by Cole Reid
It did matter to the Communist-weary Kuomintang that her husband was a member of the Communist Party of China, but it mattered more that she wasn’t. Even if she were a Communist supporter, the Taiwanese reasoned that she couldn’t spread Communist seeds in fertile minds across Taiwan because she was a woman. The Yang-linked culture of Taiwan wouldn’t listen to a woman. It also made a difference that she had a twelve year old daughter. The reviewers of her application thought whatever sympathies the child had toward the Mainland, would begin to swim upstream once she saw their cosmopolitan and international capital city. The application for a tourist visa to Taiwan was approved. Xiaofeng and her mother arrive cheaply, by ferry, across the Taiwan Strait.
They established themselves as tenants with Mr. Zhou almost immediately. Mr. Zhou never checked for residence status because the law didn’t require it. It didn’t matter to Mr. Zhou how the rent was paid or by whom. It mattered to Mr. Zhou that rent was paid in a timely fashion. Any other tenant entanglements weren’t his entanglements. Mr. Zhou knew a single mother supporting an adolescent daughter would make ends meet. As long as ends meeting didn’t bother other tenants, it didn’t bother Mr. Zhou. He gave Xiaofeng and her mother a one-year lease in Unit 203.
203 was a one bedroom, the second door on the left after 201. The floor in the hall was dark green tile with a black and gray swirl pattern. Two fluorescent lights lit the long hall. The lights attracted flies as if they smelled. Xiaofeng dragged her feet across the tile to make slight squeaks. Despite her seriousness, she was still a child. Her mother unlocked the simple door while wiping her feet across a simple mat.
Once inside the apartment, Xiaofeng and her mother ran a quick offensive. Both knew they were on the clock. They had a little over two hours before Xiaofeng’s mother had to start work at 87. She worked from 6:30pm to 2:00am weekdays. Xiaofeng went quickly across the faux wood floor of the living room and into the single bedroom. She had to start her homework immediately because her mother would only be available for the next hour and a half. Any questions would have to be asked and answered within that time, otherwise Xiaofeng would be on her own. She always started with her English assignment—the one most fitting her mother’s expertise. Her mother, meanwhile, went straight to the kitchen and rinsed a steel pot that she had since university. She filled the pot halfway with water, added salt, and brought the whole thing to a boil. She added lettuce for flavoring and soybean oil for consistency. She took instant noodles from the cabinet overhead and broke them up, letting the broken pieces fall into the boiling water. She took a piece of processed sausage, cut it, and dumped the bits in the water as well. She added green peas and onions before letting the pot boil on its own. She stirred the pot for a few minutes before heading to the bedroom to check on Xiaofeng.
“How is it?” mother asked daughter.
“Pretty easy,” said Xiaofeng.
“You wanna try talking to me in English?” asked her mother.
“Again?” asked Xiaofeng.
“So we can both practice,” answered her mother, “At work, I have to speak a lot in English. Some of the customers are Americans. You can help me warm up before I go.”
“Ok,” said Xiaofeng.
Xiaofeng followed her mother into the kitchen area. She quietly lamented that she couldn’t make the white kitchen tile squeak like she could the tile in the hall. Her mother handed her a two brown plastic bowl.
“Serve me as well,” Xiaofeng’s mother said in slightly accented English. Xiaofeng was left with a ladle and the pot of noodles as her mother unfolded a white plastic table. Xiaofeng’s mother grabbed two black folded steel chairs leaning against the far wall and stood each chair next to the table. Their dining room was built in the middle of their living room. Xiaofeng had two full bowls ready, by the time her mother finished unfolding the chairs. Xiaofeng set the two bowls on the table, one in front of each chair.
“Did you forget chopsticks?” asked her mother.
“What’s chopsticks?” asked Xiaofeng.
“Kuaizi,” said her mother.
“No,” said Xiaofeng reaching in her back pocket for two pair of bamboo sticks.
Both senior and junior sat down and began to help themselves to the hot noodles.
“Is your maths test this week or next week?” asked her mother.
“Next week,” said Xiaofeng.
