An American Confucian

Bimbus Extraordinarus

2011-04-10T16:41:00.000-07:00

OMG! They replicate! I had only seen this once before, but the two who had were certainly less fascinating than these two. From the pitch of their voices down to the too-outturned angle of their feet. The color of their hair was less important than that it was styled the same way: in a side ponytail, to evoke the long-gone cheerleader days which in truth were not a part of either’s past but were certainly a persona they wished to evoke now that those days were long past.

By now, I had been fortunately divested of the personal template by virtue of tragedy. You see, I thought to myself, there are useful silver linings to all experiences. This was one. That I could now write about what appeared to be a genus classification of human: the Bimbus Extraordinarus.

The Professor, Part II

2011-03-29T10:40:00.001-07:00

He met Lianhui in the library. She had been circling the stacks on medieval Chinese folklore as Harold circled her. She smiled and asked if he needed some help. In Mandarin. Harold answered in kind, and thus passed his first test. She marveled constantly over his grasp of Taiwanese culture while ignoring his clumpy hair and awkward gait. After all, he was American. And she discovered Harold’s values aligned neatly with her own: she wanted to marry an American, he wanted to marry a Taiwanese. She wanted to move to the States without struggling as a lonely immigrant. He wanted to avoid confronting his romantic potential with other Euro-American women. Together, they formed a bond of unified purpose rooted in mutual denials. The additional element of bilinguality added mystique to their relationship. It was indeed quite romantic that Lianhui and Harold could speak in different languages depending upon circumstances. It lent their communication an air of cultural superiority based upon relative exclusivity.

When they returned to the States, Lianhui applied to a graduate program involving Mandarin. For, although she may have left her homeland, she still wanted to remain intellectually loyal. Nary a flaw could be found in her plan, but this was not so for Harold. He began to experience another cognitive disjunction. This time it was located in a more abstract arena which, he concluded, originated with his name. That which was bestowed upon him was unfit for a man of such a learned, dignified stature. Or at least, it would be once he had attained his doctoral degree. Besides which, his wife couldn’t quite pronounce it. It always sounded like “Harrow.”

“Honey, do you like my name?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was thinking, perhaps I require a name that is more distinguished. More fitting of a professor?”

Lianhui thought for a moment. “But they’ll be calling you ‘Professor’ won’t they?”

“Not my colleagues. Besides, I need every edge I can muster to get tenure. You know what they say about presentation.” This was all communicated in Mandarin. It distanced him from the anxiety surrounding his problem, manifesting as it did as a twinge in his left eye.

As he thought more on the subject, Harold decided he needed a name that conveyed a touch of class. Moreover, he wanted a one that suited the bowties he had begun sporting in the classroom as a TA: his current name undermined the mild flirting with co-eds:

“Um, Mr. Smith?” She was an exquisite creature, not earthy like his wife, but instead ethereal. Dressed in a corset blouse paired with a miniskirt, she looked quite delectable.

“No, please don’t call me that. We’re practically the same age. Ha ha ha. Call me Harold.”

And while this young thing may not have noticed his name, Harold cringed at its pronouncement. He was certain that, with a proper name, women would respond to him not simply with need, but awed desire. Yet it’s a serious matter to name oneself. One must consider one’s present condition, rather than merely resigning to the projections of one’s parents. It involves a subtle hand combined with a good measure of role-playing, which Harold secretly enjoyed. He had already given himself a rather grand Chinese name: Gu Long, or Old Dragon. He needed an English name with similar proportions. So, Harold turned to English literature for a solution. One night, during a frenzy of page flipping through his Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume One, his eyes set upon a possibility: Samuel Johnson.

The man was a paragon of the tortured, misunderstood, but brilliant artiste. Not unexpectedly and in the style of a great writer, he had turned his early experiences into several incisive tracts. Validation of his superiority was cemented by James Boswell biographical work. Surely, this was a model that reflected Harold’s own, as yet unrealized brilliance.

Before leaping into this prospective name wholesale, Harold thought first about his given name. First off, there was no depth. His name projected an image of either a second-rate shoe salesman hustling wares out of a dilapidated corner shop (“Harold, we need these orthotics in size 9AA”). Alternatively it conjured himself: a gawky, be-freckled, be-spectacled young man trying to fulfill the promise of a debonair, bow-tie wearing intellectual.

So, he tested the name in his mind. “Johnson Smith.”

“Johnson,” he said to himself. “Johnson, good to see you, old boy! We’ve missed your presence in the club.”

“Professor Smith…”

“No, no, no, deah young lady. Please, call me ‘Johnson.’ Or even ‘J.S.’ After all, ‘Professor’ does sound so pretentious. Let us keep things informal. We are, after all, colleagues alike in this quest for knowledge, are we not?”

Harold smiled. He rather liked these imaginary conversations. Truth be told, he rather liked young women too. His success had been so limited in the States, rejection still piercing insistently from his memory. It was not until he had traveled to Taiwan that he had experienced something of what he felt was his due.

“Johnson, my boy, glad to have you aboard,” was the first greeting the new Johnson Smith, Professor, heard. Admittedly the school wasn’t Ivy League, but it was ranked in the Top Twenty. Unfortunately he had had to move Lianhui and their firstborn daughter, Madison, to the outskirts of the smoky industrial town—he hadn’t been able to afford anything more. Not on his salary. But the hail-fellow-well-met atmosphere of the all-Euro-American faculty boded well for Johnson’s ambitions. Especially this older man of the nautical greeting, Professor Will Dukworth the Second. He was of the old school of East Asian Studies, the forthrightly colonial type, that is, and he validated every fear-driven sense of superiority Johnson Smith harbored. Their friendship was cemented over clandestine tipples of Scotch after class, in the privacy of Professor Dukworth the Second’s office.

Said alliance was particularly useful because it sanctioned the cavalier, almost grandfatherly flirtations Johnson engaged in during class. For, according to Will, this was what those Orientals wanted, someone to lead the way through their own history and culture. They couldn’t do it themselves, lord only knew. They made a hash of it. But the Western Academic mind, now this was the leader of the faith. The women, especially, wanted, nay, needed this kind of guidance. Johnson found these private tirades a bit offensive, and because of this, it excused his more artless flirtations.

Indeed Johnson resorted to classroom flirting quite frequently, satisfying his libido with the knowledge that, at last, these young, nubile women with skin that did not yet sag and voices fresh with naïve sexuality, were beholden to him. He had discussed this with a colleague, once:

“Do you know, Ah once worried about being attracted to my female students. Ah wondered what Ah would do because it is an issue of integrity, don’t you agree?” Johnson knitted his brows for emphasis.

Professor Lange backed slightly away from his breath, “Yes, I do. What do you think about it?”

“Well, Ah thought about it at length and my conclusion was that it is a normal response. That over the course of one’s cahreah, one will meet students whom one finds attractive and that amongst some of them, this feeling will be reciprocated.”

“I see.”

“Ah’m sensing a bit of doubt, but let me explain further. It is normal to flirt at work, correct? Moreover, if my work involves adults, albeit younger adults, it would be natural to flirt with them, as well. Theah really is no harm. So long, of course, as that is the extent of it.”

Professor Lange objected, “I’m assuming you wouldn’t flirt with any of your male students, so what about the perception of impropriety, not to mention unfairness, that would develop in the class? And what about the inherent power imbalance? These aren’t colleagues, these are students who need your assistance and guidance. And they also need grades. If they think that flirting will help in these matters, the consequences could truly be dangerous, both for you and for the students. Whether they are men or women.”

From that point on, Professor Lange deliberately avoided Johnson. Johnson put it down to close-mindedness, that Professor Lange could not be open to her feelings. One of which, he was certain, was a secret attraction to himself.

