Hello Kitty Must Die

by Angela S. Choi

  “I know.”

  “And it makes you look suspicious.”

  “I know.”

  “Opportunity and timing. Remember that.”

  “I will.”

  Sean always looked out for me, ever since that time he inspired me to thump Jeremy in the schoolyard.

  ON SATURDAY EVENING, I drove down to San Bruno to have dinner with Don, snacking on Snickers bars. Snickers really is the best candy bar ever produced, consisting of peanut butter nougat topped with roasted peanuts and caramel covered with milk chocolate. According to Wikipedia, it’s the “best selling chocolate bar of all time and has annual global sales of U.S. $2 billion.”

  But the peanut butter nougat and caramel make finely-chewed bits of peanut stick to your teeth, gums, tongue, and lips, making it extremely dangerous to kiss someone who has a severe peanut allergy. Accidental poisoning with peanuts.

  “But Officer, I ate the Snickers. Not Don.”

  “Did you know that he was allergic to peanuts?”

  “Yes. That’s why I didn’t offer him one.”

  Oops. Hello Kitty forgot to rinse her mouth out with Listerine before kissing her boyfriend.

  I parked my car and threw away the Snickers wrappers in a public trash bin. I didn’t want anyone to find five empty wrappers in my car. Eating that many Snickers before going over to Don’s place for a crab dinner would look suspicious.

  I strode up the block in a floral dress and my four-inch Prada stilettos, pounding on the pavement hard. The pain shooting up my calves strengthened my resolve to do God’s work properly, efficiently, the way it should be done.

  Don greeted me wearing workout clothes. Tank top and shorts. His fat arms wiggled, brushing against his body as he walked. His belly hung over the elastic top of his shorts. The hazards of being the son of a chef.

  “The crabs are cooking.”

  “That’s great, Don. Can’t wait for dinner.”

  “I was going to work out a little before dinner. You wanna watch?”

  “Sure.”

  What an exciting treat before dinner. Getting to watch Don lift weights. I felt like one of those girls who got to watch her boyfriend at football practice in high school. One of the girls in the “in” crowd.

  “I think I can bench press one-eighty, Fiona.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Wanna spot me?”

  “Sure.”

  Like I would really save him if he lost his grip and the bar fell on his throat.

  Don lay down on the bench and gripped the weight bar, struggling a little to shift his bulky form under the bar on the slender bench.

  “Can you slide on two more ten-pound weights?”

  Sure.

  And there it was. Opportunity presented itself, along with perfect timing, as Don adjusted his hold on the bar.

  I bypassed the ten-pound weights Don had requested, and quickly slipped a twenty-pound disk on each side of the bar.

  “Okay. You’re good to go, honey.”

  And where you’re going, there’s no coming back.

  Don gritted his teeth and hefted the bar off its holder. All two hundred pounds of it. His arms shook as he brought the weight towards his chest and pushed it back up. His face, red with exertion, broke out in sweat.

  One.

  “You doing okay, Don?”

  “Ya...”

  Two.

  Don’s cheeks, now the color of beets, puffed in and out as he struggled to push the two hundred pounds up. But he didn’t set the weights down. I had to hand it to him. Don was dying to try and impress me. Literally.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Then it happened.

  Don lost his grip and the bar crashed down on his chest, rolling onto his throat. He gagged as the two hundred pounds crushed against his windpipe. And his arms, too tired from lifting, flailed helplessly as he tried to pry the bar off himself.

  “Help...”

  If your husband, wife, child, mother, or father is drowning and you do nothing, you’re liable for their death. Because you have a duty to rescue them, or at least try, by virtue of your relationship to them. So says black letter law.

  But that obligation doesn’t apply to bystanders, strangers, friends, acquaintances, or the boy that your father is trying to force you to marry. You have no duty to save a stranger, unless you start saving them. Then you have to continue with your rescue. Because your efforts will make everyone else think they don’t need to help.

  Just ask the thirty-eight people who watched Kitty Genovese get stabbed to death and did nothing. Not one of her neighbors was held liable.

  “The bar is too heavy for me, Don. I’m going to call 911.”

  I didn’t even have to kiss him. All I had to do was nothing, for about five minutes.

  Don’s face turned purple. He made a curious gurgling sound in his throat as he struggled to breathe. But the bar pressed down heavy and tight until his eyes looked up at me, glassy, lifeless.

  “Emergency? I need help. My friend just had an accident with his weights. Please send an ambulance. Quick.”

  And it was an accident. Kind of.

  The paramedics came and wheeled Don off to the hospital, but it was already too late. His brain had been deprived of oxygen for too long.

  Thank God I ate all those Snickers bars. I didn’t get home until midnight. As soon as I opened the door, my father accosted me with questions.

  “Why are you home so late? How was your dinner?”

  “Don died.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Don died. Don is dead.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “He was lifting weights, trying to impress me. He slipped and the bar crushed his throat.”

  “Fiona, this is not funny. Tell me the truth.”

  “That is the truth. Don is dead.”

  “Did you call an ambulance? Did you try to help him?”