“Are you planning to study this weekend?” asked her mother.
“A little,” said Xiaofeng, “The test is not until Friday, I can make time to study next week.” Xiaofeng’s accent was thicker than her mother’s. She practiced less.
“Study on the weekend Li Xiaofeng, you don’t know what can happen next week,” said her mother.
Xiaofeng knew her mother was serious, using her full name. After that, she didn’t feel like talking anymore, especially in English. Mother and daughter ate without speaking. Xiaofeng’s mother stood up quickly and leaned over to kiss her daughter on the forehead.
“There’s more if you want; I have to get ready,” said her mother leaving Xiaofeng at the table. Xiaofeng sat by herself, feelings still hurting. Her mother vanished into the bedroom. Her mother reappeared seven minutes later wearing a faded blue jean skirt, covered with a black waist apron. She wore a bright lemon-colored T-shirt with ‘87’ written in three-inch purple lettering. 87 was on the right side of her shirt. On the left was a white-on-black nametag with the name, Autumn Lee. She had been given the option of using her Chinese name, Li Qiu, but her name translated well. She thought using an English name would make her popular with western customers and earn her more tips. It did. Qiu quickly rinsed her bowl and her daughter’s.
“There’s more here if you get hungry,” said Qiu, still speaking in English.
“Ok,” said Xiaofeng, leaving her mother to guess whether she was speaking English or not.
“Finish your homework,” said Qiu.
“I will,” said Xiaofeng in Mandarin.
“I’ll be back around 2:30,” said Qiu, still in English.
“Bye, mama,” said Xiaofeng.
Qiu grabbed her keys and headed out the door. Her green Vespa pulled into the back of 87, where there was only room for one car, Mr. Nan’s. Facing his car, was a large green dumpster. Employees usually arrived by scooter and parked on the side of the dumpster on the asphalt. There were already three scooters parked on the asphalt leaving no space for Qiu’s Vespa. On the other side of the dumpster, was an opening of about one meter, between the dumpster and the wall. Through the opening, was an empty space—2.5 meters by 1.5 meters of gravel, grass and cigarette butts. Qui hoisted her Vespa onto the back wheel and rolled it through the narrow gap between the dumpster and the wall. She parked her Vespa to one side so she would have room to move in and out of the space. Qiu moved quickly always wanting to clock-in early. She moved through the back door of 87 pass the restrooms and a large Pacman videogame machine. She ducked to the right before reaching the Pacman machine and into the kitchen. On the wall behind the door, was a vertical cardholder partnered with an automatic time stamp. Qiu found her manila time card and fed it to the time stamp—6:23pm. She was early as always. Qiu grabbed a pen and notepad, looking to the back of the kitchen for Mr. Nan. He was busy and didn’t seem to notice her.
Qiu kept a constant pace between clock-in and clock-out. Much was given to her and much was expected. She was the only employee in Mr. Nan’s collection who had been sponsored. She was young but mature, pretty but poised and her English was better than anyone else on staff. Mr. Nan appreciated her style and honesty. When she came to the restaurant a half year before, she said she was comfortable doing an interview in English, which surprised Mr. Nan. All other employees had chosen to speak Mandarin. Mr. Nan had to have an English-speaking staffer ask the English questions as he was not confident in his own abilities. Qiu’s ability to switch easily between English and Mandarin during the interview impressed Mr. Nan, as did her honesty. She admitted she was in country on a tourist visa and
would need Mr. Nan to sponsor her in order to get a work permit. She also brought a copy of her lease contract, to show Mr. Nan she was serious about staying in Taiwan. He hired her on the spot and immediately began making phone calls about how to get the visa application done.
Mr. Nan was smart. He kept her salary and her tips in a non-interest bearing account. When she needed money, he would give her a ‘loan’ from the account which he controlled. She couldn’t retain her wages from working until her work permit came through, but there was no law against loaning money to someone in Taiwan on a tourist visa. When her permit did come through, he gave her the money accumulated in the account and a written letter discharging her ‘loans’ based on necessity. Qiu’s appreciation of Mr. Nan showed in her work ethic.
