by Trevor Eve
‘Yes, no, I’m grateful, thank you.’
The English in the Englishman kicking in. What he really wanted to say was fuck you, big fucking deal. Go fuck your sister.
No he didn’t really, not all that, just the first part.
He gave him sixty; the cab driver counted and gave a reluctant,
‘You take care now.’
As if still assessing the questionable generosity of the tip.
Tip culture, this America. Everybody expects, and gets, a fucking tip.
He wasn’t going to tip Mr Wong, no, me old China, he was going to bargain.
Fuck – the ATM.
He was at Mr Wong’s address at the right time, but now he needed a bank. His cab was still there, hadn’t moved, as the driver was putting his counted cash into a pouch. A leather pouch that he must have had his whole cab driving career. Probably his wife’s gift on day one.
‘Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I need a bank.’
‘Oh, you finally realised you didn’t give me enough tip.’
A laugh, as it was, he thought, a joke.
‘No.’
Said Ever, taken aback, a little.
‘Just messing with you, my friend.’
Fuck the ‘my friend’ bit. He didn’t say that did he?
‘Get in, we’ll have a look round.’
The look around was going to be an obvious one, back to the main drag, Broadway. At the corner of Cesar E. Chavez Avenue – he wondered what this Latino had done to deserve immortalisation in a Chinese neighbourhood – a left turn took them underneath the two curling dragons that formed an arch over the road at the start of Broadway, proper, full-on Chinatown. Pagodas with triple tiers of cake, one on top of the other, diminishing in size at every level, smallest at the top, marked the entrances to the shopping streets. These were adorned with hundreds of red lanterns, strung across and blowing and swaying with every gust of wind. On the other side of the street, the density of market stalls forced the pedestrians off the sidewalk. They were selling everything from shoes and hats to kitchen utensils and pots and pans. And, of course, woks.
And as for banks.
The street displayed an embarrassment of banks. The Cathay Bank, Far East National Bank, East West Bank. On and on, true Left and Right Bank zone. He plumped for the East West Bank, the mention of his side of the world gave him the vaguest hope of it having an ATM that would recognise his bank in the Old Country.
It was situated right by the Mandarin Plaza. All that was needed now was the good fortune of a cookie to be able to get the money out in $500 tranches. Would luck hold out? Don’t get compulsive. Just do it. No touching. His brow felt a drip run down into his right eye, he was keying in the pin, resisting the temptation to restart every time. Got it, done it all, as the third drip ran its same course, into the same eye. A channel must have been grooved. Back to the waiting cab. Well done, me old China. That was it, his father’s expression, Ever wondered why he was saying it: china plate/mate. Me old China. Another pinch of sadness.
The Opium Wars were forgiven at this bank, at least.
The smell of food at the endless restaurants and food stalls made his mouth fill with the craving for something to eat. Would they put in MSG here, he wondered, in the real thing? He was tempted. But then you’d have to have a beer or two and then. No. His phone bird chirped. It was a text from Clarissa, it simply said.
‘Mean bastard.’
That took her longer than he’d thought.
‘From whence we came. Please.’
‘You mean back?’
‘Yes.’
He said to relieve the need for explanation; puzzled that he had used the word in the first place.
‘Back, thanks.’
‘Give me a ten, we’ll call it quits.’
It wasn’t a deal.
But Ever didn’t argue. He parted with a twenty-dollar bill and received a ten in return. Did he detect a pause in the passing? Not another tip surely? Forget it, my friend: just a thought.
*
He was standing at the foot of what looked like a slice of communist architecture.
Imposing itself a few hundred yards off the main drag, on the appropriately named Bunker Hill Avenue. The apartment building, built in the last ten years he imagined, with less imagination than Ever had just used to guess the age. It looked like a bunker, maybe that was the architect’s brief. Which came first? The building to appear appropriate in the street of that name; or had they given up on seeing the building and thought fuck it, let’s make it look intentional and rename the street? The bottom two floors were encased by metal railings behind which cars were parked.