  “Of course I called an ambulance. But it was too late.”

  “Oh my God,” wailed my mother. She too had been waiting up for me. “What about his parents?”

  “The hospital called them, Mom.”

  “Did you have dinner, Fiona?”

  “No, I’m kind of hungry, actually.”

  “You poor thing. It’s not your fault. I’ll make you some ramen noodles.”

  Ramen noodles. Chinese comfort food. I love my mother. She is the best. Always ready with a soothing word and a pack of ramen noodles and chicken broth.

  I SLEPT WONDERFULLY that night and got up early. Instead of being full of energy, I woke up constipated, thanks to all the Snickers bars. Damn Don. It was all his fault I had to spend Saturday morning on the toilet before heading to work. That boy was nothing but trouble.

  When I arrived at my office, I went online and found the following news article:

  San Bruno Man Crushed to Death: Don Koo, 30, of San Bruno, died yesterday evening at his home when he unsuccessfully tried to bench press 200 pounds. The bar slipped and crashed down on his throat, crushing his windpipe. Koo’s fiancée, Fiona Yu, an attorney at the prestigious San Francisco law firm of Beamer Hodgins LLP, called emergency services but paramedics were unable to revive Koo despite repeated attempts.

  The article continued to discuss the importance of safety measures while exercising and lifting weights, including the use of a strong and able spotter. The usual trite discussion. Then I suddenly remembered I never even talked to a reporter. Maybe the nutters who think the government is invading their brain with radio waves were right. Maybe I needed to invest in an aluminum foil hat. Maybe not. Maybe they got it from the police or hospital report.

  I stopped reading, picked up the phone and called Sean.

  “Yeah?” answered a sleepy voice.

  “It’s me. Have you read the news?”

  “No. I haven’t even had my coffee yet, Fi. This better be good, darling.”

  “It’s pretty good. I made the fron
t page.”

  “You what?”

  “Made the front page. Go online. Type in Don Koo. K- O-O.”

  “Oh God. Tell me you’re not in jail.”

  “Sean, I’m not in jail. I’m at my office, working. Don’t worry. God did His own work.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Just Google Don Koo.”

  “Okay, when I wake up.”

  “Go back to sleep, Sean.”

  “Fi?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Like you said, everyone has to die.”

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  I LOVE FUNERALS. THEY are chock full of good energy, which is perfect for anyone who has a porous psyche. It’s like bathing in pure sunlight.

  I have a very porous psyche.

  If you hated the decedent, you’re glad—happy, even—that he’s dead. If you loved the decedent, you’re sad. You miss him and you grieve because you loved him. Either way, the resulting emotions come out positive. Good energy all around. No jealousy, envy, or spite like you would encounter at weddings.

  Just pure love and perhaps a negligible dose of schadenfreude.

  No one ever says, “I’ve been a pallbearer twenty-seven times and never the decedent. When do I get to be the one carried down the aisle?”

  No one ever says, “I wish I was the one in the box with the pasty mortician makeup and the scent of formaldehyde.”

  And the nosy-parkers keep their mouths shut because no one ever asks, “So when do you plan to pop off? What kind of casket would you like? Mahogany or ebony?”

  Most importantly, the decedent isn’t running around stressed out, screaming at friends and family to make sure his big day goes exactly the way he’s been dreaming about since the age of six. Because he can’t. He’s dead. He doesn’t give a crap whether everyone has their nails done right or has their hair in place.

  Best of all, you get to pig out at the wake without worrying about what everyone thinks. You’re just drowning your sorrows in food.

  I came home from Jack’s funeral rosy-cheeked with a stomach full of homemade meatloaf, potato salad, and key lime pie.

  But Chinese funerals ruin all that for me.

  The numerous superstitions sap all the fun out. They are enough to scare someone to death. That’s because improper funeral arrangements can bring bad luck and disaster on the decedent’s family and anyone else who attends the funeral.

  “Remember to light some incense and bow deeply, Fiona,” said my father.

  “When we get to the grave and the coffin is removed from the hearse and lowered into the ground, you must turn away,” warned my mother.

  Or you will die.

  Or someone in your family will die.

  Do anything improper and bad luck will follow you. So will Death.

  And you will die.

  It’s dangerous business to attend a Chinese funeral.

  “Don’t wear that nice suit, Fiona,” whispered my mother.

  “Why? It’s black.”

  “Because after the funeral, we’ll have to burn it.”

  “What?”

  “To avoid bad luck associated with death. Here, I bought you a cheap black suit from Ross.”

  My mother handed me a brand new, ninety-dollar Tahari suit. A discounted black suit to be worn once and burned. All because of Don.

  “And remember, Fiona, we have to stop off at Safeway before we come home.”

  Because you don’t want Death following you home. You go to Safeway or Albertsons to confuse Death, to lose him at the supermarket in the cereal aisle, hoping that he will be too distracted by the Club Card special and the selection of Grape Nuts, Cheerios, and Special K.

  “Dad, are you sure we should be going to Don’s funeral?”

  “We have to. You were his fiancée.”

  Right.

  “Don’t you think his family might be a little mad at me?”

