be with you / Also with you,” Vince, Shane, Art, and Virgo chant to each other. They rise from the floor and sing about forgiveness.

  The end unites them. Joining hands, they bow, then rush backstage to remove torn shirts, wipe off sweat, and apply Mercurochrome to cuts and scratches.

  “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the opening song and dance number as choreographed by last year’s Mister Porma, Edgar Ramirez,” Dave says. “While the Big Five get ready for the talent portion, let me take this opportunity to thank our cosponsors.”

  AND NOW A WORD FROM

  JENNIFER’S KAMAYAN (“Over a hundred Philippine regional dishes. Ilokano way, Tagalog way, Visayan way, any way you want ’em. Just name ’em, we’ll cook ’em, you’ll dig ’em. Eighteen great locations to serve you”); PINOY SAVINGS & LOAN (“Avail of our ‘Lolo and Lola’ retirement plan for the elderlies. Member: FDIC”); “Make no mistake cuz all it takes is one take JUN’S TAKE-ONE, home of the one-hour passport and VISA photos,” located on North King and Kalihi Street”; “Come visit us at RICHARDSON, SMITH & YAMASHITA and take advantage of our multilingual staff. No fee if no recovery. Call for free consultation.”

  SLAM

  “Talent is a major trait of Filipinos,” Dave says. “How many of you have heard the saying that a Filipino is not a Filipino if he cannot dance, act, and sing?”

  Amens from the audience.

  Arturo inaugurates the talent portion by rapping to Run-DMC’s Walk This Way, followed by Virgo, who offers a five-minute demonstration on the Philippine national sport—the sipa. “It is our version of the hackey sack,” Virgo explains. “Like tennis, sipa can be played in singles or doubles.” Next is Shane, dragging a Soloflex Nautilus machine onstage. “For my talent portion, I going show you guys the proper body mechanics to do push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups so you guys no injure your backs, okay?” Kenzo takes the stage next to perform an avant garde dance number that fuses hula and Butoh, a postwar Japanese dance that requires a lot of patience from the audience.

  Draped in a bedsheet over a white-painted body, Kenzo spends an hour and forty-five minutes in catatonia while a silver-painted kumu, a Polynesian-looking man who resembles the Michelin Man, bangs his gourd and chants about haoles without souls, haoles who don’t have any respect for the land.

  Throughout Kenzo’s postmodern/postmortem dance, most of the audience abscond to smoke cigarettes on the patio, replenish their system with caffeine, piss, move their bowels, retrieve messages from their GTE voice mail, run across the street to McDonald’s for a quick value meal.

  Then it’s Vince’s turn.

  He enters the stage, clutching a book in his hand and humming a Frank Sinatra tune.

  He sets the book on the podium and opens it to the dog-eared page. Kenzo’s out of the race, for sure, he thinks. He went way over the fifteen-minute time limit. Art couldn’t rap for shit to save his half-Filipino, half-black ass. As for Shane? Since when is back injury prevention considered a talent? And Virgo’s hackey-sack exhibition?

  Vince looks straight ahead and plants an imaginary dot.

  “Let America be America again,” he begins, emphasis on “be.”

  “Let it be the dream it used to be,” he continues, emphasis on “dream.”

  “America never was America to me.” This time, the emphasis is a balled-up fist that unfolds as he pleads, “Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed.”

  Pause.

  He then speaks of bearing slavery’s scars and of being the poor white “fooled and pushed apart,” the red man driven from the land, and the immigrant clutching hopelessness in the land of the free.

  By the time he tells them with trembling voice that “he’s the man who never got ahead, the poorest worker bartered through the years,” the audience is in rapture.

  “Sure,” he says, cockylike, “call me any ugly name you choose; the steel of freedom does not stain” (emphasis on “ugly,” “choose,” and “stain”).

  Despite its anger, the poem ends on a hopeful note: “We, the people, must redeem our land,” he says, “the mines, the plants, the rivers, and make America again!”

