Tripmaster Monkey: His Fake Book (Vintage International)

by Maxine Hong Kingston

  His aunties, the showgirls, would vouch that he had talked to them about work. Start with Auntie Carmen, the agent, then Auntie Mabel’s revue. List the casinos in Reno; Unemployment won’t question his talent as a croupier, all Chinese are gamblers.

  And another thing you can do—put Chinatown businesses. Your contact is Woo Ping Sao or Go Wing Mao or Soo Hoo Ting Bao. If Unemployment were to say, “We can’t find that name in the phone book,” you say, “You must have looked under Sao. Sao’s not his last name. Woo is his last name. We put the last name in front, see?” And if they say they did look under Woo, you say, “Oh, it must be under Ng. In my dialect, we say Ng instead of Woo. Sometimes he goes by Ng. Try looking under Quinto. They came up out of Bolivia.” Or you find some actual name in the Chinatown phone book, and when that king of tofu hears the white Government voice on the phone, he’ll say he doesn’t speak English. Throw flak all around. Outsmarting the government is our heritage.

  Wittman’s not crazy and he’s not lazy. The reason he doesn’t have right livelihood is that our theater is dead. A company of one hundred great-great-grandparents came over to San Francisco during the Gold Rush, and put on epic kung fu opera and horse shows. Soon the City had six companies—not those six business companies—six theater companies—the Mandarin Theater, the last to die; the Great China Theater, which runs movies now. The difference beween us and other pioneers, we did not come here for the gold streets. We came to play. And we’ll play again. Yes, John Chinaman means to enjoy himself all the while. “If some of us don’t live this way, then the work of the world would be in vain,” says Lew Welch, poet guide, whose California incarnation is Leo, the Red Monk. We played for a hundred years plays that went on for five hours a night, continuing the next night, the same long play going on for a week with no repeats, like ancient languages with no breaks between words, theater for a century, then dark. Nothing left but beauty contests. Wittman may be untalented, poor, not called upon, but he will make vocation; he will make theater. Had not one had a hundred times to promise not to die?

  From a shelf higher than his head, he took down the I Ching, which is a book and also a person dressed in yellow. He—the Ching—jumps reality to reality like quantum physics. Wittman found any three pennies from his pocket change, shook them, ringing the changes, and threw the Big Have. Dai Yow. Hexagram Number 14, Possession in Great Measure. Dai Yow, a name we give our gambling houses—The Big Have—and Dai Loy, the Big Come, ha ha. When you get something terrific like that, you don’t believe it. He threw again, and got Dai Kuo, the Big Crossing, or, as they say, Preponderance of the Great. The Ching says Go. The pre-Americans, before they crossed the ocean to here, went to a church-casino to throw with God. They bet the Big Crossing, and here we are. He threw again. The Ching said, “Youthful Folly. It is not I who seeks the young fool; the young fool seeks me. At the first oracle I inform him. If he asks two or three times, it is importunity.” Let us go then, you and I, to make the world our own place.

  Through the windows, the San Francisco weather gave no hint as to what time it was, afternoon grey or morning grey. Here he rises from his meditations and goes to his window; his high room is too close to him, he would like to see stars, if that is possible. Wittman’s stars were the pinholes in his roller blinds, constellations like none in the sky. He shook his pillow out of the pillowcase, stuffed in his sheet, bathroom towels and dishtowel from off the fire escape. He took off the green shirt, stuffed it in too. He put on one of his chambray blue shirts, and his black knit tie, collar down neat, and changed to jeans and tennis shoes. He gathered the socks and underwear from off the shelves of stacked-up crates and off the floor and out of corners. The good thing about living by yourself in an uncomfortable room is that it forces you out into the marketplace and the forum, a notebook and a couple of books under the arm.

  His afterschool and afterwork homecoming neighbors went at him again in the halls and stairwell. “College graduate, believes too much what they teach over there.” “Bum-how.” “No job. Useless.” He faced a woman down, “Have you eaten yet, Grandmother?” “I’m not your grandmother, boy. Jook tsing.” Bamboo head. “Ho chi gwai jai.” Earth paper boy. Just the community’s way of letting you know we care. He ought to bring his white girl up here for a tour, give them something to talk about. Now since I have been drifting about alone like this, I have had innumerable neighbors; neighbors above me and beneath me, neighbors on the right and on the left, sometimes all four kinds at once. I could simply write the history of my neighbors; that would be the work of a lifetime. It is true that it would be, rather, the history of the symptoms of maladies they have generated in me.… The smell of other people’s dinners was filling the air with hungers.

