In Truckee after dark, a warm light drew the car, which came to a stop under a wooden sign twined with ivy. La Vieille Maison. Usually, both Taña and Wittman fought against being waylaid by the advertised, but they were cold and hungry, and in need of bathrooms.
As he held the car door open for her, some cowboys in a pick-up truck shouted something, whistled. Fucking rednecks. The way they get you paranoid is you can’t tell whether they’re admiring the car and the chick, or they’re giving you racist red ass. Flipping them the old finger isn’t satisfying enough. They run away, and don’t catch your reaction.
The amber in the windows was coming from a fireplace, which the maître d’ seated them near. Given a choice, Wittman would have chosen that hearth table anyway. Who cares if it’s the conspicuous, overheated table that they couldn’t get rid of? Right off he ordered a carafe of the house red. The waiter brought homemade bread rolls and said that the butter was “drawn and whipped.” This restaurant was famous for boarding the cast and crew of The Gold Rush. Charlie Chaplin might have sat right here and invented the Oceana Roll. Wittman stuck his fork and Taña’s fork into two rolls, held these feet under his chin, and danced his head across the table, kicked left, eyes left, kicked right, eyes right, run run run run, and bowed. Taña applauded, and ate one of the feet. Chaplin had hired eleven thousand tramps from the Yellow Jungle of Sacramento to build the Yukon in the Sierras. Every structure in the area had had its artist-in-residence. Wittman leaned back, looking through his wine at the firelight and at his woman. Taña raised her glass, he raised his. Clink. Can you stay in love with somebody you’ve been with—let’s see—for how many hours straight? Thirty-six continuous hours. Some kind of a record, he bet. Romeo and Juliet weren’t together for that long their entire lives.
Oh, yes, to have an orderly table three times a day every day, plus second breakfast and a high tea, five sittings a day, a pressed tablecloth, cloth dinner napkins, utensils lined up, a plate for salad, a plate for bread, clean ashtrays, flowers, oneself fitting just right in front of his place setting. At the clink of maybe real crystal, holding the stem between thumb and finger, Wittman resolved ways to make life better for himself: He ought not to eat and work at the same table; clear off the papers and decant the catsup, put away the Peace Brand nori furikake fish flakes, except when that meal required a dash. Wash coffee cup between usings, use its saucer strictly as saucer, not for a sandwich plate or an ashtray. Set up each course and activity. His whole outlook would change. Be more Japanese and French. Take time to fix food; take as long to eat it. Serve it presentably. No more naked lunches. He’s got to stop eating with his head in the refrigerator or bent over the pot on the stove. Peel an orange into the garbage bag, okay, but then walk a ways off, don’t slurp over the bag. His parents hadn’t raised him on organized meals; they didn’t know better, scarfing hot dogs and soda pop while taking a walk between the matinée and the evening show. He had forgotten how to live, but it was coming back to him. End the day gracefully. See each day out, toast it, feast it, sing its farewell. At least, sit down and eat with another human being.
Across from him—Taña. He loved the way her hands moved, a long finger going down the menu. She’s in no hurry to get to the next thing. An artist’s pace. She pretended to untie the laces of a bread-shoe; she picked its bone-nail from between her teeth. With a silver blade, the waiter scraped the crumbs into a silver crumb-catcher, then brought the appetizer—wonderful escargots. She got down to business. The same garlicky buttery pleasure that is coursing from my mouth to my soul is gladdening your insides too. We are communicating. Her sixth and last shell empty, she traced the snail whorls with her menu finger. Hers are sculptress’s hands. “Will you cook for me?” her dinner companion asked with his mouth full of the Gruyère crust of the onion soup. “I could have French onion soup every meal. You’ll make it for me?” Yes, he could take this for the rest of his days.
This monkey man of hers has lessons coming to him. He should have said, “I love French onion soup. I love you. Let me cook it for you, and feed it to you. Then you cook it for me. Let’s cook for each other. You taste my version, I taste yours, we know each other’s taste buds.”
“Every damn Sunday at this time, I get brought down,” Taña said, cutting her rumsteake. They had ordered the rumsteake maître d’hôtel pour deux personnes and pommes frites and carottes râpées au citron. And a salade de saison and a fromage. They had yet to choose the mousse au chocolat with strawberries or the tartelette aux fruits avec Chantilly or le mystère. And coffee with a B&B. “I start thinking about calling in sick. What do you think? Should I call in sick? Help me decide what I have. Nobody can lie about sick leave. Whatever you say you have, you get.”