Ever supposed this was where they would be ending up for the viewing.
He pressed the bell, having with some difficulty accessed the entrance. The bell with the name, Wong, written on a piece of paper, in capitals, inserted behind a blurred plastic holder, was followed by the Chinese version. He presumed. Calligraphy. He guessed that the 8b against the name suggested the eighth floor. There was an 8a, an 8c, an 8d, an 8e, he was counting, thinking they must be small apartments as the block was not that big, then a voice came through the intercom.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Mr Smith. About the car.’
He was now Mr Smith, and his thoughts and actions would be as Mr Smith: that was Mr Smith’s decision.
‘Stay there. Come down.’
He stayed there, for what seemed like a long time; it occurred to Mr Smith that maybe there was no elevator. Then the door opened.
‘Mr Smith.’
A statement.
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Wong.’
A man of about fifty, fit-looking, save for a literal pot of a belly, otherwise slim. Long black hair, slightly greying in a ponytail that, as he turned to close the door, he could see was not far short of his waist. And a goatee beard, a long goatee beard, again greying.
‘Round the back, we need to go.’
Obediently, Mr Smith followed and not a word was spoken during the walk round to the back of the building.
‘In lowest level. But ground level, not a problem.’
For who and why? Thought Mr Smith. From this different street the building looked exactly the same. So back and front were interesting definitions. Conformity, yes, but not a conformity with style. On purpose? Why was Mr Smith so fixed on his disappointment with the building? He cleared the thought. Could Mr Smith do that?
They arrived at an unimpressive vehicle, amongst a selection of unimpressive vehicles. Mr Wong had stopped in front of the unimpressive vehicle. It was truly the dullest, most anonymous car Mr Smith had ever seen. Ever thought so too. Perfect.
‘You want to hear it? Please take a seat, inside, sit down in it.’
He sat in the car and was handed the keys, and an invitation to turn over the engine. Twice he had to turn the key and on the second attempt the tired old horses came to life, resenting every second. They had nothing left in them that could be defined as horsepower.
‘It works, see, you want me to come with you, we drive. Around?’
Mr Wong circled his hand.
Mr Smith seriously thought about this, and was not sure he was prepared to accept the effort of social proximity that the drive would demand.
‘OK.’
Was Mr Smith’s reticent response.
Mr Wong climbed in beside him. Conversation, or rather lack of it, was not something that bothered Mr Wong one bit. They exited across a metal ramp, strips of metal with gaps, usually in place to prevent cows from crossing, who knows, with a judder and a shudder. And then the car was on the open road. Back onto the big straight Roman Caesar road, over the hill the other way into a less residential area. Open her up, let her go.
All the tired horses in the sun, watch this old car run.
Just a noisy chug, the exhausted exhaust had a hole and he could sense that fumes would be clouding out of it. But it went forward through all the gears. Automatic transmissio
n. He tried reverse, and then thought he should show dissatisfaction at this awful car that was just perfect.
They returned the car to the cow-proof parking area.
‘OK, few problems, I’ll give you seventeen-fifty.’
Said with the toughest of voices.
‘The price is nineteen-hundred dollars, you don’t want it, you don’t take it. It has a few problems, that why nineteen-hundred dollars.’
That was it for Mr Smith, he was out of ruthless bargaining technique. For the second time in the space of an hour he felt his money-dealing skills were poor to say the least. He had no ruthlessness. No killer instinct. Well, wait a second, that was questionable, most certainly up for debate. In relation to Ever at least.
‘OK. I’ll take it.’
‘Good. All the paperwork is here in the car. I just need to fill in your name for the vehicle’s title, we both need to sign, and I put price sold. Odometer statement as the car is over ten years old, you don’t really need. But I give you anyway. 176,042 miles. Here is the current smog certificate. And I will need to go and draw up a bill of sale that will help you show proof of ownership to the DMV. Then you know you have ten days to register. You from here?’
‘Originally, yes.’
‘So you know what to do at DMV to make it your car?’
