L.A. Son

by Roy Choi

  Rajiv worked on the eighth floor of that early-twentieth-century building on the corner of 6th and Hill Street in Downtown L.A. We walked up a twisting staircase made of marble and granite to the second floor, then took an old-school elevator with a gate that clanked shut once you were inside.

  The elevator opened up to a narrow hallway that took us to the first door. My parents pressed the buzzer; the door popped open. Another door. We waited. The eyes behind the security camera gave us the once-over. We checked out. We went in. High-tech.

  Rajiv’s office was so peaceful. Quiet. The smell of warm tea in the air. Venetian blinds sifting the sun’s flow onto the facets of stones sitting in piles on his desk like paper clips. There were fifteen piles, to be exact, fifteen neat, beautiful piles of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. It was very cool, but I was young and didn’t really have a handle on what I was around. Just a bunch of pretty stones, I thought.

  There in the middle of all those jewels was Rajiv, a slender Indian man with dark chocolate–brown skin and a dark mustache. He usually wore a rayon shirt, JC Penney slacks, and soft black loafers; he talked with a lisp and always looked tired. Over the years, he’d become a great family friend, my unofficial uncle.

  But before we reached that level of kinship, he was just a strong, quiet guy to me. A strong, quiet guy whom my mom steamrolled every time they met. She came to those meetings prepared: she did her research, paid attention to current styles, predicted future trends. She knew Rajiv’s business inside out: that he was just one or two degrees removed from his “reliable” contact, so he could source what she wanted. And that he could get it at a good price because there weren’t too many dirty hands marking up the cost between the mines and his office. More than anything, my mom knew that though the diamond trade might have looked all bright and shiny, it was just a show backed up with nothing but big talk. Rajiv was playing like his rocks were flying off his shelves, but my mom knew he was just bluffing. He wasn’t selling shit. Combine all that knowledge with her aggressiveness, and she just ran game on Rajiv.

  And so Rajiv cracked under my mom’s relentless pressure, handing over the best stuff—no, not the neat, beautiful piles of gems lying around his desk, but the stones hidden and locked in a safe as tall as me—at dirt-cheap prices. In exchange, my parents promised that the inventory would sell within three to six months, max.

  With damn fine jewels in hand, we left Rajiv’s and hid in the hallway or stairwell outside his office for the next phase of the plan: to stuff my pockets with the jewels. Downtown L.A. wasn’t a nice place back then, and my mom figured no one would ever suspect that a twelve-year-old kid like me was carrying anything as valuable as jewels. If one of my parents got hurt or was robbed, their kid—and the gems—would be safe. And so they laid it all on me. Take a look, don’t see anyone, quick, put this deep in your pockets. Quick, around your neck, under your shirt. Hush hush quiet now.

  We left the building with diamonds lodged on me practically everywhere but the soles of my shoes. I knew I’d be bouncing across Pershing Square under all this weight, but I wasn’t too nervous. I think I was cool under pressure because I understood that this was the hustle. This was how it was all supposed to go down.

  Back through doors number one and two, down the narrow hallway, down the old-school lift, down the twisting staircase, out in the street. HONK!

  We crossed streets, dodged traffic Frogger-style, and moved quickly with the Downtown crowds who also were on the hustle. Sometimes the current flowed too fast, and my mom would grab and hold me and the inventory close before letting us go again. We hit up all the stores around the Jewelry District. Picked up gold at Gold Link, where gold chains hung in neat rows like hammers on a workshop tool board. Then past Broadway to see the guy with the opals and pearls. The pearls had just come in the night before, straight from the South Seas, high quality, no blemishes. They were gorgeous black and silver gumballs, swirling with the most majestic tie-dyed flow I had ever seen outside photos of Jupiter.

  Then back out to the busy streets, heading to the next X that marked the next spot on our treasure map. More jewels collected and stashed somewhere on me; by the time we completed our scavenger hunt, I would be wearing layers of loot. Before we could unload, though, we had to collect our breaths. Regroup. Figure things out.

