Dixieland Sushi
Page 21
I realize that part of me feared that visiting home would somehow change me back to that awkward girl of the eighties, the one who was always chasing after Kevin Peterson, the one who never seemed to find her place. Part of me is still that girl, which is why I work so hard at my job. I want to succeed, vanquish those ghosts of the past. But I also know that you can’t run from your past forever. And Riley is right. My past is only part of who I am.
“You know, you remind me of Grandpa Frank,” Vivien says.
“How so?”
“Grandpa Frank, he was always thinking about the next big thing,” Vivien says. “You know he was a dreamer, Grandpa Frank. That’s why he didn’t go back to California after the camps. He was always on the lookout for something new and better. You’re just like that. You’re always moving on—trying to find that next better thing.”
“So you aren’t mad at me for living in Chicago? I thought you hated that I lived so far away.”
“Ya-shee,” Vivien sighs. “Both my girls are adventurers. It’s in the Nakamura blood. How do you think we got from Japan to America in the first place?”
I look down at my hands.
“Bubba and I couldn’t be prouder of you,” Vivien tells me. She gives my shoulders a squeeze. “And whatever you do will be the right thing for you.”
Bubba drives me in Old Red back to Memphis to get my car, which is miraculously fixed, and I spend the next ten hours driving by myself straight to Chicago, thinking about Riley.
I blare the Dixie Chicks at high volume all the way up Highway 55, but I still don’t feel any better when I hit Chicago’s city limits. It’s two in the morning, and the Chicago skyline looks as impressive as ever. Peaceful, even.
I pull into the parking garage of my apartment building and realize that I haven’t once thought of work in the last ten hours. That has to be a new record. Exhausted from the drive, I don’t have the energy to worry. My phone’s message light is flashing but I ignore it. I throw myself into bed and think I’ll deal with this tomorrow.
When I wake up, it’s light. I wonder if I’ve slept only for a few hours, but then I look at my clock. It says 5:14. I think, five in the morning? It takes me awhile to realize it’s five in the evening—the following day. That’s sixteen hours I slept. Sixteen! Granted, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, but this is ridiculous.
It takes me another second to realize that what woke me up was the sound of my phone ringing. Clumsily I grab the receiver from my bedside table and croak, “Hello.”
“Thank God you’re home!” cries my assistant Anne. “Have I got the scoop of the century for you.”
“Unless you’re divorcing your husband and running off with Brad Pitt, I’m going back to sleep.”
“Why are you sleeping at five in the afternoon? Wait, never mind. It’s just good that you’re sleeping,” Anne says. “Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Michelle was fired today.”
I sit up in bed.
“She was what?”
“Fired. Terminated. Escorted out of the building by security.”
“No!” I gasp. “Why?”
“Remember those expense reports? The ones she kept wanting to pass on to you? Well, I did some digging. I should say that I did said digging only after she called me a worthless secretary who wouldn’t know a news story if it bit me on the ass.”
“Anne …”
“It turns out payroll has been investigating her. She expensed five thousand dollars worth of charges last year, including her four-thousand-dollar Bahamas vacation. She was sleeping with some junior accountant and he was writing checks over to her until he was fired two months ago.”
I simply can’t process this.
“Was she really led out of the building by security?”
“In front of everyone,” Anne says.
“That’s some kind of karmic payback.”
“Amen to that, sister,” Anne concurs. “And by the way, Bob has been going crazy looking for you. I think he has some good news.”
“Tell me,” I demand.
“Sorry—I can only leak one news story at a time. Bob’s news you’ll have to hear from Bob himself. Those were his orders.”
After hanging up, I pull myself out of bed and see that there are five messages waiting for me on my answering machine. The first one is from Bob. “Jen, Bob here. I’ve been trying your cell phone but get no signal. Where does your family live? Tijuana? Call me when you get in. I want to talk about your promotion to the ten spot. Give me a call when you get back in and we’ll talk details.”
Promoted? He’s going to promote me?
The second message is playing. “Jen—it’s Bob again. I’ve been trying your cell phone for hours, but I keep getting your voice mail. What is it with Arkansas? Do they not have cell phone lines there? Anyway, call me about this promotion thing, okay?”
Next message. “Jen. I am beginning to think you’re playing hardball. Nice job. If it’s the salary you’re thinking about, then trust me, we can give you a raise. We’re talking 5 to 7 percent.”
A raise? Bob’s voice comes again on the next message. “You’re a tough cookie, Jen Taylor. Okay—12 percent raise—but that’s it!”
And the next: “Jen. If you’re negotiating with another station, I’ll match whatever they’re offering.”
And that’s the end of my messages. None from Riley. I feel a small stab of disappointment. I call his mobile phone and get his voice mail. I leave a message saying I hope everything is all right with Tiffany’s mom. Then I grab a shower, get dressed, and head to the station.
Bob is in his office, working late as usual, and when he sees me, he jumps up from his desk and sprints over as if he’s going to give me a hug. Instead, he extends his hand for a shake.