And so it was that one day Professor Johnson Smith was laboring in class over a particularly thorny translation with one of his duller students. His TA, Lena, was feeling similarly dulled by the lecture and was nodding off discreetly in the back of the classroom when they were both interrupted by a singular occurrence: Professor Smith’s jaw dropped. Lena reflected that she had always thought such a description was strictly a literary cliché. Until now.

Class had begun fifteen minutes earlier, but Janice was constantly late. After all, she already spoke Mandarin. But as most Taiwanese who grew up in the States, she was illiterate. This class was an easy way to pad her ailing GPA. No one in the Department had banned her from it. The Euro-Americans in charge were just grateful that students were willing to take classes taught by white people like themselves.

Janice wore an outfit of gossamer silk, at least, what there was of it. To some jealous types, the skirt may have been mistaken for a wide belt, but it was found in the dress section so we must allow for the name. It was a sleeveless affair, with a scarf tied at her throat to match. A fetching ensemble which reached her toes, decked in authoritative sandals.

Johnson swallowed and then found his voice once more. “Janice, nice to see you.”

She nodded in reply and sat down. In the front row. She crossed her legs gracefully, pulled out her notebook from her shoulder bag, poised a pen over the page and gazed up at him.

Let us draw a veil over the ensuing scene because in the end, the boy didn’t get the girl. He already had one. One who was becoming progressively more rotund with a new vegan diet. It seemed that she was hungry all the time because she was not actually eating a balanced diet. And this was not simply because Lianhui was pregnant again, for it turned out that she was only six weeks along. The weight gain had preceded this by two months.

Johnson thus retreated often to both his office and Professor Duckworth’s, the one for the quiet, the other for the alcoholic refreshment. Home was only a two-bedroom apartment. A house was at least five years distant and with another baby in less than eight months, privacy was Johnson’s one constant solace. For he had found that these flirtations, these encounters he had anticipated with more than a little relish, often came to naught. Once they left his classroom, he left their minds.

The fact was that he was old. It is a cruel judgment wrought by eighteen-year olds towards anyone over twenty-one. None of these young women wanted an affair with him, they simply wanted better grades. And if that required more than an idle flirtation, the price was too high. Besides which, Johnson Smith was not that attractive. Oh, he had outgrown the tufted hair, it was of a uniform, if rather thin, consistency. His bowties, like the pocketwatch, were affectations he had read about in English novels, meant to signify his learned and awe-some status. True, these accoutrements were assessed by his young female students. They were thought to be intriguing clues to his character—cultured? moneyed? affected?--discussed at lunch, right before class and in between dating revelations or the latest shopping coup.

Portrait of a Whiner as a Young Man or "James Jackass Joyce"

2011-03-17T11:26:00.001-07:00

I stared at him, disgust curling my lips, “You know, that’s why you’ve got ten thousand Pat Barkers and only one Jack Kerouac. Because after reading him, all you want to do is this,” and I stuck my finger in my mouth and pretended to barf.

“He’s just like that other idiot,” I waved my hand impatiently, “what’s his name? Not T.S. Eliot, but he’s from the 20’s, too, you know, early 20^th century. You like him, “ I said.

My husband laughed.

I bent over to examine the bookshelves near my side of the bed, “Oh, yeah. James Jackass Joyce. Portrait of a Whiner as a Young Man.”

This made my husband laugh out loud, “I like that! James Jackass Joyce. And you should really have your glasses on when you’re looking at me like that, so you can look over them.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you can tell from my mouth I’m disgusted. I mean, you never hear women who really like him because they’re all like, ‘Hey, dipwad, welcome to my life for a day as a mother and then see what you have to complain about. Tch,” I finished disgustedly. “I just can’t stand him. What a jackass.”

A Beer, A Bath, and A Book

2011-03-08T00:04:00.001-08:00

It began in college. I suppose it was all because I didn’t anticipate finishing. Who would have known that I would end up pursuing a Ph.D.? But since I began with the idea of quitting in mind, I felt freer. Not bound by the rules of traditional undergraduate pursuits, to wit: taking all my lower division classes first and then upper divisions during my last two years. And yes, I did only take four years to complete my undergraduate degree.

I digress. Entering as an English Major (I loved the movie Room with a View), I thought, hey, I can take all kinds of great classes. “Novels in Film,” and “Contemporary English Classics” sounded promising. Nothing like “Introduction to English Literature, Part I, II, and III” to be taken consecutively (obviously) and with the end in mind of completely deadening any creative impetus, much less enthusiasm for English-language novels.

The aforesaid “Contemporary English Classics” proved especially entertaining, while “Novels in Film” was a complete dud: we kept reading things like Marguerite Duras (FYI: she’s not English) and Franz Kafka in celluloid. I think that professor was in the wrong field: Comparative Lit seemed more his speed. But the former class was a great success, not the least of which reason was because it was taught by a visiting prof from Northwestern who was the spitting image of an Oompa Loompa, circa Gene Wilder 1970’s—no the newer one is creepy and what is it about Johnny Depp and oodles of makeup?

She taught writers like E.M. Forster and John Fowles with introductions like, “He was a political prescient who wrote about situations which would always come to pass.” How can you go wrong with teaser like that? Which was a good thing since I would always do a tour of all the English class assigned books before I actually decided to keep a class or not. And of course, pick up a few dozen other interesting reads along the way. I mean, you may only be able to handle sixteen units per quarter (and trust me, if you’re reading a book a week per class, this really is the limit), but no one says you can’t also shop around for suggestions from all the other tantalizing titles out there. Classes like “Sex and the British Novel” with lots and lots of Jane Austen tomes (to evidently point out all the sex that wasn’t happening). And because I hadn’t heard of many of these authors, being only a tender 18, her presentation and appearance were a definite selling point.

Then there was her frankness. We were reading The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch and she warned us of the protagonist’s solipsism and its tendency to make one want to drink. Indeed, she confessed, if not outright suggested, that the proper way for her to read Charles’ narration was after having imbibed a certain quantity of beer, after having first thrown the book across the room.

This seemed like an excellent idea. The beer, I mean. She did warn that she was not, strictly speaking, advocating an alcoholic approach to critical reading, but on the other hand, if one was of age and many of the students were, it might not be a bad way to ease into the book.

Well, I was entranced. Both by the book and the teacher. She was absolutely spot-on, for enthusiasm and unwitting humour all at once.

As for the suggestion of the beer, I found I didn’t need it. Plus, I didn’t drink. I was a good girl and didn’t imbibe until I was officially of age. Well, perhaps once, but I was just shy of twenty-one.

The lesson, however, stuck. Add to that my penchant for baths. My dream is a whirlpool bathtub. Ironically, when I moved into my current abode, it had one. Except it didn’t work. How fitting.

Candles I find are a superfluous addition to the bath experience. So liable to fall, plop!, annoyingly into the tub and splash (this is the most annoying potential flaw) the book. All my books are in pristine condition and I do not like the idea of a series of splash marks that have marred the perfect flatness of a page. Especially if it’s a first edition, but even if it’s a paperback. They all look brand new, my books. But a beer. Not wine, no. The buzz is different, and so are the tastes. A beer, preferably some wheaty, pungent beer like Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse or some such thing. Actually, there was one when I was lodging with a local Physics prof that was made by a micro-brewery that soon went out of business. He drank my last six-pack. I forgave him because he and his wife let me use their sunken whirlpool bathtub.

The bath is also key and it must entail some sort of bubbles. I used to enjoy Archipelago Botanicals because they made this amazing floral scent, Enfleurage, in a Bubble which lasted hours and hours. Alas, alas, it is now no longer part of their bath line.

So a good book preferably a paperback for ease of handling, a wheaty beer chilled quite cold, and a bubbly bath (I know use Lush bubble bars) makes a perfect date. With myself.