  The Yorkshire Grill was—and still is—an olde English “pub” with big, tall ceilings, serving Jewish deli food alongside classic American town square soda fountain drinks and pies. The booths along both sides of the space were covered in brownish red vinyl. Dominating the center of the room was a huge horseshoe counter topped in weathered Formica, where bankers and other workers sat, their jackets hanging on the backs of their seats and their ties over one shoulder to keep them safe from the soup of the day. An Armenian man ran the place. He stood in the front, holding a clipboard and calling everyone by name. He always greeted my parents and me with a warm smile, and, even if there was a line out the door, he always seemed to have an open table for me, my mom, and my dad.

  Over corned beef, we all discussed strategy as if we were bandits on the run, high on adrenaline and plotting our next move. Quick decisions over Reubens or crusty French dip; matzo ball soup and a root beer float; liver and onions or a bowl of spaghetti. All washed down with Farmer Brothers coffee brewed through big paper filters and poured piping hot into the kind of mug you hold with three fingers through the handle. As our business progressed, the Yorkshire became our place to gawk at our growth and sales: “I can’t believe it’s happening!” and, in breathless awe, “Today we are selling a four-carat!” It also became our rendezvous point; we’d assign individual tasks—”Dad will go here; Roy, follow me here” or “Dad’s going to the pearls, you get the gold, I’ll get the diamonds, meet back at three”—then break huddle, disappear into the busy crowds to execute our duties, and return to the Yorkshire to compare notes. We were a three-man team, each scouring Pershing Square, zone coverage all the way.

  But back to those first days. We really had no idea what we were doing. My parents were scribbling notes in fake-eel-skin organizers and writing the script on the fly.

  “Okay okay okay, we go to Deecan and make the diagrams, right? Let’s look at the Tiffany catalog and the Cartier. What do you see is the point? What is the X factor in this ring?”

  Pause pause. Think think.

  “I think it’s the prongs and how they hold the stone. Or it could be the sloped line on the bottom. I have to explain correctly to Deecan. Roy, you help me explain. Okay?!”

  I felt the rush. It swept me away. I was in.

  The blueprint was drawn. Time to make the play.

  DEECAN’S OFFICE WAS “5 ON 5”: the fifth story in a building on 5th Street, not too far from the Yorkshire. I loved going to his office, because it was a true man’s place. There was nothing remotely feminine or glam about it. Just ugly Yellow Pages directories stacked up randomly around the room, ugly chairs, ugly calendars, and ugly desk lamps blaring their ugly fluorescent light.

  The only delicate thing in the room, actually, was Deecan himself. He was the jeweler who set the stones in moldings, an Armenian man with a big round belly, T-Rex arms, and a thick, bushy bristle broom mustache. He always wore a silk rayon shirt, buttoned up to the midtorso only, to let his chest hairs breathe.

  He, like every jeweler out there, was a true craftsman. He was a mechanic who lived under the hood of his magnifying glass, holding tiny tweezers ever so carefully to twist and turn precious metals into prongs to project the light of the set stone just right. His workspace was a big desk cluttered with wax moldings, ring sizers, magnifying glasses, and cigarette butts squished in huge agate and quartz ashtrays.

  With Deecan, my mom would work out a bunch of fresh, intricate designs for rings, pendants, bracelets, necklaces, anything. Then they would talk business. They argued over price, over quality, over everything. My mom pushed Deecan hard (“Come on, Deecan, don’t give me excuse”), and even though
he pushed back (“Mrs. Choi, this is too much! My guys need a break, you are asking too much, how can we make this design by tomorrow? You are asking us to do what Tiffany does with just our small team in one day!”), she still ultimately won the day (“So what. Can you do it, Deecan? Or no? Simple question, simple answer.” Silence. “Yes, Mrs. Choi.”).

  Sometimes my mom ran out of English, and she looked to me to finish her thoughts. “Oi saekki wae dikkae chun chun ee hanung go ya? (Why the fuck is this guy so slow and doesn’t get my point?) Tell him, Roy,” and it was my turn to step up to bat. “Deecan, she is trying to tell you to stop complaining” or “Deecan, she doesn’t know how to say it, but she appreciates all your hard work but really needs this by tomorrow” and sometimes even “Deecan, she wants to know how old your kids are this year so she can buy a present” to help smooth things over.