The thought of it being his car was crippling.
‘You know, you don’t need to bother with that. It will be fine. It’s OK.’
Ever wasn’t sure what Mr Wong didn’t need to bother with, he just wanted to get it all over with. Quickly.
‘OK, sign here.’
Said Mr Wong producing the title deed exchange. Mr Smith was about to sign and remembered, as the ballpoint went to the paper, to sign J. Smith. He adopted a rather creative squirl, over curly writing style.
‘Wait, first the money?’
Mr Wong said, too late to stop the signature, Mr Smith thought briefly of kicking him out of the car – no he didn’t – stupid thought. Charm was not Mr Wong’s need in life, but never having had it he wouldn’t be aware of it not being there. Or even probably that it was a commodity that some people traded in.
Mr Smith handed over $1,900 for this four-speed 2.3-litre engine in a V6 pattern, naturally aspirated, no sunroof, tan interior, that he suspected might be leather but was so close to vinyl plastic it was a difficult call; it had power windows, and was about seventeen years old.
The offside front wing had been sprayed, presumably as a result of an accident, he wondered how many collisions this car had had, it was a different shade of red than the rest of the car panels which, through the sun, had lost forever their ability to produce a shine.
This car would be forever dull.
The deal was done and it was impossible to tell if Mr Wong was pleased or not, as his face had not changed expression from the moment they had met.
‘Do you like Bruce Lee?’
Mr Wong said, the first piece of unnecessary conversation.
‘Yes.’
Said Mr Smith, devoid of a committed opinion, but surprised into an immediate response.
‘He taught by my father. And they killed him you know.’
‘Bruce Lee?’
Wondering for a second if he meant his father.
‘Yes, disclosing secrets of Wing Chun to the world.’
He wasn’t picking up Mr Smith’s obvious lack of enthusiasm.
‘You want me to show you pictures of my father with Bruce Lee, training, very small group, with Yip Man in Kowloon. With me also, when I was young. My name is Bruce.’
And really the next sentence was understood and digested before Mr Wong continued.
‘I am named after Bruce Lee. Bruce Wong.’
This animated Mr Wong was really having quite a transformative experience.
Mr Smith wanted to go but Mr Wong said,
‘We take car, your car now, round to the front, give me ten minutes, I show you pictures. I will come down. No elevator. It is broken.’
Suddenly this man was a conversationalist supreme.
There was no choice as Mr Wong shut the door. Mr Smith had a moment of further disappointment in the architect, as he had failed to give access from the garage to the apartments. You parked your car and then were forced to go around to the front entrance. Who was he?
The thought that this might have been the only building he designed in his entire life shadowed Mr Smith’s rapidly developing off-kilter brain. He felt a moment of compassion: compassion for the mediocrity of the architect’s talent.
And a little concern at the thoughts and persona belonging to Mr Smith.
‘Come we go. You will enjoy. Wonderful man Bruce Lee, had a whole philosophy of life, I try to follow. I still train.’
When was this going to stop? It was like being herded into a sheep pen by a pack of dogs: there appeared to be no escape. If there was an invitation to go up however many flights to the eighth floor he was convinced he would decline. They arrived at the front of the building, where there was no parking allowed.
‘No parking, you stay with the car, your car now.’
As if Mr Smith was the most gullible idiot ever.
He was thinking of just leaving, letting Mr Wong show his pictures to the air, but he waited, and down came Mr Wong with a book. A published book. Not what was expected, and there, sure enough, was a picture on page sixty-five, well marked, of Bruce Lee and a man standing in the Shaolin White Crane pose, opposite each other, and along with the pose description underneath the photograph, were the names – Bruce Lee and Wang Bo Wong. Bruce Wong’s father, he assumed, and then Mr Wong confirmed the assumption.
‘My father. And there is me with Bruce Lee.’
Turning another page.
‘Let me show you girl I was boyfriend with.’
Strange phrasing thought Mr Smith; he turned the pages to reveal a beautiful girl in, as was described, a Gong Fu stance, the name below, Diana Lee Incosanto.