When I drove up and down the coast preparing for my Master’s exams, I would stop off in the Central Coast. I had chosen the ideal location: right on the beach, free bubbly with the room, and a bathtub. A great little—though now quite large—barbecue and burger joint down the street. A little food and then into the tub with a glass of champers, which in a pinch is as good as a beer. And some book. Julian Barnes or Pat Barker. Steaming slowly in a scented tub, I simply cannot think of anything better.

The Professor

2011-02-13T20:03:00.003-08:00

The Affected Professor

As college approached, Harold’s mother broached the subject, though rather tentatively. Harold could be devastatingly condescending at will. But this particular instance was a bit too important for Harold to resort to mere superciliousness. Instead, it was, to her relief, a relatively mundane conversation: “Harold? Honey? Where are you planning on applying to school?”

“Yale, Harvard and Princeton. In that order,” Harold replied firmly.

“Oh?” Despite the lack of disdain, his answer held other disappointments. “They’re a bit far, aren’t they?” she ventured.

Harold immediately donned the smile he had been practicing in front of his mirror daily for a month, a combination of assurance with a knowing, mildly patronizing overtone. “Don’t worry, Mother,” he said as he rested a hand on either of her shoulders, “I shall keep in constant touch.”

Harold realized very early that his initial beginnings merely provided a point of departure as it were. A suburban Arizona domicile did not carry the distinction of, say, Marblehead, MA., but then again he was always assured that wherever his parents took him, there would be the promise of an air-conditioned environment at the end. His physique was a collection of unremarkable physical attributes that did not bode particularly well, either. He possessed hair that was oddly tufted with virulent outcroppings in certain areas paired with alarmingly thin patches in others. Throughout his junior high years, he had attempted to master his genetic code by using weight-lifting equipment he soon discovered was best left to the professionals, otherwise known as “jocks.”

Harold decided instead to embark upon a campaign of intellectual reconstruction that began with reading all of Henry James’ novels by the age of seventeen. Further, he modeled himself after both Henry James and T.S. Eliot, to wit he cultivated a speech impediment he thought approximated a well-bred British accent. He complemented this by affecting a languid gait that he was certain imparted an air of dissipated elegance.

Eventually, Harold settled upon Princeton. There he began solidifying his Oxbridge persona. As he had hoped, people took him at his word. Indeed, Harold discovered that he could re-create himself from whole cloth, so long as he possessed sufficient funds. People were surprisingly forgiving, even gullible, when they thought that a discreet whiff of money lurked behind one’s eccentricities. Fortunately, rather in the way of old, Harold’s parents gave him an “allowance” distributed each term to spend any way he saw fit. He supplemented this with a post in an upscale restaurant. At first it was merely bussing tables, but gradually he advanced as a server at lunch, then for the dinner clientele.

Harold examined his patrons closely, observed the minutest details of dress. Once he had espied a particularly elegant man sporting a suit of a beautifully subtle sheen:

“Hey,” Harold whispered to the hostess, “Hey, Marla, look at that guy over there.”

Marla glanced limpidly over her shoulder. She was, after all, only working to please her father who was also the owner of the restaurant. Because her father had insisted Marla work her way through school, Marla was equally determined to do the worst job possible. “Yeah,” she shrugged. “So?”

Harold feigned nonchalance, “What kind of suit do you think that is?”

Marla shrugged, “I don’t know. Looks like one of my Dad’s Armani’s.”

Harold hadn’t wanted to ask any further questions, but he had been compiling a list of necessary acquisitions. “Oh?” he asked casually, as if it was an afterthought.

“Looks like wool gabardine,” she looked Harold up and down, “Why? You in the market for a new suit?”

Harold scoffed, a bit too heartily. “Of course not; I wouldn’t waste my money on that. So bourgeois.”

Then, there were the gestures. He settled upon a nonchalant flick of the wrist to lend an air of careless wealth. He also began patronizing a hairstylist he had overheard one of his customers discussing at length. Added to this was some strategic shopping and Harold soon approximated a young man of not inordinate breeding.

As he advanced up the restaurant hierarchy, Harold began improving his accent, as well: a cross between a Southern and Oxbridge drawl:

“Well, hulloww, mah name is Harold,” he said languidly. “Ah will be your server today.”

“Hello to you, young, man. And where do you hail from?”

Later, after they had left, Harold was approached by Marla, the erstwhile hostess:

“Harold, what in the world did you serve those people at table 12? They practically wanted to adopt you—they even told my Dad that from now on they want to be seated in your section!”

“Really? Wow, it really worked!”

“What did? And did you see the tip they gave you? It’s almost forty percent!”

That night, Harold returned to his shared apartment with a springy step. He greeted his roommate with a hearty “Hello” and then retired to his bedroom to strategize further.

The trouble was that the speech impediment that had so impressed his restaurant patrons failed to effect Cheryl similarly. They had been studying for a midterm in the library for a few hours. Actually, Harold had been periodically studying Cheryl while Cheryl primarily doodled. Finally, Harold worked up his courage, removed his glasses and spoke in a low voice, “So, Cheryl, may ah invite you to mah abode for a nightcap?

Startled out of a daydream, Cheryl gave an annoyed, “Huh?

“Mah deah Cheryl, you look tired and perhahps you would appreciate some refreshment. At mah apahtment.”

Harold inched closer, gazing into her eyes with what he thought certain was suave sincerity. “Ahh mean, ah’m not simply a man of pure intellect. Ah’m also sensitive to a woman’s needs.”

“Can’t you talk like a normal person,” Cheryl asked impatiently. “You sound like you have marbles in your mouth.”

Harold quickly reverted to normal speech: “Well, I just thought maybe you’d like to come over. You know, hang out. Relax. You look like you could use it.”

“Oh, you want to hang out? Is that all?”

Harold backtracked further, “Look, I just thought, you know, we get along alright. Right?” He gave an encouraging smile. “So I thought maybe you’d like to come over and relax for a while. Have a beer, watch a movie. You know.”

Wariness crept into Cheryl’s eyes. “Uh, thanks, Harold. Actually, I am kinda tired. I think I’ll just go home—maybe some other time?” It was Cheryl’s turn to smile encouragingly. With that she had packed her books into her bag and made a quick exit.

Harold watched as the door closed with a bang. He sighed. It was all well and good that Harold had finally distanced himself from his lackluster beginnings, but it rang hollow without a woman to share it with.

Harold began casting around for other women in his Biology classes, searching for the perfect convenience crush. He was, however, consistently rebuffed by women repelled by the touch of construction in his persona. If they required an Englishman with an ambulatory impediment, well, they could go there and find one.

Clearly, Harold’s approach required some adjustment. He tried his luck again, this time with a young Taiwanese national in his Chinese Language class. One day after class, Harold had engaged Su in conversation and it had blossomed into a tutoring “date.” After, as they began to pack their bags, Harold made his move:

“Thahnk you, Su, for helping me. Ah can’t tell you how appreciative ah am.”

Su smiled in reply. It was sweet, with just a hint of coyness. “You’re welcome.”

Harold felt a surge of courage, “Su, would you like to accompany me to the movies?”

Su smiled again, but this time, more broadly. She does have the loveliest smile even if her teeth are bit uneven, Harold thought.

“Yes, Harold, I would love to.”

Harold found that Su was entranced by his rather “high” sounding accent, certain it implied an established, moneyed family—she had said as much. His walk was equally intriguing as were his gestures. They did so look like those Englishmen in the movies: elegant, somewhat effeminate, but extremely cultured.

Harold was so pleased with his success that he decided to change his major, from Biology (which, to be perfectly honest was not going so well, anyway) to Chinese—undergraduates being allowed to study an entire country as a major. He experienced exhilaration, a sense of ascendancy over those who couldn’t unlock the secret of East Asian Languages. In so doing Harold reinforced his marginalized status in society, and chose to excel at its continued production.