  “For what? It was an accident. You tried to save him.”

  Right.

  When we arrived at the funeral home, the greeter shouted, “Guests have arrived.”

  Don’s family was seated next to the coffin. They looked up. Traditionally, they should have worn white tunics and sackcloth headdresses as a sign of mourning. Instead, the family decided to go with the American part of Chinese-America and wore black suits and dresses.

  “First bow,” said the greeter.

  We bowed. Then we walked up towards the coffin.

  “Second bow.”

  We bowed.

  I lit some incense and raised it up to my forehead before placing it in the holder in front of the altar.

  “Third bow.”

  We bowed.

  “Family members thank the guests.”

  Don’s family bowed to us in thanks. For braving Death itself by coming to Don’s funeral. We bowed back.

  Everyone sat in silence after that. Don’s parents couldn’t offer prayers to their son. According to Chinese custom, an elder should never show respect to someone younger. So if you die young, unmarried, and childless, too bad. No prayers for you.

  It’s even worse for dead babies. No funeral rites at all. Dead babies get tossed in the ground in silence because everyone’s their elder.

  Don was lucky he was getting a proper funeral at all.

  “Don’t we have to wear some kind of cloth or something?” I asked my father afterward, when we were standing in the dairy aisle at Safeway.

  “No. Because he didn’t have any children.”

  According to custom, the period of mourning by Don’s family must continue for another hundred days, signified by wearing a piece of colored cloth on the sleeve of each of the family members. Black is worn by the deceased’s children, blue by the grandchildren and green by the great-grandchildren. But Don didn’t have any children. So no one had to wear anything.

  But a period of mourning is not required if the deceased is a child or a wife. No need to mourn anyone you can replace easily.

  “Oh, Fiona, I almost forgot. Out of respect for Don, you cannot date for at least a year.”

  “What?”

  “You were his fiancée. That’s almost like a wife. So you can’t go on dates for a year.”

  “A year?”

  “A year.”

  Hai, Daddy.

  Because I would bring the shadow of death to other boys. It had nothing to do with respect for Don. But either way, I would be prearranged-date-free for a year. That’s the upside of Chinese funerals. If you do everything right and obey all the rules, good luck follows you.

  It really does.

  I WALKED INTO MY OFFICE on Monday morning to find that all my files and books had disappeared. When I logged into my email, I noticed a new message from Human Resources.

  Hi Fiona,

  Doreen has asked us to move you closer to her for her convenience. We’ve moved all your files and books to office C3. That’s on the floor above yours. It’s the one on Doreen’s right. IT will be taking care of the phone and computer. No worries.

  Any questions, please let me know, okay?

  -Colleen, HR Manager

  For Doreen’s convenience.

  I went up to my new office, not knowing what to expect, but feeling relieved that I had not been laid off.

  “Do you like it?”

  I turned around to face Doreen.

  “Yes, it’s beautiful. It’s so big.”

  “I hope you’re not complaining that it’s too big.”

  “No. No. This is great.”

  It was. The office was much bigger than Keener’s office. It had a better view, being one floor higher. And a couch. A couch where I could read, put my tired, aching feet up after hours, and take a nap when I had to pull an all-nighter.

  “Good, I’m glad you like it. You’ll be spending tonight here. I need these three agreements by tomorrow morning.” Doreen handed me three thick files and returned to her office.

&nb
sp; “Sure.”

  Anything you say, Doreen.

  I settled into my new office, burying my head in Doreen’s contracts. I didn’t even have time to put up a new desktop picture. Countess Elizabeth Bathory would just have to wait.

  Around ten-thirty at night, my cell phone rang, pulling me out of an agreement-induced trance.

  “Fi, it’s me.”

  “Hey, Sean. What’s up?”

  “Can you come over tonight?”

  “No can do, Sean. I got a new office. Right next to Doreen’s and she’s making me earn my keep. Why? What’s up?”

  “You think you can come over tomorrow?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Is everything okay?”

  “Can you at least take a break and swing by my place tomorrow evening? Please.”

  “Sure. What’s this about?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “Sean?”

  “Yeah, Fi?”

  “Everything okay?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You know what they say about luck, that it eventually runs out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s my problem. What time can you be here?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. How about six, six-thirty?”

  “Thanks. See you then.”

  The short conversation with Sean disturbed me, disrupting my concentration for the rest of the night. I had never known Sean to be worried, to lose his cool, to be anything but calm and totally under control.

  Maybe Sean was losing it. Maybe his luck was indeed running out. Whatever it was, it had to be serious. His fear and unease stunk like human shit, like the time he crapped his tightie-whities when his father came and got him at school.

  Sister Maria had caught Sean smoking behind his usual corner of the schoolyard. Except this time, Sean couldn’t lie and say that the stamped-out cigarette butts on the ground belonged to someone else. He had a cigarette between his lips when Sister Maria spun him around by the shoulder.

  “Class, Sean has something to tell everyone.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. Tell everyone what I just caught you doing.”

  “Jerking off.”

  Our class burst out laughing. Sister Maria threatened us back into silence with detention slips.