  In awe, the audience rewards him with a five-minute standing ovation, taking him by surprise. Sure, he’s gotten everyone’s undivided attention by the second stanza. Sure, his anger has provoked a chorus of Amens and Ain’t that the truths, mostly from military personnel who are there to cheer for Art. And, sure, he’s gotten that kind of reception before, having recited the Langston Hughes poem way back in high school at a speech tournament, where he placed second in the dramatic interpretation category and made the coach of the speech team, Mrs. Tanigawa, Farrington High School’s “Teacher of the Year.” But that was 1985, when he performed it in front of drama teachers and high school actors rather than active members of the Filipino community who were expecting him to dance the hula or the tinikling, sing a tune from Miss Saigon or a kundiman folk song, pull rabbits out of a hat, kick a sipa, kick anything, do anything ethnic. But to read a poem by Langston Hughes that talks shit about the land of the free, opportunities, Medicare, and food stamps?

  Though seemingly confident, Vince feared they’d accuse him of being an ungrateful immigrant. Boo his ass off the stage. Tell him to get the hell outta America if he hates it that bad. Put him on the spot. Reprimand him for rocking the boat that once carried his ancestors out of the jungle.

  Why, son, why make waves out of a pond?

  But a five-minute standing ovation? Why? Vince wonders, then tells himself: Why not?

  “Boy, what a performance!” Dave says. “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The talent portion, which accounts for one-third of the overall score. Now, before we move on to the Q and A, I want to introduce our distinguished panel of judges.”

  THE BIG FISHES

  Emme Tomimbang, entrepreneur and host of Emme’s Island Moments. Manny de la Cruz, Manila’s fashion czar and founder of Fashion for Life, an AIDS benefit. Merle Kim, lounge singer and winner of three Po’okela awards (Hawaii’s version of the Tony minus the “Trophy Donated by Beretania Florist” engraved on the plaque). Danilo Buenaventura, First-Runner-Up Mister Ambassador to the Philippine Islands 1990. And Dr. Bonifacio “Bonny” Dumpit, emeritus professor at the University of Hawaii of Manoa and author of a dozen books, including Decolonization for Beginners: A Filipino Glossary and Mr. and Mrs. John and Marcia Law.

  RAMP

  “We now come to my favorite part of the program: the runway modeling competition,” Dave says. “Worth a third of the overall score, the judges are looking for the three-C factor: charm, confidence, composure.”

  The Big Five take turns strutting to Madonna’s “Vogue.” With their collars up, they do half-turns center stage and thumb-on-chin poses, then face the screen to admire their composites, courtesy of Jun’s Take-One studio.

  TRY REPEAT

  Dave: We now come to the interview portion, worth a third of the overall score. Each candidate has fifteen seconds. (Pa
use) Let’s start with Shane Kawika Lacaran. Shane, your question comes from Manny de la Cruz.

  Manny: Shane, are you for or against same-sex marriage?

  Shane (Speaks in pidgin English, a chop suey island vernacular peppered with Polynesian and East Asian words): Can repeat the question?

  Manny: Are you for or against same-sex marriage?

  Shane: I feel that marriage is a very serious thing and that gays shouldn’t do it just for tax purposes or health insurance and stuff like that cuz marriage is real holy. I don’t have anything against guys who like other guys but we gotta carry out God’s order, which is for us guys to procreate. Mahalo nui loa. And malamalama the aina.

  Dave: Yes, Shane, malamalama the aina. That means love for the land, ladies and gentlemen. Next, we call on Vince De Los Reyes, please step up to the mike. Your question comes from Danilo Buenaventura, who was last year’s first-runner-up titleholder.

  Danilo: Vince, if you had twenty-four hours left on earth, where would you go and why?

  Vince: I’d want to spend it in the Philippines. (Pause. Waits till the applause subsides) I think that one should never forget his roots. To quote the immortal words of Dr. José Rizal, Philippine national hero, a Filipino who does not know where he came from will never know where he is going. Thank you.

  Dave: Thank you, Mr. De Los Reyes. And now, Mr. Salcedo—

  Virgilio: Call me Virgo.

  Dave: Very well, Virgo. Your question is from Miss Emme Tomimbang.

  Emme: Virgo, how does one go about breaking negative stereotypes?

  Virgo: One way of breaking stereotypes is by simply ignoring them. Stereotypes, like labels, I think, are there to serve and perpetuate the white man’s hierarchical structure, thank you.

  Dave: Now let’s ask Kenzo Kahoku’okalani Parubrub-Kajiwara to come on down and answer Professor Dumpit’s question.

  Kenzo: (Mutters): Shit.

  Professor Dumpit: Kenzo, what is the difference between acculturation and assimilation?