“Jen Taylor, am I glad to see you,” Bob says. “I take it you’re here to discuss your promotion? I’ve been filling in for the ten o’clock shift for days, and I’m sick of it. I don’t know how you deal with those anchors.”
“Magic,” I say, with a smile.
“So, we’ve got a deal then? You producing the ten o’clock spot, and your 5 percent raise.”
“I think you said 12 percent,” I correct.
Bob gives me a lopsided grin. “You’re a tough one, Jen Taylor. You’ll go far,” he says.
A week passes with my new job, and I don’t hear from Riley. He’s made good on his promise to take his sick leave, and his desk is empty. He’s also notoriously absent from IM.
My new job is everything I could have hoped it would be. I have semiregular hours, or at least, my shift ends at ten thirty most nights instead of eleven in the morning. I can finally sleep at night like other regular people, and not in the afternoon. I’ve got the best news stories and the biggest audience of my career, and I know I’m one step closer to a network position.
The new ten spot anchor is thankfully nothing like Michelle. She doesn’t ask me to pick up her dry cleaning and she doesn’t demand that our scripts be limited to words under four syllables. It’s more than I could ask for in an anchor. But I can’t seem to really enjoy my new job. All I can think about is Riley. He said he’d call but he hasn’t.
“Just call him,” implores my friend Jason, who greets me at Celtic Crossings to celebrate my promotion. Upon hearing the news he sent me a house plant and a card that read “Maybe now you’ll have time to water me!”
“What do I say?” I ask Jason.
“Well, you could start by being honest,” he says. “Just tell him how you feel.”
“Now you know that you would never take the same relationship advice from me,” I tell him. Jason, of course, is sometimes known to pretend he’s an airline pilot when he meets men in bars.
“But that’s how you know my advice is sound,” Jason argues.
I call Riley. I don’t know what I should say on his voice mail. “Hope you’re not back with Tiffany”? “Why haven’t you called, you ass”? I hang up without leaving a message.
Kimberly calls to announce that while she is not going to get married, she is moving in with Matt Chang. She also tells me that Aunt Teri moved back to San Francisco, where she got hired at a Psychic Switchboard, reading—yes—I Ching coins.
The weekend after the wedding that didn’t happen, Bubba catches a sixteen-pound bass—bigger even than Bud-which he calls “Ms. Bud” because it’s a girl.
Aunt Bette finally sells enough Mary Kay to get herself a new pink Cadillac. Even Vivien, who still complains periodically of having a heart condition, gets a clean bill of health from her doctor who announced her cholesterol and blood pressure are well within the healthy range.
And I still have not heard from Riley.
On my desk the next day I find a Mr. Miyagi action figure. There’s no note. Mr. Miyagi has one hand in a curled fist and the other flat, as if he’s either about to karate-chop through wooden boards or play Rock Paper Scissors. More importantly, he’s wearing tiny Elvis glasses with muttonchops. The sight of this makes me laugh. I look up and around the office for some sign of Riley. I don’t find him anywhere.
I bump into Riley in the least likely of places—standing in the lobby of my building holding a bouquet of pink roses.
“Congrats on the promotion,” he says, handing me the flowers.
“Thanks,” I say. I want to scream, “Where have you been? Why haven’t you called me?” but I manage not to do so.
“Do I have you to thank for Mr. Miyagi: Elvis Imperson-ator?”
“You do indeed. You quote Mr. Miyagi often enough, so I figured it was a safe bet, and I know how you love muttonchops.”
I look down at the flowers.
“I was hoping we could start over,” he tells me, offering me his hand. “Hi, I’m Nigel Riley.”
“And I’m Jen Taylor.”
“Nice to meet you. Would you like to date?”
“What about Tiffany?”
“Tiffany who?” Riley pretends he doesn’t know whom I’m talking about.
“Your girlfriend, Tiffany?”
“Ex-girlfriend, actually,” Riley says. “Ex-girlfriend who is living with her new boyfriend in L.A. The wanker.”
“Riley, I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly sad for him.
“I’m not,” he says. “She did want to get back together, but it only gave me the supreme satisfaction of breaking up with her.”
“Nice,” I say, laughing. “How’s her mom?”
“Recovering.”
“That’s good.”
“And why didn’t you call me all this time?” I ask him.
“I had to do some thinking,” Riley says. “I wanted to figure some things out. I wanted to make sure of what I wanted before I went and mucked things up.”
“And what did you figure out?”
“I realized on that little trip of ours that it’s not Tiffany I love.”
“No?”
“It’s you,” Riley says. “Apparently, I’ve been smitten with you for ages. At least, that’s what Tiffany says.”
I laugh. “That’s got to be the least romantic way anyone has ever told me they love me.”
“Hang on, there’s a lot more romance where that came from, luv,” Riley says.
He wraps his arm around my waist and draws me to him. He bends down and kisses me, there in my lobby. It’s a gentle but intense kiss, and when he pulls away, I feel a little breathless.