“Mum, I’ve been told by several professors that the only proper way to learn Chinese is to enroll in an immersion program. One of them thinks I could even win a scholarship to help pay for it.”

Doubt crackled through the phone. “Are you sure, Harold? You don’t know what kind of people they are.”

“Honestly, Mum, that is such a provincial attitude!”

“Well, honey, I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course! It’ll be extremely educational and it’ll look good on my resume, too.”

With this argument, and a small scholarship to help defray travel costs, Harold’s parents were persuaded. Besides, tuition at the university in Taiwan was half that of Princeton.

Convenient to this scheme was that Harold would meet many more women. He had long since broken up with Su—well, she had actually been the breaker, but still. Harold was single. He had heard that Taiwanese women were quite susceptible to American boys, no matter what their physical appearance. That made it more appealing than China, where it was reputed that the women were less impressed by the colonial charms of the “Westerner.”

As he had hoped, Harold found that dating was almost too easy, rather like shooting fish in a barrel. Thus, with a punctiliousness, Harold initially vowed not to exploit his advantage too much. But despite his conscientious avowals, Harold simply could not help himself. During the course of a fling, he discovered that his privilege as an American male increased, reinforcing the mutual assumption that she was “lucky” to have landed such an attentive, interesting young man. That he was not the most beautiful was of little concern—he had lovely manners, didn’t he? Harold agreed wholeheartedly and decided to pursue Chinese studies beyond the undergraduate level. After all, this veritable smorgasbord of female companionship could not be fully explored in only a summer or even a single year abroad. No, it required further research.

Harold eagerly applied to graduate programs to study Chinese Philosophy. If done correctly, not only would he procure an “authentic” Chinese accent, but he might also acquire a genuine Taiwanese wife as well. All while maintaining his predominance over the “average,” monolingual, American.

Harold’s parents were less sanguine about his prospects and began expressing rumblings of restlessness. Receiving a baccalaureate in East Asian Studies was well and good, but what did he plan to do with it? More importantly, were they expected to continue funding this cultural junket? In the end, it was agreed that his parents would pay for his first year of graduate school. After that, Harold would either decide he hated it and enter the job market or that he loved it, in which case he would find an appropriate means of continued support.

With this promise, Harold set off to become a master of the great colonized land, a sanitized and grateful Taiwan.

Spring Break

2011-02-11T10:54:00.001-08:00

April: Spring Break

Sunday, March 30: Saw Brenda today. Asked about possible excursions during Spring Break. Was told she would like to get together, Shall We Go Shopping? Rather think that my affirmative was a bit too enthusiastic as her reply was only a discreet cough. By way of explanation of enthusiasm, confess that am in dire need of socks (down to last pair without holes) and some shirts, if on sale. Realize that this sounds a tad pathetic, but, given the way Brenda dresses (convinced she buys most of her clothes at discount junior clothing shop), think she may relate.

Then spend hour reveling in anticipated week of complete relaxation and gratuitous wastage of time. Plan specifics of this, to include shopping, eating, sleeping and petting cat.

To demonstrate the sheer decadence of the following week to self, decide to do the laundry. Find a t-shirt am willing to make dirty, pair of shorts, don those and then sort all dirty laundry into piles: darks, lights, delicates. After three hours of trekking downstairs to move clothes from one machine to another (and enduring angry looks from one neighbor who evidently also wants to do his laundry), am at last finished. Then, lay out all clean laundry on newly-vacuumed carpet, fold clothes while watching Alice in Wonderland (the cartoon version) and finally all is folded that needs it and all that requires hanging has been properly returned to its closet.

The one advantage to living alone is that the walk-in closet is all mine. Conveniently, have stool inside closet so that can admire all the beautifully clean hanging and folded clothes, with shoes displayed neatly below on shelves on three sides of closet (fourth is the door). Sigh with satisfaction, not the least of which is caused by knowledge that have only two things in my possession that are dirty: the t-shirt and shorts worn during this Time of Laundry. Another sigh of satisfaction and then decide that have now arrived upon the Moment for an Excursion.

In preparation for this outing, choose an outfit that has not just emerged from last three hours of attentive care. Unfortunately, as no one is available on such short notice for a spontaneous outing, accompany self to movie. Have never snuck into second movie before, but as am on vacation and alone, decide that now is the Time to Try. Am caught and reprimanded by manager of movie theatre who is sixteen at the oldest and covered in spots.

Monday, March 31: First official day of holiday. Phone Brenda about shopping and instead am treated to lengthy exposition regarding her cats (who are ailing) and the state of her work (also, evidently, ailing). Suggest, What about shopping, after all when the going gets tough the Tough Go Shopping. She laughs heartily, Oh, Lena, you are soo funny! Nevertheless, she simply must return to ministering both her studies and her cats. She will definitely call me on the morrow.

Because did not have any other plans today, decide to treat myself to a “home spa” detailed in a woman’s magazine. See that masks for both hair and face are of mostly natural ingredients so mix them all together into a single all-purpose mask. Don’t have mayonnaise, but decide low-fat imitation will do. Combine with yogurt, egg, olive oil and avocadoes. Result is extremely pungent and gooey but am convinced that this is directly proportional to mask’s effectiveness. Cut cucumber to put two slices on eyes while cover face and hair for an impressive imitation of a green monster.

Set timer for half an hour but before time is up, mask begins itching. Wash face and discover that face is irritated. Wonder if this has anything to do with using low-fat, imitation mayonnaise. Wash hair three times to erase last vestiges of mask. Hair still appears limp after vigorous hair-drying. Bumps appear on face and use astringent to clear it up. Instead this makes face red in the utmost and impossible to go out for remainder of day.

Resolve that it is time to Get Reacquainted with TV, specifically through afternoon reruns of “Gag,” “Fiends,” and “Crossing Boredom,” which results in headache. Am hungry and think that perhaps ingredients in mask would have been better suited for dinner. Instead fix buttermilk pancakes and bacon and feel much restored, in mood, if not in appearance. Snuggle up with book, glass of wine and kitty.

Tuesday, April 1: Face has fully recovered. Am extremely anxious to embark upon exciting junket, even if this only entails visiting the local department store. Besides, am quite fond of Kmart, especially the Martha Stewart line of kitchen accessories.

Instead of calling Brenda again—don’t want to appear desperate—try to entice Debra. Treated to lengthy disquisition regarding, Isn’t it shameful how Chinese workers are exploited and underpaid to make her products, and How can you patronize a store that supports a government like that? Replied, what about the socio-economic oppression of people of color in our own country, racism in general, and our “just-us” justice system? Debra retorts, That is being intentionally obtuse and conflating issues. Wonder what issue was about, since all I want is some new spatulas, preferably of the translucent green color sold at Kmart. Decide better part of valor is to go alone. When arrive, am bumped and stepped on repeatedly by abundantly proportioned women and her several squealing children in tow. Vow to never speak to Debra again, since this is clearly Her Fault.

Returned home extremely exhausted, though only three in the afternoon (where has the day gone?) but decide it is too shameful to simply retire at such an early hour. Resolve to have more “fun” so call another, less militant friend to see if she wants to meet at a local bar for some cheap grub.

Was informed that she was far too busy adding finishing touches on paper she is about to submit for publication. In fact, the journal is absolutely dying to get their hands on her paper, lest she entice some other, even more erudite and obscure publication with her work. Asked her how long she has been submitting the thing and was told that she just submitted it two months ago and the journal has been salivating ever since. Decided not to relay how my own paper has been hocked unsuccessfully to numerous publications for the past year.

