by Lisa Lim
All the color drains from Karsynn’s face, and her expressions vacillate between shock and sorrow.
Before we can pump Truong for details, The Führer stands up from her watch post and cracks her whip. “Girls! Get to work!”
Kars skulks off to her cubicle while Truong and I pretend to look busy at our desks.
As I am loading up my apps, it suddenly dawns on me.
This means Bob is out of Karsynn’s life forever. I can’t wait to share this fab news with Janis. Her skillfully orchestrated Jaw Surgery Plot was a success. But this is even better.
Truong whispers, “Pssssst. There’s more to it.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
He fills me in on all the salacious details. “Apparently, Bobby overstepped his boundaries, and that dipshit was having affairs with several women, one of them who just so happens to be Adnan’s wife.”
I draw a blank. “Who’s Adnan?”
“He’s the Armenian security guard.”
My eyes widen in horror. “Scandalous.”
Truong lowers his voice. “Girl, this is beyond scandalous. You don’t mess with the Armenians period. Adnan and his Armenian army organized a bloodless coup d'état. They planned this whole thing strategically and tactically. You see, Bob is no knucklehead. He knew that there were cameras in the parking garage, and he was so dang sure that he was in a blind spot. But what he didn’t know was that Adnan and his boys installed extra surveillance cameras.”
I gasp, “This is more twisted than a Chuck Palahniuk novel.”
Truong giggles devilishly. “The plot thickens! Adnan and his army remained vigilant. As soon as Bob slipped, they were there to capture it all. And the next day, they handed the evidence to Dick Jones.”
Abruptly, The Führer stands up, face like thunder. “Madison Lee, Truong Nguyen, GET ON THE PHONES!”
My hands tremble as I scramble for my headset. I’m about to take my first call when I notice a Starbucks caramel frappuccino sitting on my desk. It’s topped with whipped cream and drizzled with caramel sauce. The decadent treat sits next to my phone in all its caffeinated glory.
“Truong, is this from you?”
“Uh huh. And I got it with skim milk too.”
I beam at him. “Thanks, Truong! You’re the best!”
Hours later, I’m no longer singing Truong’s praises. Slumped on a chair in the HR office, I curse Truong and his stupid email for getting me and Kars in this stupid predicament.
Kars is in the hot seat next to me.
“Do you think they’ll fire us?” she asks anxiously.
My stomach churns with dread. “I don’t know...”
It had all started innocently enough with a silly joke email that Truong forwarded on to me, a joke that’s been floating around the web for quite some time now. And that email is now printed out and sitting on Linda the HR Manager’s desk.
This is the damning evidence of the crime brought against us:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: FW: Learn to Speak Chinese in 5 minutes
1) That’s not right—Sum Ting Wong
2) Are you harboring a fugitive?—Hu Yu Hai Ding
3) See me ASAP—Kum Hia Nao
4) Small Horse—Tai Ni Po Ni
5) Did you go to the beach?—Wai Yu So Tan
6) I bumped into a coffee table—Ai Bang Mai Ni
7) I think you need a face lift—Chin Tu Fat
8) It’s very dark in here—Wao So Dim
9) I thought you were on a diet—Wai Yu Mun Ching
10) This is a tow away zone—No Pah King
11) Our meeting is scheduled for next week—Wai Yu Kum Nao
12) Staying out of sight—Lei Ying Lo
13) He’s cleaning his automobile—Wa Shing Ka
14) Your body odor is offensive—Yu Stin Ki Puh
15) Great—Su Pah
16) Where’s the restroom?—Ai Pe Nau
17) I absolutely agree!—No Daut
18) Jesus child—Ho Li Boi
19) Cough up some dough!—Pei Nau
20) Go for a ride for free—Hit Hai King
When I read that email, I laughed so hard I almost fell off my chair. And I thought it was so funny that I forwarded it to Kars. Over my lunch break, I decided to check up on her. Kars has a tendency to bottle up her feelings, and I wanted to make sure she was okay.
I found her sitting at her desk, looking solemn and subdued.
“You okay?” I asked gently.