  He turned up his pea-coat collar, slung his seabag over his shoulder, and walked toward his ship, which had been torpedoed during World War II. He was the ghost of one of the five fighting Sullivan brothers. Five roles for five Caucasians. The sun looked like a foggy moon. The old eyes of the man in the moon, up again during the day, were drooping tearfully. The street, the buildings, the people seemed spackled, blending them into a coherent set. The laundromat was on a corner; the traffic took right turns around the windows like sharks at the Steinhart Aquarium. There were pools of water on the street and on the floor. He bought some soap out of the vending machine, shoved everything into a small washer, stretching his money. President Truman had washed his own socks in the White House sink, so as not to make Bess his laundress. “Nobody should have to wash a man’s socks for him,” he’d said. Wittman was having the same consideration for Taña. But he did miss laundromats near a campus; there had been propaganda leaflets you could agree with, recent magazines and newspapers and good paperbacks left behind to share the wealth, and readers and writers at the chairs with a desk-arm. Though too often a head was watching t.v. at a front-loading washer.

  He picked up a postcard from off the floor. It was porno, two or three fleshy people cheesing into the camera. The girl looked Chinese or Japanese or Korean. Arms and legs were bent funny because of balancing on high-heel shoes while fucking while looking at the birdie. There was an address and phone number, which the Steppenwolf would have gone to or called up, letting whatever wrong number trip him out into somebody else’s movie. No, thanks. Wittman, a man of purpose, had in mind a place to go while his clothes were washing.

  At his bus stop, a very strange person, a blonde Black lady, also waited. She stood closer and closer. She was wearing too many clothes, not knowing why she was uncomfortable. They had been boiled in dark dye, as PoPo used to do to costumes. He felt her stares touching his face. “Do you know what they did to the pretty little oriental girl?” she asked. He put his books on his shoulder, blocked her view. But didn’t fool her into thinking he was invisible. “They killed the pretty little oriental girl. And do you know why they killed her?” Why did they kill her? “I’ll tell you why they killed her.” Dramatic pause. Five, six, seven, eight. “They killed her for her kidneys.” No shit, Dick Tracy. He walked fast to another bus stop, lost her. Her voice came on the pouring fog, “… kidneys,” chasing him for quite a while.

  “Is that you? Is that you?” What is this? One for each bus stop. Who? Me? Yes, pointing at him, addressing him, shouting him out from across the traffic was a white lady in a raincoat and scarf. The shark cars were cutting her off from coming over to his side of the street. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not,” Wittman answered.

  “Sure, it’s you.”

  “No. No. I don’t think so.” Hey, wait a second. That’s not right. She’s tanglewitting him.

  “Georgie. You Georgie?”

  He knows the answer to that one. “No, I’m not. I’m not Georgie.”

  “Georgie, you go home and phone your mother. You phone your mother. You hear? Go home, Georgie. Phone your mother. Why won’t you call your mother, Georgie? You call your mother. Georgie, you call her right now.”

  Street talkers ch
oose him. They’re always recognizing him. It takes one to know one. The bus came, and he rode away, passing both his ladies. What is it about me that I am picked out by the touched?

  Well, yes, he ought to give his mother a call, tell her she can stage a memorial service. PoPo is not getting herself found.

  When a familiarity pervaded a certain neighborhood in the Avenues, Wittman got off and walked. He peeked like X-ray eyes through cracks between buildings and saw the ocean. Sea dragons were rolling about sounding their foghorns. He came to a Queen Anne house that he had seen before; it hadn’t been a dream or a wish. That red plant they make soup out of, who knows its English name, was growing in the strip of dirt between the sidewalk and the street. Over the front door were three words that looked like the Chinese on houses that his parents and grandmother had pointed out to him in Vancouver, Seattle, Sacramento, Stockton, Denver, L.A. “Ours.” A house not much different from others on the block except for the sign that was a board off a crate: Bow On Hong, which isn’t even how you pronounce Benevolent Association but the best the founders could spell. Wongs and Lees have headquarters that are architect-designed office buildings; they own the block, the shopping center. The Ah Sings had had to join up with a bunch of other families, and they still weren’t much. Not one of your power clans. “You need help,” said his father, “you go there.” Zeppelin went to the New Year’s banquet and July 4 picnic as a philanthropist, a big donor, a buyer of many raffle tickets with his last twenty-dollar bill. The only beggarmen at the Eighth Month Fifteenth Day party were Black bum-hows and white bum-hows, who walked in off the street, no shame.