Ask her what the subject is, and discover that it is on Sex Workers and Self-Immolation in Southeast Asia, specifically on the ramifications of being forced into sexual servitude to culturally colonializing westerners. Wonder aloud if my own paper, on Post-Modernity and Japanese Imperialism might not be “jazzed up” with a little sex thrown in. Wendy tells me she hasn’t any more time to spare, simply must finish this article by tomorrow and rings off.

Sigh and wish once more that I had not broken up with Chris right before spring break, as then would have a standing date for every night of holiday. Instead, am left with “The Clydesdale Kitty” aka “Fusspot” for company. Not bad, though, since aforesaid fusspot has deigned to occupy my lap for an hour and a half and than meows plaintively that she is hungry. Wonder what it means to be a complete slave to a ten-pound ball of extremely puffy fur. Decide not to delve further into the issue and instead get ready for bed early.

Wednesday, April 2: Was woken up at six-thirty in the morning by screeching which turned out to be smoke alarm. Evidently, one cannot neglect the batteries for too long (two years, to be specific) because, it seems, this is exactly what happens. After a half an hour of frantically trying to dismantle alarm into ever smaller parts, blaring finally ceases. Immediately receive a phone call from irate neighbor complaining about the noise. Apologize profusely, of no avail, and then sternly inform neighbor that if I am unable to tend further to said device at this moment, alarm will again begin bellowing. With a harrumph, neighbor hangs up and I successfully disembowel entire alarm and discover the location of the battery. Query: Why is the battery always buried under ever more intricate pieces of plastic?

Am then scolded by hungry kitty and in moment of frustration, “Fusspot” comes out “Fussus” which, upon reflection, is much more appropriate name. She now ignores appellation (and me, consequently) when called. Fortunately, since she is smaller than a houseplant, she cannot always exercise free will. After being squeezed, she runs off and hides on top of bookcase.

Decide then to phone Brenda at 10:30 to ask about shopping excursion, as have not heard a peep from her in three days. No answer. Leave message.

In desperation, visit the old grouch and he asks again, Why are you getting another degree? Explain once more that am not getting “another” degree, that master’s is acquired along the way to Ph.D. By way of answer, he snuffles.

I ask, So how have you been? Alright?

He nods and then asks if I am hungry.

Nod vigorously, to which he raises his eyebrow. Make mistake of elaborating that, as yet, have not eaten breakfast. Upon which he delivers lecture on not missing meals—breakfast is the most important!

After that, he asks, Well, so you want to go to lunch?

Tell him that No, I do not want to go to lunch now because have lost my appetite. Suddenly grouch becomes solicitous and so I resort to a lie and say I need to go to school. I thought this was Spring Break, he says, but I tell him I still have some things to take care of.

Because actually was hungry, decide to treat myself to lunch, replete with a glass of wine. Wonder if boredom is first step towards becoming a lush and decide that I Don’t Care.

Am accosted by a balding, rotund little man from neighboring table of similarly constructed colleagues. He tests the limits of suavity by inquiring whether I am alone in a bantering tone. Say quickly that no, I am not alone, am merely expecting a friend who is going to be late. Just then, food arrives, making it abundantly clear that it is a meal for one. I smile and say, well, she’s going to be really late. Then feel compelled to inhale my food before he summons courage for another visit.

Walk out with a sensation of being an vigorously stuffed turkey. Cell phone rings and first thing Mon asks is, What’s wrong, you sound tired and Why didn’t you wait for me to come back. Explain first that Dad didn’t mention when you would be back and then about smoke alarm and she says, I knew those electrical appliances were dangerous. Try to explain the smoke alarm is not an electrical “appliance” like a microwave, but she is firm. You really sound tired, she says again, perhaps you need more rest. I agree that, perhaps, I do need more rest. Drive home and immediately cover my head with blankets.

Saturday, April 5: Was violently sick last two days after going to friend’s for barbecue. Wasn’t able to sleep until 6:30 the following morning because any movement of the supine variety resulted in re-experiencing dinner. Don’t know why it’s called a “twenty-four hour” illness since it lasted distinctly longer—forty-eight hours, to be exact.

Receive phone call from Brenda, she says, Sorry, she meant to call earlier.

Before she again launches into copious details about her life, feel compelled to explain own circumstances regarding loss of prior two days, so can we go shopping? She apologizes again and says she already has gone shopping.

But, I protest, you can go again, can’t you? After all, I think, but do not add, she looks as if she shops at a discount junior clothing chain.

She says no, she can’t, she has already spent her allotment for the month.

What did you buy, I wonder.

She says, well, a shirt and a pair of pants.

My thought regarding Brenda’s particularly thrifty lifestyle is confirmed until she adds, the shirt was four-hundred and fifty dollars and the pants were five hundred. I make a choking sound and she asks whether I am still sick, should she call back later.

I say no, am fine, what does she mean she spent almost a thousand dollars on a shirt and a single pair of pants?

She says that she went to Barney’s and there was a Prada top, it’s a yellow ballet top edged with plastic thread. You have to come over and see it. And then maybe we can go out to eat. Besides, I need to have the pants altered—you sew, right?

I say yes, what does she want sewn?

The pants are too long and I don’t want to take them to the tailor. They charge fifteen dollars for hemming! So when you come over you can take them back with you, right?

Am silent for a moment and then say, You know, Brenda, perhaps am still feeling a bit under the weather.

Determine an assignation two weeks hence. Can only hope she will have forgotten request for free clothing alteration by then.

June: Queen Francine

2011-01-30T10:48:00.001-08:00

Francine. Queen Francine. She tossed her hair. It was silky and long. Her cheeks were high and full, like the Chinese Tang Dynasty women who, incidentally, had provided the model for the Japanese geisha. Francine gazed at her visage in the glass. A smile of approval played on her lips. She clipped her hair to the top of her head, a gentle “pouf” of hair gracing the top of her head. Perfect.

Francine was quite aware of the social pressure on a woman’s physicality and was equally keen to use it to her advantage. Accessorizing had always been a central component to her presentation. Francine did not, however, limit herself only to hair and clothing. She had discovered that other women were in truth the best accessory, making her appear as a stellar sun around which a lesser constellation of dimly lit stars were arrayed. As a consequence, Francine was regularly casting about for new, reasonably attractive acolytes.

Lena was a perfect fit because she was new to the program and thus knew few people. Therefore she would presumably be slightly desperate for friends and hence amenable to recruitment. And it is true that initially, Lena was grateful for another friend who was not of her year. Graduate students tend to form abnormally close bonds with those who begin the same year as they do, to their perennial regret thereafter. Yet it was that soon after being recruited, Lena began noticing that other men and women in Francine’s chosen field (the “Korea” field) all congregated together, with one conspicuous absence: Francine. Lena had asked one of them who had begun the program with Francine why this was. His explanation turned out to be rather elliptical:

“You know, Lena, I think you’re probably just closer to her than I am.” Nothing about all the other people in the Korean program, nothing about himself other than an oblique reference to his presumably emotional proximity to Francine.

It wasn’t until weeks later that Lena fully understood the implications of Joseph’s response.

“Lena, Lena!”

“Hmmm?” Lena shook the wool from her head.

“I was saying that something wonderful has happened.”

Lena, who had been daydreaming about some discount piece of silk organza she could make into a skirt, tried to focus on the present. She spoke the universal query of the intelligent, “Huh?”

“I said something wonderful has just happened! Honestly, didn’t you hear anything I just said? Never mind. I was just telling you I got this fellowship and I’m going to Korea in just a few weeks—isn’t it fantastic?”

And I should be excited why? Lena wondered. But, polite to the end, Lena, agreed, less enthusiastically, “Oh, really?”

Francine didn’t notice the slight edge of sarcasm. She noticed very little for at the moment, she was so enthralled with her own words: “So I thought what we could do is go shopping.”