The restaurant wasn’t busy, so Qiu washed glasses and plates until she saw customers sit in her section. From 6:30pm until 10:00pm, her section was the three tables in the northwest corner—tables four, five and six. After 10pm, she inherited the three tables in the southwest corner, giving her half the restaurant. The restaurant was oblong with six tables lining the north wall and six tables lining the south wall. The restaurant had a diner style atmosphere, mixing Classic Americana with touches of the Wild West. The walls were decorated with dark-stained wood paneling and black-and-white pictures documenting American cultural icons: the original Flamingo Hotel & Casino; Bonnie Parker posing with cigar in mouth and revolver in hand; the Hollywood Sign; the Welcome to Las Vegas sign; Al Capone’s mug shot and Geronimo. An American and Republic of China flag hung from the ceiling. A jukebox, resembling a 50’s era gas pump, stood against the far west wall next to the door opposite the kitchen. The jukebox had depth, everything from Buddy Holly to Elvis, Jimi Hendrix to Aerosmith, Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, the Beach Boys and Michael Jackson’s latest solo effort Off the Wall. One thing missing from the jukebox was the Beatles. Mr. Nan argued the restaurant’s American theme, so the British Beatles didn’t make the cut. He underestimated just how big of an impact the Beatles had on an American generation and their offspring.
It was the middle of the week and 87 didn’t get busy until late. For the first few hours, Qiu severed beer and cocktails to office types coming to grab a drink and conversation after work. Most were locals and didn’t tip well. It wasn’t until after 8pm that the Americans started to show. They were the ones who wouldn’t come out without music. The jukebox came out of the blocks at full sprint around 8:30. Patrons had a system of leaving their money or ID on the jukebox to establish who had the next song after the jukebox went silent. 87 became an entirely different theater when the expats began to show. Even the employees didn’t feel like they were at work anymore.
At 10:10pm, Qiu went to the kitchen to check on a cheeseburger with extra sides for Table 2. A sudden buried feeling came over her, while she stood in the kitchen. She didn’t know what it was. Her heart skipped causing stiffness in her chest. Her thoughts quickly turned from the feeling in her chest to her daughter. She thought to ask Mr. Nan if she could phone her daughter, but realized she had only been working for six months and Mr. Nan had already done her enough favors. She told herself everything was fine and promised herself she would be out the door at 2:00am on the dot, returning home to Xiaofeng.
Qiu went back to work. She stepped out of the kitchen and back to her tables. She immediately realized she had gone to the kitchen to check on the order for Table 2. The Cheeseburger was sitting hot on the counter so she took it out to the middle-aged couple sitting at Table 2. While at Table 2, she noticed three men enter through the front door and sit at Table 5. It was now 10:20; tables 1 through 6 all belonged to her. The three men were all GIs, she could tell by the way they looked, athletic with mechanically short hair. She could tell by the way they smelled, like outdoors and metal. She could tell by the way they acted, laughing too much and talking too loud. They were Americans and Americans tipped.
Qiu walked toward Table 5 and the three men—two white, one black. She smiled as she walked over, pretending that her mind wasn’t on her daughter. Her youthful appearance betrayed the fact that her last thirteen years were spent raising her daughter by herself.
“How are you guys?” she asked.
“We’re good,” said the one with reddish hair.
“Great! To let you know we run specials for our military guests with our All Things American specials. And all American beers are at domestic prices, just for our military guests,” Qiu had practiced the line so many times, she was bound to get it perfect, this time she did.
“Where are the All-American specials?” asked the one with darkest skin. His head was clean shaven to the point of no hair.
“They’re on your menus on the reverse side of the front cover,” said Qiu.
“Cool,” he said.
“You guys want to start with something to drink?” asked Qiu.
“Sure,” said the red head, “You boys wanna do a pitcher or what?”