“Now, I realize since we just started dating this might be a bit forward,” Riley says, tracing my face with his finger. “But, do you fancy a shag?”
I glance at my watch. “I do have fifteen hours until I have to be at work.”
“Hmm.” Riley pauses and pretends to do some imaginary calculations. “I guess I’ll just have to make do with that,” he says, pulling me closer for another kiss.
Up Close and Personal with the Author
DIXIELAND SUSHI IS A VERY UNIQUE STORY. HOW WERE YOU INSPIRED TO WRITE IT?
Like Jen, I come from a mixed racial background. My dad is Japanese American and my mother has a mix of English and European roots, but is first and foremost proud of her Texan heritage. I grew up in Texas, and found that the culture clash I experienced as a child made for some interesting stories.
WHAT WAS IT LIKE FOR YOU GROWING UP IN TEXAS AND HAVING A MIXED HERITAGE?
Like Jen, I sometimes found it difficult to convince people that I was part Japanese. I didn’t look traditionally Asian, and most people assumed I had a Latin American background. I did go through a brief identity crisis at age four. To this day, people will often ask me that dread “Where are you from?” question which is code for “Just what ARE you?” But as more people of mixed heritage—like Tiger Woods—become prominent in our culture, I think people (hopefully) will be more accepting of people with mixed heritages.
ARE ANY PEOPLE IN THE BOOK BASED ON REAL FAMILY MEMBERS?
There are no characters that are exact cookie-cutter replicas of family or friends. But as with all my characters, I do draw on experience and memory to shape many of them.
WHAT WAS IT LIKE TO WRITE ABOUT SUCH A PERSONAL SUBJECT?
I put a lot of myself into all the stories I write, but Dixieland Sushi in some ways extracted even more from me. Racial identity is certainly a large part of who I am, and so writing about that did require some additional soul-searching. Not to mention, there’s always a challenge with any story to make it entertaining and fun, which I hope I’ve accomplished here.
WAS IT CHALLENGING TO APPROACH RACIAL SITUATIONS IN A FUNNY WAY?
It was difficult. Despite the progress we’ve made as a country in the last couple of generations, I think there are still lingering prejudices. I think as a nation, we haven’t quite made peace with our racial diversity.
HAVE YOU OR YOUR FAMILY BEEN A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE?
My paternal grandparents met and married in an internment camp in Poston, Arizona, during World War II. The story about Grandpa Frank in the book losing his graduation gift of a car is a true one. And both my grandparents’ families lost everything during World War II. So there’s that. And like most kids, I got my fair share of taunting on the playground. Anything that makes you different, whether it’s what you look like or how you speak or how you carry yourself, can make you the target of some pretty mean teasing on the playground. I’m hoping we’re moving beyond that now, though.
IN THE BOOK, THERE’S SOME REFERENCES TO WHAT IT IS TO BE AN AMERICAN. WHAT DO YOU THINK BEING AMERICAN MEANS?
I think there is not one definition of an American. Right now there’s a lot of discussion about how divided we are as a national politically, but I hope that we don’t forget that one of the greatest things about our country is that there is room for so many combinations of cultures and attitudes. Jen’s story is a unique one that could only happen in America, I think. I hope that as a nation we continue to value our diversity because I think it’s our strongest attribute as a nation. The definition of being American is that there is no one definition. We are one big Benetton ad, and that’s a good thing.
RILEY, THE LOVE INTEREST IN THE BOOK, GREW UP IN ENGLAND. HOW IS THAT SIGNIFICANT?
Riley, like Jen, has a uniquely American story. He was born in America but raised abroad, so he has a different accent and a different perspective, but it doesn’t mean he’s any less American.
YOU EXPLORE POPULAR CULTURE OF THE EIGHTIES IN MANY OF THE BOOK’S FLASHBACK PARTS. DO YOU THINK POPULAR CULTURE IS SOMETHING THAT IS SHARED BY MOST AMERICANS?
I do think popular culture can be common ground for us. E
ntertainment on television, radio, and on the movie screen can cut through traditional boundaries, because it’s not generally divisive, but inclusive since its primary purpose is to entertain. In this book, pop culture is seen through the lens of a girl growing up with a mixed racial heritage in the South, so it’s a bit different than another person’s experience. For example, I’m not sure a girl growing up in Maine would dream of being a country western star, but I think they can still relate to Jen’s experience.
MR. MIYAGI HAS A PR OMINENT ROLE IN THIS BOOK. ARE YOU A FAN?
Of course. I don’t see how you can’t love Mr. Miyagi. He’s a sensei who dispenses sarcastic advice and yet kicks butt. What’s not to love?
WHAT ARE YOU WORKING ON NOW?
My next novel. It’s top secret, so if I told you about it, I’d have to kill you, or at least extract a solemn vow of secrecy. You can look for it, however, in the spring of 2006.
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Megan McAndrew