At the word shopping, Lena’s ears perked. Her focus shifted from a means of escape to full attention.

“…I need a few things.”

“Shopping, that would be great!” Lena enthused.

“Hu-low! Is anyone in there? Of course it will be great, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Besides, I’ve got a lot of things to buy. And I also need to be taken to the consulate, you know, for a Visa,” Francine gazed into the distanced as she ticked her fingers, “so we can do that after we swing by Neiman’s and Sak’s to pay off my cards, right? And then we can go to the mall.”

Francine was extremely pleased with the plan. Each location was approximately twenty-five minutes away from the next. I’ve got so much to do. I hope Lena’s car doesn’t break down like it did last time.

“So, how is your car—is it all fixed? We don’t want to break down.”

“Oh, you want me to drive?” Lena’s mouth turned downward.

Uh-oh. “Yes, but don’t worry, I’ll treat you to lunch, okay? We can go to this little Mexican place I know where the salsa is great.”

“Well, alright, “Lena said doubtfully. “I guess it will still be fun.”

“Of course it will! We’ll have a great time! So I have to do all this before the end of this week. So what are you doing tomorrow?”

Francine noted the blank look on Lena’s usually intelligent face. Honestly, thought Francine, I just don’t know what is wrong with her today.

It was a hot day, thank heavens for air conditioning. At least, I hope her air is working, Francine thought. The outfit she wore, accentuating her curves and the length of her legs, did little to actually keep her cool. As most who live in really hot climes know, long, loose-fitting clothing offers superior cooling and protection. This, however, was unacceptable to Francine. It was a favor to allow both men and women to gaze upon her beauty. No, she would not cover it with ill-fitting sleeves and billowy pants. Instead, a tightfitting sweater shell was paired with a suitably revealing skirt. The ensemble was completed with a matching cardigan flung carelessly over her shoulders, to shield them from the burning sun. It also signaled the wealth to which Francine aspired.

“Hey! You made it!”

“Of course,” replied Lena, with a little annoyance in her voice.

“Well, I was worried. You know, your car and all. So let’s get going, shall we?”

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom? There was a lot of traffic on the way over.”

With a sigh of exasperation, Francine led the way into her in-laws’ house and pointed towards the bathroom. She tapped her feet and then, the moment Lena emerged, she ushered her towards the front door. “We’ve got a lot to do today,” she said brightly. Occasionally Lena displayed behavior which made Francine wonder how she had been accepted to grad school.

“So, where to first, Miss Bossy?”

Francine ignored the jab and answered in all seriousness, “Let’s see, first I think we should go to the mall. I’ve got to get some boots because it gets cold in Korea. We also need to go to Saks and Neiman’s because I’ve got to pay off my credit cards.”

“You’ve got credit cards at both of them!” Lena was shocked.

“Of course.” Francine shrugged. “it’s not that bad because Martin (her erstwhile husband who was living in Boston at the moment) pays half.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Martin doesn’t have a job right now. He’s living off his parents’ money while he looks.”

“Uhh, so are you two going to Korea together?”

“We’re not sure,” said Francine. “Anyway, I’m going.” And that was all she said about that matter.

“After we pay off my cards, we can catch a bite to eat at that Mexican restaurant I was telling you about. And then I’ve got to go to the office supply store. I need some things to take with me.”

“Geez, woman! Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?”

“Of course! I told you I have to go to the Consulate to get my Visa.”

Lena expelled a long sigh. “Well, how about we just go to the mall and then we go eat? I’m really hungry and if I have to drive all over creation, I can’t be starving, too.”

“Well, alright. But how about we go get my boots first and then we can discuss the other places, okay?”

With this astute verbal maneuver, the schedule was set and Francine felt the thrill of anticipation in her stomach. Of course, this may also have been caused by Lena’s sudden acceleration, Francine wasn’t sure.

To diffuse any lingering tension which could result in further erratic driving, Francine generously engaged Lena in conversation: “So, what did you do the rest of yesterday?”

Unbeknownst to her, this was just the segue Lena required to launch a tirade about a man who had singled her out from her friends to flirt. The problem was that he didn’t seem interested in impressing Lena so much as he was in demonstrating his own suavity. It embarrassed Lena and made her feel bad about her friends.

“What’s the problem? As long as he admires you, that’s the way it should be.” Francine’s tone was puzzled.

“The problem is that it wasn’t about me as a woman, I was merely a vehicle for his ego. And besides, when he singled me out, it made everyone else feel bad.”

“Well, that’s not your fault. You don’t get any points for being ‘considerate’ to other women. They certainly wouldn’t be considerate about you,” she said confidently.

“Geez. I hope I don’t have friends that callous. Besides I still feel bad.”

This was met with a disapproving sigh. Lena darted a glance at Francine, afraid what might come next, but Francine appeared to have finished with the lecture.

Instead, Francine seemed to be engrossed in some private joke that was affording her no end of amusement.

At length, Lena sighed and submitted to the inevitable: “So, what were you thinking?”

“I was just thinking about what you were saying and it reminded me of this time when some of my friends gave me a birthday present to this trendy hairdresser downtown. He was this tall blonde guy and he really thought he was an Adonis. Of course he started flirting with me. He asked me what I did and I told him ‘I’m a graduate student.’ And then he asked me, ‘So, what did you graduate in?’ I laughed so hard and he was soo embarrassed!”

Lena laughed and admitted to herself it was amusing but wondered about the point. Being a straightforward person, she asked, “So, what’s your point?”

“My point is, that men should be bowing to you. That’s the way it is in this world.”

“I don’t know. That sounds pretty ruthless.”

Francine shook her head, “I like myself: I’m pretty, I’m confident, smart and I’m fun to be with. If that makes men fawn, so what? After all, it’s what men do best. Like did I tell you about my time at Wellesley?”

Lena emitted a grunt in response—as if traffic required more concentration then could be had if she also listened to another of Francine’s triumphs. She even added a, “Gad, people are driving really crazy today!”—to no avail.

“Well, we used to have these gatherings with the boys from Harvard. And let me tell you, they were really impressed with themselves. Always thought they could have any girl they wanted.” She glanced at Lena for a reaction, but none seemed imminent.

“Well, I decided that it was my duty to teach them that they weren’t all that. Especially the white guys. They always thought that I should be grateful just because I’m Asian. I mean, I’m not even Chinese, which is what they thought I was! So every time a white guy would ask me out, I’d always pretend to think about it and then at the last minute, I’d tell them no.” Francine almost bubbled with laughter at the memories.

For Francine, the mall was synonymous with Bloomingdales. It was truly the only store worth shopping at—its selection of handbags included Gucci and its shoe department carried some Robert Clergerie. She casually weaved through the designer displays with Lena in tow, offering commentary on the merits of one shoe versus another. Then she settled upon the boot display.

“What I need,” she explained, “is something that will cover my calves. It gets cold in Korea so I have to bundle up.”

“Does the price matter to you?” Lena asked.

“Of course! I don’t want to spend more than seven hundred dollars. Don’t you think that’s reasonable?”

“Is that a trick question?” Suddenly Lena espied a stiletto sandal on “sale” for two hundred and fifty dollars. “Look at these! Aren’t they awful? Men are always designing things that women can barely walk in so they can oppress you…” Lena’s voice trailed off as she saw Francine’s face. “Oh, did you like those?”

A frown crossed Francine’s mouth, but it turned up again when a unctuous young salesman approached her just as Lena escaped. “May I help you?”

Francine flashed red lips his way and replied in the affirmative. “I need some boots for winter.”

“Okay—.”

“And they need to be something I can wear with both short and long skirts, so maybe a taller boot?” Francine flicked her wrist carelessly to the side. “You know what I mean?”