Here was another chance for Wittman to let his woman know how he loves her. He should have said, “Eat your French fries. Go wild on strawberries. You don’t have to worry about your job anymore. I’ll do the providing.”
Instead, he gave her advice on what to do about Mondays. “I’ve never worked on a Monday, restaurants and theaters dark Mondays. At this job I just lost, Monday was one of my days off. I’m going to go on Unemployment. Six months off.”
“I’ll say diarrhea. Diarrhea gets to them. They don’t know what to reply to a diarrheaist. They don’t want anybody with the runs around the office. It’s one of my best excuses. You have my permission to use it when you get a job again. ‘I can’t come into the office. I got the runs. Gotta go, bye.’ Hang up quick, don’t give them a chance to discuss it and say no.”
She doesn’t understand, he doesn’t want a job again. Fired, he’s got more self-respect than ever.
They were smoking between courses, and did not make it to dessert. The voice of a loud man at Wittman’s back said, “Every Mexican in town has one.”
The party at that table laughed and laughed, repeating in appreciation, “Every Mexican in town has one.”
Has one what? Go ahead.
More laughs. Wittman turned to see what they looked like. They looked like the kind who entertain one another with race jokes. The vigilante of parties has got to go into action when he hears jokes against any color. He knows, it started out as a chink joke, but they had looked about, saw one, and changed it to Mexican. Like a heroic Black man who has overheard a jiggaboo junglebunny joke, he got up, turned, walked over to that table, step by step, closer and closer. “You talking about me?” he said. “What you say? You say a joke about me? Say it to my face. Come on, let’s hear it.” So I can have right paranoia.
He struck the two men and two women speechless. He prompted them, “I want a laugh too. Every Mexican has one what? I want a laugh too.”
“You’re causing a disturbance,” said the joker. “This is a private party.” The men got to their feet to defend their table. “You’re spoiling our dinner.” “Waiter. Waiter,” said the other man.
Their waiter and the maître d’ and a cook or owner in a black rubber apron came running. “What’s wrong? Be seated, please. No fighting in here, gentlemen. Sir, return to your table, please.”
Wittman spoke loud for the dining room to hear. “You like jokes? I tell you joke. What’s ten inches long and white? Nothing, ha ha. Every gringo doesn’t have one. Why you not laughing? I funny, you not funny. You nauseating. You ruin my dinner. You slur all over my food with dirty not-funny joke.” He pointed his finger at each nose. “Don’t you tell jokes anymore. Don’t let me catch you laughing against any raza again. You tell a gringo joke, wherever you are, I’m coming to get you. Understand? You sabe?” He held the edge of their table ready to overturn it.
“We weren’t telling dirty jokes,” said one of the ladies. Her husband will get her later.
“Ignore him,” said the other woman. “He’s disturbed.”
“Are you going to eject him, or do I have to?” said the joke-teller.
“I’m leaving,” said Wittman. “I might throw up my gorge, barf eating next to you. You’re getting off easy this time. I give
you a chance. Next time, out of luck.” He turned to the help: “If you want to run a gourmet cuisine place, you shouldn’t allow pigs.”
He paid his bill and tip with virtually all the money he had left, and no wages ahead. It was worth it. He had come up with excellent rejoinders. His americanismo was intact. Everybody had sat up and taken notice. Taña didn’t give anybody a disloyal look or shrug. He wished he could speak private Chinese to her, and she to him.
Outside, she asked, “What were those people saying? I didn’t hear what they said.”
“They were racists. They were telling a race joke. I didn’t overhear it all the way through. During jokes, I have trouble hearing anyway. I get this blockage in my ears, like a wall or a roar that protects me. Line by line, I’m thinking, Is here where I break in and call them out, ‘Don’t tell coon jokes’? And try to educate them as to the unfunniness of the genre. Or can I laugh, it’s not a coon joke? I’m a good sport, I’m ready to catch on and laugh, or catch on and bust ass. They get quiet when I walk into the party. I don’t get to hear as many jokes as most people. I caught the punchline in there. It went like this: ‘Every Mexican in town has one.’ Do you know how the rest of it goes?”
“ ‘Every Mexican in town has one.’ No, but I can find out for you.” Will he be with her at that by-invitation party where she listens for Anglos making merry prejudice?
As they crossed the street, a voice demanded, “What time is it?”
Wittman didn’t look about. Not every shout is meant for you.
“You. You have the time?”
“No,” Wittman shouted into darkness. “No. I don’t own a watch.”
“What’s the time? What time?”
“No watch. No watch.” He could not see who was there.