A tear gathered at the edge of her eye, and I stood by Kars, doing the best thing a friend could do—I listened as she poured her heart out.
After Kars got everything off her chest, she actually started feeling sorry for Bob. “I wonder if he’ll be okay; I mean, he’s lost his job, his marriage is in shambles…” she mused out loud.
Bob was not my concern, Karsynn was. She had hit rock bottom and I wanted to lift her spirits and help her forget all about that awful man-whore, that slithering snake in the grass. Then a thought occurred to me. “Kars, have you checked your email today?”
“No,” she replied absently.
My eyes twinkled with mischief. “Pull it up,” I instructed.
In hopes of getting a chuckle out of Kars, I read each line out loud, in what I hoped was a very convincing Chinese accent. I got all the way down to #10: This is a tow away zone. Altering my voice and channeling Jackie Chan, I said, “No Pah King.”
It worked! Karsynn keeled over laughing.
And she got in on the action too. While I recited #12: Staying out of sight = Lei Ying Lo, Kars channeled Chow Yuen Fatt, Jet Li and Kung Fu Panda by whipping out the Kung Fu Crane Stance, followed by a drop kick, and finishing off with a Kung Fu Reverse Punch.
I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
Kars looked like a Shaolin Panda monk.
It was all quite harmless fun, and comical really, speaking Chinese while Karsynn whipped out more kung fu moves. Until The Führer came along.
Very quietly, she stood behind us and cleared her throat.
My back shot up! Ramrod straight!
Kars froze in the midst of a Kung Fu Lotus Stance.
“What were you doing?” Hillary snarled in an eerily low voice.
My blood ran cold, terror ripping through my nerves. I tried to open my mouth and speak, but it had gone bone dry.
“WHAT WERE YOU DOING?” The Führer screamed and I jumped out of my skin. “ANSWER ME!” she roared like a lion.
“Err...I…was...um…speaking Chinese?” I squeaked like an overwrought mouse.
Kars released a nervous laugh. “Um yeah, Mandarin is one of the hardest languages to learn.”
Hillary made a vicious sound of protest. “YOU WERE NOT SPEAKING MANDARIN!”
Kars and I blinked.
Hillary seethed. “Is that all you two were doing?”
“I think so.” I scratched my head, pretending to be foggy on the exact details.
At this point, Kars had completely lost it. Hugging herself tightly, she rocked back and forth, babbling on like a crazed homeless woman. In the midst of muttering something indistinct, she darted me a look, and I instantly realized that it was all a ploy to throw Hillary off the scent. But it didn’t work.
Hillary snarled, “Let me just see for myself.”
I lurched forward. “There is nothing to see,” I said in a sudden panic.
Like a raging lunatic, Hillary elbowed me aside and planted herself in front of Karsynn’s computer. We shrunk back in a corner as Hillary read the entire email. To add insult to injury, she read each line out loud in a dry monotone, without a Chinese accent, and with no sense of humor whatsoever. It was painful, like hearing Chairman Mao tell a joke.
Then Hillary flew into a blinding rage and launched into this huge tirade about the political incorrectness of our actions.
“My niece is Chinese! And I don’t appreciate you mocking he
r language,” she shrilled.
I stood there, paralyzed.
Hillary threw Kars a vicious glare. “Or her culture!”
Kars mumbled, “I was merely celebrating it.”
“WHAT?” yelled The Führer.
“N-nothing,” Kars stammered, the tremor in her voice unmistakable.
Hillary continued giving us an earful, and we quickly learned that her sister had adopted a little girl from China, hence, she took what we had done very personally. In fact, Hillary was so incensed by the implication and so fueled with outrage that she marched us straight to the HR office.
Fast forward to now…the air is zinged with tension and Linda from Human Resources stares down her hawkish nose through her bifocals at us, looking like a ferret faced Judge Judy.
Linda glances from me to Kars, and then back to me. Pursing her thin lips, she shakes her head reproachfully.
My stomach lurches. I hope we don’t get fired.