“I think I have just the boot for you—let me go and get this…”

“Actually, you know what would be really helpful? If you could find me a long skirt and maybe a short one, as well? Then I can hold them up to these boots over here,” she indicated a pair of Stuart Weitzman’s. “I just want to be certain they’ll look good with both lengths. Could you do that for me?” She gave an encouraging little flick of her hand towards the Katayone Adeli clothing section.

Francine then glanced around her. I wonder where Lena’s gotten to? Ahh, there she is. “Yoohoo! Lena. Come take a look at these boots. What do you think?”

At Saks, Francine decided that she couldn’t pay her bill without initially touring the shoe department. A decidedly polished salesman sidled up to Francine and greeted her heartily, “Hey, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you in a while. Have you seen the new Gucci slides we got?”

Francine flicked her hair and simpered. The service at Saks really is excellent. I’ll miss it. “Yes, well I’m actually leaving for Korea.”

The man of the unctuous smile gave an interested nod, “Oh, really? Well, that means you’ll need some new shoes, won’t you?”

Francine demurred and confessed that she was really here to pay off her bill and thus was just browsing through the latest arrivals.

“Ahh, well, we’ll miss you. Have a good trip and I’ll look for you when you get back.” With this he nodded and glided towards another Young Thing.

“Well,” Francine turned to Lena, “Shall we go up to the credit office?”

Lena shrugged in the affirmative.

“Ooo, wait, what’s that?” Francine gravitated towards a golf bag that was black nylon. “It’s a Prada golf bag! I wonder how much it is?”

Lena waited as she looked around and confirmed that the salespeople were, indeed, too painfully hip to actually offer assistance. Instead, they seemed to confuse their jobs with being manikins. Lena turned back to Francine and asked, “And? What’s the verdict?”

Instead of answering, Francine just stood and gave a desirous sigh. Francine calculated the amount of strategic financing necessary to acquire it. She regularly beat her father at golf. Perhaps a bet was in order, one that entailed the Prada golf bag as prize. She smiled and the spring in her step returned, “Come on, Lena, we still have much to do!”

Clearly, this was a situation that required proactivity. So Lena stooped and checked the price herself. For a moment, the price rendered her silent, as well. Then she straightened and wordlessly followed Francine to the elevator.

It was nearing 4 o’clock and Francine saw that Lena was dragging. Three stores in as many different towns, one mall, and one restaurant was a tall order for anyone. But Francine was not to be compared with just anyone, she had a directive to fulfill. On the other hand, Lena normally limited herself to one, perhaps two stores during a single excursion. She had already put over 100 miles on her car and she wanted to see the end of this day. Soon.

“Is that it? I am really tired and we’ve still got traffic to contend with.”

“Well, the Consulate is on the way back,” Francine said brightly. “You can just drop me off in front and then circle around a couple of times ‘til I get back, okay?”

“What do you mean, ‘circle around’—don’t they have parking?”

“Actually, no.” Francine’s voice was ever slightly apologetic, “It’s in a big building off a big thoroughfare and you can’t stop there. But the blocks are really long so you’ll probably only have to circle around twice. I promise I’ll be as quick as possible.”

As they reached the front of the Consulate building, Lena saw traffic bearing down on her in the rearview mirror.

“Look, I’m going to have to drop you off on the side of the building because I can’t just pull over in traffic like this.”

Francine conceded graciously, “Alright. I’ll be back in a jiffy, okay?”

In the end, the stop occupied twenty minutes, during which time Francine blithely flirted with the young South Korean national standing next to her. He was actually returning home and needed to submit some paperwork. She laughed at his sweet nothings and discovered that he would be in South Korea the same time that she was. He planned to return to the States a year later to attend the Culinary Institute of America.

“He has definite possibilities,” Francine said later.

I thought you were married, thought Lena. But she said nothing, simply nodded as she concentrated on the weaving, stop-and-go traffic.

“He’s so different—not like Martin. It must be the military training, you know? They have to learn to be self-sufficient. I think that’s a problem when you’re born here.”

Since Lena herself was not Korean-American, she felt she couldn’t comment on this. So instead she chose to throw tact and caution to the wind and asked, “So, are you planning on seeing him or something? What about Martin?”

Francine’s lips flattened and admitted, “Things aren’t so great with him right now.”

“Ahhh.” There was really nothing more to be said.

Francine shot a raised eyebrow at Lena. “Well, he was just being friendly. I mean, I won’t know anyone there so it will be good to have someone to talk to and show me around a bit.”

“Right, right.”

Again Francine looked over at Lena to make certain irony wasn’t part of Lena’s unspoken dialogue. It seemed however that Lena was in earnest, focusing as it were on the throng of traffic.

After two hours, Lena delivered Francine to her in-laws’ home.

Francine was the picture of grace now that she had achieved her goals. “Do you want to come in?” She gave Lena a limpid gaze. “You look a little hot, maybe you could use some soda or a beer?”

Lena paused for a moment. Then she asked, “So, when did you say you were leaving?”

“Next Wednesday. Why?”

“No reason. You know what, on second thought I think I really would like that beer.”

December: The Tree, Part IV

2010-12-25T18:57:00.001-08:00

All these constituted justifiable sacrifices in Tony’s mind. After all, the result was not simply an overabundance of education (which in Brittany’s mind equated with “underemployed”), but finally Tony would have mastered Chinese-ness. For it was this elusive quality that propelled his studies, and it was frankly only his unacknowledged privilege as a white man that allowed him to think he could acquire this “othered” illusion. For Tony wanted to capture the exotic Chinese culture for himself, embody it as only a Euro-American could desire. Only then would it relinquish its fascinating hold and he could become human again.

Thus from Tony’s point of view, things were pootling along admirably well. He had just discovered that his TA-ship would be extended into the spring term and in Tony’s view, this meant additional steady income until the end of the school year.

As for Brittany, she ought to appreciate not simply the promise of more income, but the effort Tony was putting forth. He was, in his own eyes, truly holding up his end of the bargain, for not only was he successfully progressing in his academic pursuits, he was working, as well. As for the time spent on these occupations, again, their result, in both his success and an additional $775 per month before taxes surely added up to seven-hundred and seventy-five points in his favor.

In Tony’s mind, Brittany was “only” working full-time, and though she was making twice his salary and half yet again, still it was all she had to do. That, and cook. And perhaps clean. Nevertheless, she was clearly not juggling as many responsibilities as was Tony. Which reasoning led to Tony’s slightly dismissive responses towards Brittany. Tony, after all, was certain that, at the end of the year, during Christmas holiday, Brittany would understand the subtleties of his decisions, appreciate their eminent logic and just-ness, resulting in total vindication of himself.

In real terms, in spite of all lofty justifications, the money Tony was making was rather paltry. In addition to which the work occupied a majority of his spare time. Spare time slated for Brittany.

The situation between them became increasingly tense. Plaints beginning with “Tony, honey, can we…” were rejoined with “I’m sorry, Brittany, I’ve got grading (or lesson-planning) to do.”

Because the month leading up to Christmas was comprised primarily of variations on the above theme, let us draw a veil over that period and skip directly to that esteemed holiday, or rather, to the week of classes preceding the four-week vacation. This week proved particularly trying for both Brittany and Tony. On Brittany’s side, the stress of work had increased exponentially because of her boss’s pregnancy. Delivery of said pregnancy, that is. Most women proclaim that the first trimester is the worst, hormonally speaking, but Brittany’s boss was determined to buck that trend. Instead, she had become cranky in the extreme, doing an impressive job of channeling her own, to be born, baby. In consequence Brittany’s nerves had been stretched to limits unbeknownst to either herself or her husband. Cooking she insisted was out of the question. Thus, despite the exorbitant cost, they decided to stock up on prepared foods from the local upscale market, mixed with a selection of frozen entrees.