  Kenzo: Pardon me?

  Professor Dumpit: What is the difference between acculturation and assimilation?

  Kenzo: Assimilation is about . . . (Stops to think) adapting! Assimilation is about adapting to a new culture, a new place, whereas acculturation refers more to adopting another culture, to embracing another culture. (Thunderous applause)

  Dave: Boy, that was a hard one. Thank you, Kenzo. I now call on Art Johnson. Miss Merle Kim, do you have your question ready?

  Merle (Nods): The U.S. military leases on Subic Naval and Clark Air Force bases expire this coming September. Do you think the Philippines should allow the United States to renew their lease?

  Art: That’s an excellent question, Miss Kim. I think that, yes, the Philippines should allow the U.S. military to retain its bases in Subic and Clark. (Pause. Waits till the applause subsides) The bases play a significant role in the Philippine economy, which hasn’t been doing well for the last twenty years. Should the Philippines decide to end its treaty with the United States, thousands and thousands of Filipinos who depend on the bases for their income will suffer. Thank you.

  THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING FIRST RUNNER-UP

  Volunteers from Farrington High School’s Leo Club appear onstage with five towering trophies (courtesy of Jennifer’s Kamayan Restaurant) beside the Big Five. Then, MISS PETITE SAMPAGUITA and MISS ASIA PACIFICA walk onstage carrying sashes. Dave comments on how resplendent the two ladies look in their Maria Clara gowns with stiff butterfly sleeves. Edgar makes his entrance next, pushing a cart-load of koa bowls that serves no purpose other than storing coins, keys, bills, and condoms.

  “And here he is, ladies and gentlemen,” Dave announces, “our reigning Mister Porma 1990, Edgar Ramirez.”

  Edgar waves to the audience, then hands Dave an envelope.

  “I have here, ladies and gentlemen, the names of the winners.”

  Virgo makes the sign of the cross, Kenzo closes his eyes, Vince crosses his fingers, Art tightens his lips, and Shane looks lemur-eyed at Dave.

  Drumroll.

  “Stand by, gentlemen.” Dave tears open the envelope. “Let’s start with the fourth and third runner-ups. Both will receive a weekend stay at the magnificent Turtle Bay Resort, a trophy, and a koa bowl.” He pauses to look at the finalists, then, in one breath, says: “The fourth runner-up is Shane Kawika Lacaran and the third runner-up is Kenzo Kajiwara.”

  Applause.

  “The second runner-up will receive a five-hundred-dollar savings bond plus four days and three nights in Kalaupapa, Molokai. And the winner is . . . Virgilio Salcedo.”

  Applause.

  “And then there were two,” Dave says. “Hmmm.”

  “Quit stalling, Haole.”

  Ignoring the racial slur, Dave turns to Vince and Art. “I am now going to read the name of the first runner-up, also known as Mister API, or Ambassador to the Philippine Islands. In addition to the trophy and koa bowl, Mister API will receive a cash prize of one thousand dollars plus an all-expense-paid trip for ten days to the Philippines. Mister Porma, as you already know, will receive a cash prize of three thousand dollars and live rent-free for a year in Woodside, Queens. Wow.” Dave whistles. “Now, in the event that Mister Porma cannot fulfill his duties for whatever reason, Mister API automatically becomes Mister Porma.”

  Beat.

  “The title of Mister API goes to—”

  Drumroll.

  “Vince De Los Reyes. This year’s Mister Porma is Arturo “Art” Dwayne Pascual Johnson!”

  In the audience, a factory of murmurs:

  “What? The black guy won?”

  “Pro-base, that’s why.”

  “Are you sure he’s Filipino?”

  “Of course he is. Look how flat his nose is.”

  Dave motions Art to march downstage. “The stage is yours, Mister Porma 1991,” Dave says. “So go and say hello to your new world.”

  POSTPAGEANT STRESS DISORDER

  Vince likens the feeling of losing the Mister Porma title to the emotional plunge one gets while coming down from a cocaine high. As photographers aim their shots at the new reigning Mister Porma, Vince knows why he, and not Art, is going to Manila. Of the Big Five, Art sold the most tickets, which explains why almost one-third of the ballroom is occupied by Filipino and African-American soldiers and their dependents.