‘Bruce Lee was her godfather. My good friend. She and me are still good friends. You see he was a great man, Bruce Lee.’
This was most unexpected in the purchase of a Honda Accord EX V6 sedan with power windows; but it was so human, and obviously Mr Wong was a very lonely man.
‘You enjoy the car. Good to see you. I must go.’
As if Mr Smith had been detaining him.
‘I still train.’
‘Yes, you told me that.’
‘I will go for that now. Here is the bill of sale. Thank you, Mr Smith.’
Then Mr Wong was keying his way into his building and Mr Smith, the proud new owner of a dull red car, chugged down the street.
To block out the noise of the engine he put his earphones in and played Lana Del Rey; now, she didn’t wail, but she could have a moan; he was now Ever again, reverting back to type, out of his adopted character; relieved – Mr Smith was beginning to bother him.
He enjoyed being absorbed in Lana’s misery.
‘The Blackest Day’ was playing and he found his way west. No Kate this time, to help.
Never sure if Lana was singing about sex or just life; just life, well well, life. Depth and darkness and enduring pain. Anyway, he empathised with it, in the way he wanted to. Take it as you sense it. That’s the point, there is no right way.
What in the name of God does ‘Purple Rain’ mean? He knew for him what he wanted it to mean and that was enough and he wasn’t telling. Anyone.
On the journey back, he was looking for another piece to add to his plan. He wanted a piece of wasteland where he could dump and possibly destroy this beauty and attract minimum attention in the middle of an afternoon. There was more than one option, he catalogued them in a brain which didn’t have a lot of space. But he could remember the key things. The compulsive satisfier things. He drove onto one empty, disregarded piece of land backing onto the high and windowless wall of a warehouse – an industrial-type building – to see what the movement was like around it; he parked the car and sat.
It saw no persons walk across its potholed earth and the worn-out, given-up attempts at a gravelled surface. The patch of land was almost underneath the 110 Freeway and couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile from the gallery area. Looming over the land was an isolated tower with the words ‘Ritz Carlton’ blazing out at the top; from where he was standing it was an incongruous sight of poverty swamped by wealth.
The street adjacent to this piece of land was homeless central, plastic housing, in sheets of blue and occasional yellow, one after the other, their sounds drowned by the cars’ endless journeys overhead on the freeway, their dreams spilt on the side of the road, and they had the agony, now, he supposed, but with a developed immunity, of being dwarfed by the mega millions of the buildings of the downtown areas. In particular the Ritz Carlton.
Ever always had these moments of reflection at the absurdity of the world.
He then got out, walked around, noticing an alley to the left of the building; through that to the street on the other side were a couple of cafés and a Milagro’s Market, the Chinese influence giving way to Mexico; but there was a final Eastern attempt at territorial dominance in the form of a functional, plastic-seat, red-and-white-check-tablecloth Chinese restaurant.
The description ‘authentic’ fitted all these places perfectly. But what really captured Ever’s eye was a hotel; five floors high; two-room width; with a fire escape zigzagging its way up the front of the building.
It was called Isis Adelphia.
The sign worn, the bead curtain that represented the front door had had a thousand rippling noises declare arrival into this miniature, decayed palace. The name when built, Isis, goddess of the sky, must have carried a romance; now it had whole different connotation and he supposed this was the reason for there having been no attempt to revitalise the sign. Or did they even care? Adelphia was, he seemed to remember, just the name of a town in ancient Greece, and could give it no significance beyond that. Or was it Delphi?
The road he had turned off was a constantly flowing two-lane road and the chain link fence was partly broken down, with just the one entrance, the one he had used. Piles of non-disposable trash had amassed, over what looked like a long, long time; vegetation had grown through the tyres, there were smashed concrete blocks, an old fridge, and sofas with visible springs that even the homeless had disregarded. No residential life around, it just felt lonely. The land was not going to be used for parking, save for the one truck that was there, he was sure of that.