  Really, though, I was a release valve so my mom and Deecan could blow off some hot air. We would start to talk about the “point”—that little something that differentiated their gemstone setting from everyone else’s and made it that much more beautiful and special—but the conversation would inevitably segue into Little League or what I had eaten that day. When things cooled down and they got back to business, it was my turn to clear my head. We would set a time to hook back up, and, with my pockets still full of stones and my neck frozen with gold, I slipped out for my own alone time.

  My first stop was usually downstairs at the juice bar. The fruits and vegetables weren’t pretty—the carrots were like old rifle bullets from World War II—but that wasn’t the point. This place had some sort of kumbaya and was frequented by the most eclectic band of strangers I’d ever found myself around. There were always homeless guys coming in with stories to tell. Armenian jewelers coming out for a refresher. Older Jewish couples pointing at every single piece of fruit they wanted in their blend. Young Latino guys in dark blue jeans and gold pendants. Me, a twelve-year-old kid, watching it all go down.

  I usually ordered a carrot-mango-banana-pineapple from a guy with hairy arms and then sat at the long red Formica counter that ran the length of the storefront window. From there I could watch the action inside the store and gaze at the bustle outside on 5th Street. I watched how the older men moved and talked. I listened to them haggle over a certain piece of fruit, heard stories of how life is a mutha. Women would walk in, and I saw how these shit-talking guys would straighten up for just a second, take a whiff of that female energy, then go right back to shit talking.

  Next door was a shawarma spot decked out in red and white tiles. Good but not great. The meat was kind of dry, and the pita wasn’t the best, so it was the garlic or tzatziki sauce that was your saving grace. There was extra sauce lying around behind the counter, but it seemed to break code to request another tiny plastic cup of it. As if you were really putting that guy out just by asking. Just give me boatloads of this stuff, so I can drench in peace, man. They always gave it to me with a sneer and suspicion, but the point was I got some, and I could move to the corner to unwrap the foil and give my shawarma that extra juice.

  Once I was I done, it was back into the wind tunnels of Pershing Square, slicing the shaded streets, looking for that soul of the city. I should have just stayed put, waited for my parents, but something about the city kept me moving, exploring. The tall, old buildings always created dark shadows, making Downtown seem eerie even at noon. I linked up with the swarm of people moving between those buildings, briefcases, bags, umbrellas, accordion files in hand. A look, a stare, a bump, a walk, a weave: everything was a riddle that had to be unpacked in a nanosecond. Nobody seemed happy, but we all wanted to be there, going with the flow.

  After a few blocks I left the crowds and ducked into the alleys, catching glimpses of all kinds of transactions. Transactions and dudes taking a piss.

  Then I dipped into the rush of the Broadway corridor, which was really transforming into the hub for Latino commerce. It was also the street that housed all the old retail courtyards from the twenties, little hideaway gardens that took you deep into the belly of the building, populated by stores and Korean merchants selling underwear and toys.

  Stores with neon signs flashing “Oro” lined the streets. Delivery trucks rolled by. Big glass-fronted stores advertising televisions and all the audio/video stuff you would never believe could be so cheap but for the snake oil salesman telling you he had the “best bargain, brand new!”

  Then right past the old bus terminal, and right to Los Angeles Street, where the city met Skid Row. Somehow I fit in. I felt like I belonged there for some reason; I could just sit down on the curb, jewels and all, and be myself, listen to guys tell and retell stories and relive cons. Or I could sit at the Greyhound Station nearby, enveloped between old food wrappers, dark clothes, ash marks of dirt and tar and the smell of piss, and watch all the movement. The strangers talking to themselves made me feel like they were talking to me, and I somehow connected to these lost souls in transit. For once, it wasn’t just me that was in constant flux.

  When the sun started to set west over the buildings, I knew it was time to get back to Pershing Square. I cut through the Toy District, weaved through hot dog carts and Spider-Man backpacks, and went back to 5 on 5 and Deecan’s man cave. I always hurried, but I was always late and would get an earful for it. Sometimes I wasn’t sure whether everyone was worried about me or just about the jewels. Either way, though, at least they cared.