“Yeah, I’m game,” said the third man, his light hazel eyes scanned the room. Qiu could tell it was his first time to set foot inside. Most Americans had a surreal experience the first time at 87. The experience was the mind being overruled by the senses. Every detail of 87 mapped out a classic American eatery, even the black and white tiled floor wasn’t Asian. But no mind could understand how travel from Asia to America could be achieved so quickly. There was no such technology in 1980. Even the waitress spoke fluent English, with a thin—not thick—accent. It was as if she was from Asia but had lived in the States for a long time.
“Where are you from?” asked hazel eyes.
“I’m from the Mainland,” said Qiu.
“Ah, Mainland girl,” said hazel eyes in a deep rolling voice.
“A Mainland girl named Autumn, and I’ll be taking care of you guys tonight,” said Qiu. Six months had taught her the wit that earned tips.
“Can we get beer in a pitcher?” asked red head.
“Sure, I can bring it to you in a pitcher or we have bottles or frost mugs,” Qiu made a gesture showing the size of the mugs.
“Yeah, let’s get those,” said shaved head.
“Alright by me,” said hazel eyes.
“Done. Let’s get three frost mugs of Bud,” said red head.
“Do you guys have military ID?” asked Qiu.
“Yeah,” said red head as they all reached for their pockets. Qiu took a quick look at the IDs, it was impolite to inspect them.
“Ok, I’ll be right back with those and give you guys time to search the menu,” said Qiu with her mind set on a decent tip. Her thoughts instinctively turned to Xiaofeng. She spent the rest of the evening delivering hot plates and collecting used ones along with her tips. A count in her head told her that she had collected around 400 Taiwan dollars.
The three GIs had finished eating but were still talking at 11:45pm. The restaurant was mostly clear. One patron was at the cigarette machine buying cigarettes. Cigarette pack in hand, he walked past Qiu on her way to the kitchen and left the restaurant. Qiu went into the kitchen and started to wash dishes. The remaining employees were all in the kitchen cleaning up. There were only three of them: He Qiang, the late shift cook; Chen Weixing, another waitress, and Qui herself. Mr. Nan usually parted company at a quarter passed 10pm. Qiu remembered that Table 5 still catered to the three GIs. She left the kitchen to see if they were ready.
“Can I clear some of these away?” said Qiu referring to the finished plates and empty mugs of beer.
“Yeah we’re done,” said red head.
“What time do you close?” asked shaved head.
“Half past 12,” said Qiu.
“And what time is it now?” asked shaved head.
“12:05,” said Qiu, “Do you guys want a last call?”
“Yeah, we’ll stay for one more,” said red head.
“Ok,” said Qiu, “I’ll bring you new glasses.”
“Thanks, that’s really cool of you,” said red head, “We had something to ask you.”
“What’s that?” asked Qiu.
“Are there any places to hang out late around here?” asked red head.
“There are a few clubs and bars, if you head straight down here toward Blue Cherry Hotel, there’s even a disco in the hotel,” said Qiu gathering plates in her arms.
“We’re headed out later if you want to come with us,” said red head.
“That’s nice of you, but I have to close up tonight then go home,” said Qiu.
“You’ve been working hard all day,” said shaved head, “You deserve some fun.”
“Still working,” said Qiu, as she headed toward the kitchen. She set the plates down on the kitchen counter and headed back out to the bar to fill three mugs.
Qiu took the mugs to the three men still in their seats at Table 5. She set the mugs on the table and slid their bill toward the middle of the table.
“You sure you don’t wanna come party with us?” asked red head, grabbing her wrist in the middle of the table. Qiu folded her bottom lip and looked red head in the eye and shook her head. She had learned tacit gestures worked well with drunk patrons. The alcohol amplified the light and muffled the sound, making their eyes work better than their ears.
“But I do want you guys to get home safely, is one of you OK to drive?” asked Qiu, collecting empty mugs in her hands.
“We’re all OK,” said red head “Don’t worry about us we’re big boys, and you’ve been the best waitress we’ve ever had so we’re gonna give you a big tip.”
Red head pulled out two US fifty dollar bills and put them on the table.
“Ta-da!” he said.
Qiu was feeling like the butt of a joke. She grabbed the dollar bills, knowing she could exchange them to cover the tab and have a large tip left over.