While we sit and stew in our seats, Linda consults the thick Employee Handbook. Her lips tighten, and there is an increased intensity in the lines around her mouth. The more she studies the handbook, the deeper the lines and creases become. The seconds tick by, the tension crackles and mounts, the silence seems too heavy to bear.
I don’t want to lose my job over this. I need to do something.
Before Judge Linda has a chance to pass her verdict, I jump in and blurt out, “In our defense, Linda, just because we find a racist joke funny, that doesn’t make us racists. And, also, I happen to be half Chinese.”
My sudden outburst emboldens Kars to speak. “Yeah, I think it’s important to be able to laugh at yourself. That movie Borat had me in stitches, but it doesn’t make me anti-Semitic. I’m Jewish for crying out loud.”
“I know,” I pipe in. “I thought the movie Bruno was hilarious, but that doesn’t make me homophobic.”
Karsynn adds fiercely, “Yes. I’m all for the LGBTs!”
Linda shoots us a puzzled look. “BLT sandwiches?”
“No,” I rush to explain, “LGBTs means Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals and Transgenders.”
I’m a bit surprised that Linda doesn’t know the lingo. It should be common parlance for someone who works in HR.
Kars says plaintively, “Yes. So as you can see, Linda, we love everyone. We’re cultured and diverse people. We’re innocent and this is a simple open and shut case. And, um...the prosecution rests their case.” She paces up and down the room as if she was a top notch attorney at law.
Linda blinks.
“And that email is not even racist,” I add. “Even Truong found it funny, and he’s the one who sent it to me.”
Linda jams her bifocals up her nose, only to have them slip back down. “Now that’s entirely different,” she says with a petulant twist of her lips. “Truong is Chinese, so it is entirely okay for a Chinese person to be tickled by a joke about Chinese people. But what you girls did is politically incorrect,” she says severely.
Hello. I’m the one who is part Chinese; Truong is Vietnamese, not Chinese. But I’m not a narc, so I don’t reveal this. Plus, if I get Truong in trouble, I’m sure the sushi rolls and Starbucks fraps will be a thing of the past.
Linda flicks off her bifocals in a dramatic fashion and leans back in her Herman Miller Aeron chair. “Let me give you girls an example. Now myself, being a Caucasian, I would never ever call an African American a nigger. However, it’s entirely okay for an African American to call himself one.”
Kars and I exchange horror filled glances, then we stare at Linda in alarm. “But you—you just said the N word.”
Linda says patiently, “I was merely giving an example.”
Now it’s our turn to glare at Linda disapprovingly. “It doesn’t matter,” I retort, filled with righteous indignation. “You’re white! You’re never ever allowed to use that word.”
“Yeah!” quips Kars judiciously. “Not even in an example. That word is off-limits! It should be wiped from your vocabulary. And the fact that you used it—it’s racist,” she hisses impudently.
Linda raises her eyes heavenward.
YAY! Hip Hip Hoooray! We have not only been exonerated, but we’re also off the phones for two hours! Kars and I, and Linda from HR, are in Diversity-Sensitivity training. The three of us are sitting in the Lightning 7 conference room, watching sensitivity exercises on the tube.
In the first scene, a Hispanic woman is on the phone and she’s talking to some guy named Jesus (she pronounces it Hey-Soose). After hanging up, she informs a white guy that Jesus needs some supplies at the work site. Apparently, Jesus can’t seem to get the job done without those supplies. To which the white guy replies, “What’s the matter with Jesus? (he pronounces it Geez-Sus) Jesus can’t make tacos and burritos without his supplies, so he’s taking an afternoon siesta?”
Oh dear God. This is so racist! I find myself cringing at all the clichéd racist rhetoric; but at the same time, it’s like watching an episode of The Office with Steve Carell, only in this case, the acting is horrendous and there appears to be a haze tinting the picture reminiscent of B rated movies.
Although I’m trying so hard to suppress my laughter, a loud snort escapes me.
Linda shoots me a quelling look.
“I have Hispanic blood in me. I swear,” I cry defensively.
And I do. My dad’s great granny is part Mexican; so since I am part Latina, that makes it okay. I am allowed to be tickled by a racist Mexican joke, at least by Linda’s accounts.