The way they drive you crazy is you can’t calibrate your paranoia. Like “Your time is up”? Like “Your time is up, chinaman”? You can’t be too paranoid in these small towns with separate outskirt Chinese cemeteries full of graves with the dates of young men. A few years ago, he’d gone up to Middletown to join an anthro dig; the storekeeper said, “You ain’t gonna find nothin’ but the bones of the chinaman, ha ha ha.” He’d said that to the white kids too, nothing personal. In these parts, anyone who wants to cash a check has to turn himself in to the sheriff.
Wittman escorted his lady safely through the main street toward the car. They window-shopped and looked for GrandMaMa. Notches to the tops of doorframes recorded snows. He got in the driver’s side. He drove well, the while inventing a ratsbane parade. These towns need banging.
Ba-baan! Blow the ram’s horn—announcing public executions. On prancing Red Rabbit, Grand Marshal Grandfather Gwan, god of war and theater, rides again. Halberdiers and gunslingers carrying scythes, samurai swords, grenades, railroad spikes, chef’s knives, Mrs. Winchester’s rifle, whatever there is around the house, make an exit from the theater on the esplanade and processionally walk to the temple in the middle of town. No permit, tough shit, we parade anyway. Four days of parading a town, leafletting it, advertising ourselves. The flyers quote The Sacramento Union: “It would appear that John Chinaman means to remain with us for an indefinite period and to enjoy himself the while.” You bet your booty and sweet patootie. Yes, it must have been a show-of-force parade that the Union reacted so meanly. King Mulu walks his beasts, white tigers, kirins, camelopards on bridles which also guide the winds. Chuko waves his feather fan that can sic elephants on a populace. Doctor Woo will be there, flashing his fishbait lures: “Step right up for a peek between my hands. The lure is lighting up. Ten cents to look. One dollar to buy. The lure is difficult to see by daylight, but. It allures in the dark. It allures you for to dig your mine tunnel. Good for a lifetime. Dig for fifteen years, guarantee you find prosperity. You will find you a palace of chrome. You will meet the Queen of Silverado, who looks like this lovely lady. At no extra cost, she will take from her own head to you very own head the wolf helmet. You wear the ruff of a wild wolf all around you face, you hear and remember the lucky strike chant I be singing.” Eddie Toy swags and slides his lariat noose. And here comes our all-girl drum corps shuffling along in slippers. And Miss Chinatown and her court of runner-up princesses on the backs of convertibles. Roll flam-flam flam-flam. Roll flam-flam. Each girl mad to turn into a swords-woman, her secret identity. Running about everywhere and interacting with everybody—blue-faced varmints and clowns in skull-white. You won’t be able to make them laugh, even tickling them keelee keelee in the armpits. And riders are coming in warpaint, each with its peculiar menace—black-winged eyes and eyebrows, curlicues around round noses, grooves beside their red mouths, red and green diamonds on foreheads and chins. None of the horses is gunshy because of the bats and words painted on their hoofs and rumps (over the Bar-B-Q brands). Stomach-echoing ear-blasting cherry bombs go off. And fountains and showers of fireworks rise and fall. Fire falls hurtle down mountainsides. And at the end, six white horses pull a stagecoach delivering in its belly ten thousand gold eagles won by a Chinese gambler.
The black shapes in the sky were ravens, those on the ground were a herd of tumbleweeds. They had broken from their roots, and were traveling on the freeway. Wittman slowed down for a couple of thickets to cross, did not get tail-ended, and drove under a bouncer, big as the car, swerving around a sitter. In his rearview mirror, he saw a gnarly snarly mass switch directions to chase a windbreaking truck. Taña said that he played dodge-the-tumbleweeds very well.
Yes, he was getting into driving. The Porsche Speedster smoothed out the plodsome world, which he controlled with the steering wheel. The Sierras rolled by like movie scenery to the background music from the radio, Fanfare for the Common Man by Aaron Copland. For long stretches, no other traffic messed with him.
But then he started thinking about the moving light yonder. Didn’t it seem to be staying with them? What was it, and was it coming this way? In emptiness, brainwaves home in on one another. There may be thinkers tracing you. Try not to attract killers, and things from outer space. People are always meeting flying saucers in Nevada and being taken aboard to Venus. Anything could have happened to GrandMaMa.
At State Line, Taña told the ag inspector that the only fruit they had was Juicy Fruit. That’s why he likes her—she is socially aggressive.
GrandMaMa probably won a jackpot, and the casino is sending her home with an escort at its own expense. The news of her winnings may have reached Sacramento by now. Her friends are waiting at the Greyhound Station.