  My parents picked out the gems they planned to sell and gave them to Deecan to set, along with a few parting gifts like kimchi and pancakes. What they didn’t take off me stayed on until we got home and put them in the safe. This meant I was still loaded when we stopped at Clifton’s Cafeteria for an early dinner. Clifton’s was a rabbit hole of LSD–laced, Jungle Cruise far-out dreams. The entrance was laid out in mosaic tile and, as we walked through, we had to scurry and get in line.

  The room was filled with hanging vines and red booths and chairs. Everyone in there seemed old as fuck, whirling around the brass food island, poking their heads under the heat lamps and sneeze guards to get a whiff of the meat loaf or the corned beef and cabbage or the carrot salad or the sauerbraten or the Jell-O. You paid for everything you put on your tray, so you can imagine how many things I had to put back. And quickly. Keep moving, my dad would always nudge, because, man, you had to keep moving. The last thing you wanted was some granny pushing all up on your back, telling you to hurry up.

  Finally, the last stop of the day for one last piece of treasure: Chinatown for some almond cookies. Phoenix Bakery’s sun-bleached sign has sat on the north end of Broadway for decades. It’s a real old-school place with sprinkled cakes, big smiley-face cookies, and shoehorn pastries. The girls working there always seemed like the owners’ daughters, just a bit older than me. I crushed on them hard. Twelve to thirteen with a dream—can you blame me?

  But more than anything, I loved the bakery for those almond cookies. Glazed and buttery. Dense and filled with sweet aromas of almond paste and extract. I’d run up and take a number, wait for a pretty girl to call me up, and order a pink box filled with the best cookies I would ever eat in my life, ever.

  After Phoenix, it was back home to work on the other side of the hustle: the hard sell.

  THIS WAS THE EARLY EIGHTIES, and Reaganomics was in full bloom. Koreans were getting rich with import-export businesses, filling up communities out in Palos Verdes, Orange County, La Cañada, and Hacienda Heights. Mercedes S-Classes were in session. Chanel bags. Hermès scarves. My parents knew it. And they worked it.

  They went back to hustling, like in the days before the restaurant. My dad’s top-of-the-class Kyunggi-Seoul rep still held weight in the community; it opened doors and built trust. Then my mom made her entrance and went into action; instead of kimchi calling, this time it was jewelry on the line. Sketches were shown and the jewelry she took on consignment sold at kyae meetings, friends’ homes, golf courses, and restaurants. Her jewelry designs were really that fly, bu
t they only sold as well as they did because my mom was the salesperson of all salespersons. The closer, Glengarry Glen Ross with brass fucking balls. She knew you lived in Palos Verdes. She knew your husband was Dr. Kim, the best surgeon in town. She knew you had more money than you knew what to do with. So, you would be buying this $150,000 D-Flawless diamond ring with princess setting because no one else had it and of course you wanted to be the first to show off when all the wives got together that week. And at only 10 percent markup from wholesale instead of the 60 percent that Tiffany and other retailers charge? Did you really have to think about it? Sold, cash in hand, end of discussion.

  It fucking worked. One by one they bought our stock, and they bought it anywhere, every time. The golf-gear- and St. John–wearing, nip-tuck, Givenchy-powdered ladies always wanted what they wanted right here, right now. We sold jewelry on the spot at informal get-togethers. We went door-to-door by appointment. We made sales at saunas. Hell, we even sold out of the back of our car. A three-carat D-Flawless stone set by Deecan, to a lady with Estée Lauder makeup who rolled up in an S-Class.

  Sold, a South Sea pearl necklace right off my neck.

  Sold, an emerald from Brazil set atop sliced baguettes of yellow diamonds.

  These were whales of sales. Our quality became legendary. Word got to Korea, and generals, politicians, and tycoons started buying.

  We bought a small storefront in Garden Grove, with tinted windows, a double-buzzer lock, and comfy couches for ladies to meet and gossip, 3:00 P.M. dumpling style. Choi Jewelry wasn’t open to the public: if you were there, it was because someone referred you there. And so even though my dad set up jewelry cases on the counter, those were empty. Just decoration. The good stuff—everything, in other words—was in the back, locked safe in a safe, waiting for a whale.