Slightly vexed, Linda shakes her head.
In the next scene, a guy is watching his co-worker (a curvy woman) devour a Snickers bar. The woman makes an offhanded comment about how she shouldn’t be eating chocolate, since it is so fattening.
To which the guy responds, “As long as your fat stays in the right places, all the men will still be chasing you.”
Kars whispers in my ear, “Bob actually said that to me.”
“What?” I balk. “He is such a douchelord! A deity among douches!”
Linda glares at us, clearly annoyed. “Sssshhhh.” Obviously, she’s taking this training way too seriously.
Two hours later, the Diversity-Sensitivity training is over.
Dammit! Now we have to hop back on the phones.
Before we step out, Linda halts us. “Now, if you’re working on Christmas, please do not wish the callers Merry Christmas; instead, say Happy Holidays, okay?”
“Okay,” we say brightly, wide-eyed with innocence.
Linda chides, “Girls, remember! Be mindful! We live in a multicultural country. So you don’t want to offend the Jews, the Muslims, the Hindus, the Buddhists—”
“Or the atheists or agnostics,” adds Kars with a faint smirk.
“Or them either,” agrees Linda in all seriousness.
I smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’ll be very sensitive. We won’t offend anybody’s religion, race, culture, nationality—”
Kars jumps in, “Language, sexual orientation, disability, size, marital status, beliefs, education, lifestyles, gender or physical appearance.”
I nod fervently. “Rest assured, Linda, I shall not discriminate, segregate or abate.”
Linda’s mouth parts and stays parted. Eventually, she says, “Now girls, you have ten more minutes before you’re scheduled to get back on the phones. All right?”
“All right-y,” we chime in unison and sashay to the break room.
Kars nudges me. “Maybe we’ll see some eye candy.”
“Maybe...” I smile coyly.
In the break room, I reach inside the freezer for my popsicles and gasp in horror, “Someone’s been eating my popsicles! There’s only one left and I had six when I stored the box! I feel violated!”
Kars harrumphs. “That’s why I never store any food in the break room. Too many idiots here steal food. Such vermin!”
“So, where exactly do you store your food?” I slam the freezer with deliberate force.
“The la
ctation room,” Kars says simply. “It’s equipped with a mini fridge slash freezer. Nothing’s stored there except for breast milk. And more importantly, no one will steal your food.”
I make a mental note of that. “Here,” I hand Kars the last popsicle. She takes it and I toss the Dreyer’s box into the trash.
I miss.
The box ricochets off the trash can, skates across the linoleum floor and stops in the middle of the break room.
Right that second, Darren and Carlos strut into the break room. Darren bends down and reaches for the Dreyer’s box. Box in hand, he holds it like a ball and shoots it into the trash can like a pro basketball player. NBA, not college level.
Darren Williams is tall and gorgeous, with light olive skin; and he sports a sexy goatee that very few men can pull off—the Orlando Bloom goatee. A faint tache and soul patch combo.
Carlos Martinez is a suave Latino from Venezuela, with the physique and build of a matador.
Kars and I try not to stare...they’re too beautiful for words.
Darren acknowledges us with a lift of his cleft chin.
We kind of know him. He sits right next to Mika and whenever we pay Mika a visit, we are very aware of Darren’s hawtness.
“Hey,” I grunt with casual indifference.
Kars jerks her chin. “Wassup brotha.”
Playing it cool, we swagger out of the break room.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Darren and Carlos heading for the foosball table. My eyes gravitate to their solid butts that are nicely shaped by their fitted jeans. I’m so glad that fitted jeans are back in fashion.
That’s one of the reasons why I resent baggy jeans—no bum watching. Bum watching is akin to bird watching. It’s a lifetime activity that can be enjoyed in many parts of the world, transcending language barriers and cultures.
Kars and I continue staring. It’s not every day you get to see such fabu butts when so many men these days are cursed with assless frog butts.
“That Hot Cocoa is one fine specimen,” I say dazedly, tripping over a snag in the carpet.