Oakland came up before San Francisco. Good. He would drop this girl off. He had gotten here on the bus, he could take the bus back. If you don’t get back to your own pok-mun alone when the weekend is over, you start becoming the husband part of a longterm living-together couple. She was worrytalking about Monday morning turning her into an assistant claims adjuster. (Can a monkey love an assistant claims adjuster?)
“I loathe my job,” Taña was saying. “You know what the most creative part of it is? I mean, besides making up excuses. I match up a monetary figure with a loss of a body part, so much for a hand, so much for each finger, so much for an eye, one leg, two legs, a foot, a toe, more for the big toe than the baby toe. Loss of an extremity is usually accidental. In beatings, people get hurt in the torso. That’s the most interesting information I’ve gotten out of the job. You know what the most common occurrence in the human body is? Cysts and fibroids. At parties, I say, ‘I’m an assistant claims adjuster,’ I may as well say, ‘I’m just a housewife.’ I never meet these people with the cysts, or the one eye and one leg. I just match up the number of stitches with the number of dollars. I type out the checks. I write letters denying pregnancy coverage for the unwed daughter of the family. The most excitement we’ve had was when my desk partner recognized the signature on a physician-verification form to be the name of the acid killer doctor. An autograph of a killer. I’ve got to change jobs, but Claudine—that’s our Office Manager—isn’t going to give me a good letter of recommendation.”
She carried on like that all the way back to the curb of her house. Here was Wittman’s chance, come to her rescue. At least walk her to the door. And come on in for a sit and a listen. Don’t leave her like this. “At eight o’clock a.m., this chime goes off. The first four notes of Lara’s theme in Doctor Zhivago. We have to be at our desks. It goes off again at ten-fifteen, coffee break, and ten-twenty-five, end of coffee break, and at twelve noon and twelve-forty, and at two-fifteen, second coffee break, and two-twenty-five, end of coffee break, and five o’clock—commute hour. I live for those two ten-minute coffee breaks and the forty-minute lunch hour. They compute those sixty minutes against us. We get paid for eight hours when we’re at the office for nine hours, plus two rush-hour commutes. Plus getting ready, dressing for work, nylons and make-up you wouldn’t wear otherwise. When we get so sick that we have to stay home, they call that a benefit. If I lost a toe or got beaten up in the torso, I ought to be able to type myself a check. They keep congratulating themselves for giving us a girls’ lounge. The girls crochet and knit and read Bride magazine in there. Men never come in. I don’t know where the idea of office romances comes from. Males and females don’t have much to do with one another. When one of the men does talk to you, he tells you that insurance is the answer to everything—especially death, everything. The girls knit ten minutes at a time, and after a couple of years, they have a sweater or an afghan to show for it. Some of the older girls knit booties for their grandbabies. Most of the girls graduated from high school; they think they have to obey bells. The men don’t go by the chimes. It’s not fair. The men go to lunch from eleven o’clock till two or three, and it counts as work. They eat with clients. You can smell what they had to drink. And they get paid many, many times as much as the girls, plus commissions. Claudine told us not to compare paychecks. She said pay envelopes are confidential. So whenever I’m alone with a girl in the restroom or the elevator, I tell her how much I’m making, then ask her what she’s making. Most of them say it’s none of my business, and that I’m breaking the rules. I did get a couple of girls mad, though; they’ve been there longer than me and I make ten dollars a month more than they do. We think it’s because I went to college. We’ve got to start a union, but white-collar workers don’t like unions. And do you know what’s really unfair? I’d have to hold organizing meetings on my own time; bosses get to have union-busting meetings on company time. The job of executives is to fuck over employees. When I brought up unions, some girls said I was a communist. In fact, they reported me to the American Legion, who called on Claudine, who told me to watch my step. If I quit my job, I won’t be able to get back in elsewhere. I’ll be blacklisted by the insurance industry. Ordinarily, I’m not political, Wittman, but most people are so dumb, I can’t just stand by and enjoy having brains. We have to take responsibility for the dumb people.” Wittman hoped that those scared office workers, whom he pictured typing their lives away at infinite banks of desks, weren’t Chinese-American girls. Most likely they were, and Claudine was too. “I can finish my work by the second coffee break. I tried reading, writing letters, making phone calls. Claudine told me to spread insurance forms on my desk. ‘Look busy,’ she says. I was reading a very educational book, but she made me put it away. I’ve got to get out of there.”
Tripmaster Monkey: His Fake Book (Vintage International) Page 29