  An old fut in B.V.D. undershirt came out to the curb with a watering bucket. Wittman turned and walked away. He needed to go around the block practicing what to say. Admit it, he was sort of afraid of the Bow On Hong. There are non-Chinese who understand that. At school, he’d met a Jewish girl who was afraid of Hadassah ladies. Same thing.

  He folded the collar of his pea coat down, and came at the old fut from the other direction. He was watering the curb vegetables with warm piss. Smell it, hear it bubble, see it steam. Fresh. “Sir,” said Wittman, that is to say, “Teacher.” “Teacher, may I speak with you awhile?” Sloshed the old honeybucket there almost onto one’s shoes. Then picked up a broom and started sweeping his way across the sidewalk and up the stairs. Swept that Wittman aside. “Teacher, may I please have a word with you?” Importuning, crabwalking.

  The old coot bent over with his ass in one’s face, and swept into his oilcan dustpan. He could have stood straight, using the upright handle. He was giving Wittman the ass on purpose. “I have an idea I want to discuss with you,” said Wittman.

  “No speak English,” said the old fut, heading up the stairs, blocking the way with his equipment. Oh, come on, he can speak English. Anybody can speak English who feels like it. “Boss not here,” he said, like Wittman was some health inspector, some tourist, some Caucasian salesman. But Wittman’s half-ass Chinese would have insulted him, as if he were not good enough to use American on. The boss is too here. This is our president, Mr. Grand Opening Ah Sing. Do they call him Grand Opening to his face?

  “Teacher, I need to talk to you about something very important,” said Wittman, as he had rehearsed, stepping over things to beat Mr. Grand Opening up the stairs.

  The old fut banged his broom, oilcan dustpan, honeybucket. Wittman sat down on the top step. “Let’s sit and talk awhile, Teacher. Rest,” he said, beckoning the old fut to have a sit, like host inviting guest. This place is my place too.

  “Talk then talk, la.” Like suit yourself. The old fut kept walking on up.

  Wittman jumped to his feet, yanked the screen door open, “Let me help you,” grabbed the wet honeybucket. “I came here with a good idea for you, Uncle.” But quick, the old fut rattled through the door and locked it. His hair stuck up from its whorl in a topspin. He laughed, hoisting his droopy drawers by their suspenders. He’s no president; this is our village idiot who has no other place to live and no family, our charity case in exchange for caretaking the estate.

  “Hoi mun!” shouted Wittman. “Open the door!” The old guy stood there looking at him. “ ‘Knock knock.’ ‘Who’s there?’ ‘Hoimun. Hoimun Who? Hoimun, I want to come in, ah.’ Ha ha. Get it? Herman, open the door.”

  “Go away,” said the old fut. “You go.”

  “No, no, I’m not ah Go. I’m Ah Sing. Are you an Ah Sing too, Uncle? I’m Ah Sing. I’m not a robber.” You can trust me not to steal this honeybucket. “I want to talk to you. I’m Ah Sing. I’m Zeppelin Wadsworth Ah Sing’s boy. You know Ruby? Ruby Long of Chicago. I’m Ruby Long Legs’ boy.” Shit. What’s GrandMaMa’s name? “I have a popo. I’m Ah Sing PoPo’s grandson.”

  He was grabbing look-sees over the old fut’s shoulders. A large living room with a pair of heavy carved throne-chairs at one end—the stage area. “My Ah Sing PoPo was here at the New Year’s party, do you remember her? My mother gave a lot of money to this association, Sacramento branch. My baba is a past president of the Six Companies. I just want to visit, okay? Just visit. Just just. Please, Ah Sing Uncle, may I come in and sit?”

  “Come in then come in.”

  Wittman brought the rest of the pissing and cleaning equipment inside. He set his books on the conference-dining table, and sat down before them. They like you to have books. He gestured the old fut toward a chair, “Sit. Sit,” acting as if he were a dues-paid active member, whose family were founders from way back. The old fut took the seat at the head of the table, next to a chalkboard. “So what you want?” he said.

  “I want to put on a play here. For free. It won’t cost you anything. It will make money for you. For us. For the Family Association, who doesn’t have to pay to see it. The Association can sell tickets, and make money. Will you please donate the use of our hall for a play? We could open up these doors to make the living room and eating room one big room. Only move this long table.”