  Sayang that he lost to Art; he’s got his mind set on winding his alarm clock six hours ahead, Eastern Standard Time, instead of eighteen hours, Third World Time. As early as New Year’s Eve, he’s made a vow that before 1991 ends, he’s wrapping up his thirteen-year relationship with Honolulu and moving to a place far, far away. Away from the land of Aloha spirit, extended families, Las Vegas air-and-room-with-meals specials, one-night stands, failed relationships that should’ve been one-night stands, and SPAM (only Guam consumes more cans of luncheon meat per annum than Hawaii). To a city whose politics are cut-and-dried, and not middle road like Hawaii. Beneath its veneer of pro-Democrat pro-Liberal stance, Hawaii is as middle road as middle road can get, falling somewhere between conservatism and political correctness.

  So when Edgar invited himself over to Vince’s condo two weeks ago to hand him the guidelines to the only pageant for Filipino men in America, Vince flat out told him: “You fuckin’ kidding me, right?”

  Edgar shook his head. “If you start now, you can mail your packet by the end of the week.”

  “Are you getting commission for torturing me?”

  “I thought you wanted to get the fuck out of this rock, Vince.”

  “I do.”

  “Then join the freakin’ pageant,” Edgar snapped. “I cannot guarantee you the Statue of Liberty, braddah, but it’s your ticket out of Gilli gan’s Island.”

  What better reasons could Edgar have given his best friend? How much more convincing did Vince need? Edgar was right: Mister Porma was Vince’s way out of the Gathering Isle of Oahu. But more than that: it was free.

  COLD-HEARTED

&
nbsp; David Wong Louie

  His father had disappeared. Opened the freezer, pulled out two steaks, and was gone. His mother had said so. A woman incapable of lies. Driving south across the Sound, Lawrence Lung remembered how Genius used to run his seashell-thick thumbnail along the plastic wrap that covered the supermarket steaks, tracing the T-shaped bones. “Best money can buy,” he would say. This was nothing but a father imparting the facts of life to his son. So when his mother called him, the youngest of four, only boy, and closest to home, the fact of the steaks did not faze him. What did though was the suit. She said he was wearing his suit. And where could he be going in his suit, she wanted to know? It was the only one he owned, a decades-old, double-breasted number straight off the set of The Untouchables, with lapels as broad as shark fins, raspberry and navy pinstripes on dark gray wool cloth. There were the photos of Genius, taken in his early days in the U.S.: suit, white hat, cigarette, a mischievous light in his eyes. This was the man he sent across seas to the wife he left in Hong Kong. He wore it on special occasions, weddings, banquets, funerals, the day Lawrence was born. He seemed taller in the suit, more substantial, even though he had obviously bought it a size or two too big, expecting to grow into the wide shoulders and waist, the long sleeves and pant legs, and from an early age Lawrence knew it would one day be his by default, the three sisters posing no competition, his inheritance, and that was just fine, he thought, as long as it did not come with the man inside.

  DAVID WONG LOUIE is the author of Pangs of Love, a collection of short stories, and The Barbarians Are Coming, a novel. He teaches in the Department of English and at the Asian American Studies Center at UCLA. He was born on Long Island, New York, in 1954.

  As soon as he got home Lawrence went straight for the refrigerators. It was his habit, how it was to be at home. One refrigerator, then the next, opening the doors and looking, but knowing there was nothing in there he’d want to eat. As his mother repeated the story of the vanishing husband, the very same one she had told him, almost to the word, over the phone, he moved busily back and forth between these obese twins, set side by side, one’s motor whirring on, then the other’s. On a good day, if he were lucky, he might find a bottle of Coke stuffed among the paper bags of oranges, greens, and roots; the bundles of medicinal herbs, twigs, bark, berries, and what looked like worms bound with pink cellophane ribbon; there were see-through packages of black mushrooms and funky salted fish; wrappers of duck sausage and waxy pork bellies; take-out boxes with scraps of roast pig, roast liver, roast ribs; jars of oysters, shrimp, wood ears, lily buds; and dishes and bowls, of metal and porcelain, stacked one on top of the other, holding leftovers that had been reheated and re-served so many times not a trace of nutrients or flavor lingered in their pale cells. It was barefoot food, food eaten with sticks, under harvest moons. Rinse off the maggots, slice, and steam. It was squatting in still water food, water snake around your ankle food. Pole across your shoulders, hooves in the house food.