  “What you mean play?”

  “A bock wah. A bock wah, wah.” White speech. Pure speech, as in a play. “Jew hay, wah. I like to jew hay.” To make air. To give to airy nothing a local habitation and a name. “I like to make a play with Gwan Goong. A Chinese play.” But he doesn’t mean a Chinese play. Is there a Chinese word for Chinese-American? They say “jook tsing.” They say “ho chi gwai.” Like “mestizo.” Like “pachuco.”

  “Gwan Goong be here.” The god of actors and writers and warriors and gamblers and travelers was on top of the mantel.

  “This house be a good house to make a play,” said Wittman, said all the spiel he’d prepared, and began repeating himself.

  “You no can play in here.”

  “Listen, we must play in here. Else, what Association for, huh? Collecting dues? What you do, huh? You bury old men. You be nothing but one burial society. Better you let United Farm Workers use the bathroom and kitchen. Let them crash overnight. Be headquarters—Hello, Strike Central—for union of waiters and garment workers.” Where’s more language, for to amplify and ramify? In Berkeley, a Black Muslim spoke about “sanctuary that the Chinese brothers provide one unto another.” He had looked right at Wittman, a member of a people with a genius for community. Black guys see too many kung fu movies. They think a Chinese-American can go anywhere in the country and have a safehouse where a stranger can be served a family dinner. Well, there had been a time, any old Chinese stopped you in the intersection and scolded you to be careful crossing streets. Scolded you to be a good boy, like they all took a hand in raising you. The ethnos is degenerating.

  “We no can have Black gwai and bum-how meeting here. Don’t say old men dead.”

  “Okay, okay, old men not dead. Nobody dead. Everybody plays. Look, I’ll show you.” Wittman jumped up and ran to the fireplace, to the flags and the oranges and pomelos and the dusty plastic fruit and flowers. “Here. Gwan Goong and Chang Fei be here. Kung fu. Hi ho, Red Rabbit.” He picked up a feather duster, which represents horse. “Sabe? Move th
is.” He shoved the big table. “Chairs. People.” Moved chairs away from the wall, turned them toward the front. “Talk big stories.”

  “What you doing?” said the old fut. “What you doing?” He moved the chairs back. He pushed against the other side of the table. “What you do, jook tsing boy? You ho chi gwai. You monkey.” But the old fut was asking a question. Always take questions as signs of friendliness.

  “Monkey kung fu,” said our monkey. “I do monkey kung fu.” He grabbed a flagstaff. “Monkey gim.” The gim is the double-edged sword. Wave the red-white-and-blue, wave the horse. “Monkey at war.” The magic monkey twirls his rod that turns into needle, gim, staff, the Empire State Building, a soft-shoe swaggerstick. “Monkey fights Lao Tse.” “Lousy,” he pronounced it, trying to hit the tones. “Monkey fights lousy,” which is all right; Monkey lost that fight. “Monkey fights Kwan Yin.” He picked Kwan Yin up from the mantelpiece, and shook her, shook himself as if she were doing it, bonked himself on the head with her, and disappeared, yanked, behind the chalkboard. He ran out, carrying the flag sweeping the furniture and floor. He stopped at the fruit, and bit a plastic peach. “Monkey drinks the wine and eats the peaches. Monkey pisses in the cups. Priests drink monkey piss. Pfooey.” Funny face toward the audience. “Monkey changes seventy-two ways. Bee-e-en! Monkey bird. Monkey fish.” Bug eyes, blowfish cheeks, mouth and eyes opening and shutting, his fingers swimming like gills and fins beside his face. “Monkey as temple.” Stiff and articulated like an Egyptian, his flagpole-tail erect, salute it. “Be-ee-en! Monkey as a dancing bouillon cube. Help. Help. I’m diminishing. Bee-e-en!” Jumping up and down, voice fading, cooking in the cauldron of life. He picked up the jar of sticks, and shook them onto the hearthstone, like jackstraws. He threw the three coins in his pocket against the baseboard. There were three turtle shells, and he threw them on the floor. “Did they land lucky, huh, Uncle? Good luck, huh? We okay for a play? Monkey bets God.” He wrapped himself around the porcelain footstool-drum, and banged out a rhythm. “Come see the bock wah, laaaah.” He fell into the throne-chair. Come on, come on, where’s the applause? “Seriously, sir,” he said, “let me give you a tryout free sample story. If you like it, we have more show for everybody. You don’t like it, I leave. Fair?”