Tony was also experiencing a heightened level of stress. Not only did he have to complete a thirty-five page paper consisting of two drawn-out conclusions in painfully dry prose, he had grading thirty undergraduate papers, as well as their final exams. These then needed to be tallied for the professor who, in essence, would put his stamp of approval on them and then turn them in to be officially recorded.

Finally there was the Christmas tree. Although the winter break was a month long for Tony, most of it occurred after the Christmas day itself. Brittany had insisted they simply could not wait until after he was through with finals week to get a tree: they would have less than a week to enjoy its symbol of anticipation and wonder. No, it must be acquired the week of finals. Surprisingly enough, Tony acquiesced and they procured a tree with a minimum of wrangling. What’s more Tony had successfully strung up the four sets of lights, adorned the tree with ornaments and topped its crown with a fitting monument. It was beautiful.

It was crooked.

“Tony, the tree is tilted.”

“What do you mean, it’s tilted? Let me see. No it isn’t. It looks great!”

“It’s fine, Brittany,” Tony insisted. He had, after all, struggled with it for over an hour. He had tried to hammer, skewer, and otherwise beat the stump onto the flimsy stand they had bought the previous year. He refused to contemplate that this had all been for nought.

“No, honey, it is crooked,” Brittany pulled his arm. Come over here and look.”

Tony sighed and reluctantly moved next to her, “It looks fine to me.”

“Well it isn’t. It’s definitely lopsided. I’d really like you to fix it,” she looked at him with pleading eyes.

He sighed again and replied, “Alright, just hold it while I unscrew the bottom…”

“No! You can’t do it like that. You have to do it right.”

“What do you mean, ‘do it right?’”

Brittany looked triumphantly at him.

The next day, Tony’s somewhat dejected visage was noted and drew sympathy.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you? C’mon, buddy, it’s almost vacation!” This, from the lips of a “funded baby” who had nothing to do except study and party. After all, no matter what any Humanities grad student will protest, they simply do not study all those hours they claim to. After a full four hours at school (from ten to two) and a few hours of studying, when the clock chimes six, the inevitable happens: alcohol and friends. Or alcohol and a significant other, though maintaining a successful relationship in addition to their “work” is a difficult business at best. Witness the troubles between Tony and Brittany. Better to stick with friends who demand nothing further than camaraderie through a haze of alcoholic euphoria.

A wry grin played on Tony’s lips, “Yeah? And what are you so happy about? Busy keeping the bars in business? Geez, man, don’t you ever work?”

“I think I detect a little bitterness. Why don’t you come out with me after class tonight? There’s a great place I found that serves twenty different beers on tap. I know you like beer. And their burger kills. My treat,” he offered generously. Nathan, it was well-known, was a balding young[-ish] grad student had deemed it his duty to rate all the food-serving bars within ten miles of school according to beer tap selection and burger quality.

“Can’t. Gotta go home after classes today.”

“Uh-oh. Do I hear the chain whipping? What’s she got you doing now?”

Now this was a tricky business. To admit the specifics of his task was to reinforce the image of Brittany as a stereotype. Nathan had made more than one snide comment about Brittany: they had met once, to mutual antipathy. Nathan thought Brittany spoiled and self-centered. Brittany thought Nathan a boor. Nathan clearly didn’t respect Brittany which admittedly pained Tony, for she was the woman he loved.

The other side was that Tony wanted to complain. Which he had done more than once. It was a precarious balance, to convince himself that he was being respectful to Brittany while simultaneously unburdening his marital troubles with inordinate detail that not coincidentally favored him and not Brittany.

Tony’s self-pity took hold, “Brittany wants me to go home and fix the Christmas tree we got.”

“Fix the tree? What does that mean?”

He sighed. “It’s crooked. So she wants me to take off all the ornaments, take off the lights and then cut the bottom straight.” He paused, “She certain that’s the problem.”

This last part was rather difficult to hear due to the laughter erupting from Nathan’s mouth. One might even term it insensitive. He snorted a last laugh and then wiped his eyes, “Dude, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Why don’t you just adjust the screws like every other normal person does?”

“I tried to tell her that. She wants it done this way. So, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Well, if you have time after, I’ll be at the O’Brien’s with a couple of the other guys. Drop by.” And with this, he left, chuckling his way down the hall.

Which is how, on a balmy evening in December, Tony could be seen sawing away at a Christmas tree stump, with a small kitchen saw, cursing lowly.

His wife gazed down on him from the kitchen window above, satisfaction suffusing her face.

The Department be damned.

She had won.

December: The Tree, Part III

2010-12-23T23:08:00.000-08:00

Much to Brittany’s dismay, things began to unravel soon after Tony returned.

“What do you mean you don’t want to do architecture anymore?” Brittany wailed. “I thought you always wanted to be one, you told me so!” Brittany felt betrayed.

“No, I told you my father always wanted me to be an architect like him. I wanted to do something a little more intellectual.”

“But what about our plans?” Things suddenly felt insensible and Brittany sat down, rather hard, on her dining room chair. “I feel dizzy,” she moaned, “I think I’m going to be sick.” She rubbed her temples.

“No, you’re not. You’re just exaggerating like you always have.”

Something had happened to Tony during his trip, something unanticipated. He had become more assertive. His desires were now clearly carved in high relief, whereas before they were mere pencil sketches. Even Tony’s features had acquired an angularity. Brittany wasn’t at all certain she could reign in this newfound, almost animalistic assurance Tony now possessed.

“Can’t we talk about it? Why a Ph.D.? Can’t you do it later?”

“Brittany,” Tony chided with some exasperation, “I told you that I’ve already applied.”

“What do you mean? How can you have? You were in China, for God’s sake, how could you mail your applications from there?”

“They do have post offices in China, Brittany. It’s not a backwater. Besides, I didn’t have to mail anything, I just applied online. It’s a done deal. In fact, I’ve already accepted one of the offers I’ve received.”

“What??!”

First he had derailed their plans for a romantic twosome in Ireland, say, or at least somewhere in Europe and now he was proposing to move to some squat little college town in goodness-knew-where? This was intolerable.

“Why are you being so selfish? I thought when you came back, we were going to get our lives back in order,” she wailed. “I thought we were going to get back to normal.”

“No, Brittany, that’s what you thought. I kept telling you I’d changed my mind.”

“I thought you were just being stubborn and, well, that you’d get over it when you got back.”

“Well, as you can see, I haven’t gotten ‘over it.’ I’m going to graduate school. In medieval Chinese drama. But,” and here, Tony began to grin a little, “I did accept at a school nearby.”

Brittany looked up quickly. “Really? You did?”

“Yes, Brittany, I did.”

Brittany was now resolved to affiancing herself to a graduate student. Not a med student, not an MBA or even law student, but simply a “grad student.” It was a difficult burden, not simply because she perceived an almost immediate decline in earning potential, but the prestige involved lessened with each passing year. The formula was quite simple: prestige associated with graduate school was inversely proportional to one’s age, so that as he grew older, people became less impressed and tolerant of him. They instead began viewing him, and by extension, her, as a leech off society.

With some determination, she outlined a fast-track program for her fiancé, involving a maximum of six years from the beginning of his master’s degree to the completion and defense of his dissertation. After all, this was the average for English literature doctoral students. Unfortunately, for those in the know, this is a singularly unrealistic goal: East Asian studies takes an average of two years longer than those humanities degrees involving Romance languages. And this is the crux of the issue: the languages. For The latest popular theory of Korean linguistic roots had it falling into the Altaic family: nothing in common with the East Asian languages. Those who know Chinese will groan over re-learning logographs assigned arbitrarily new meanings in Japanese. For those interested in Buddhism, an additional burden of Sanskrit adds yet another two years at the minimum. Needless to say, Tony’s graduate student career was going to occupy at least 30% more time than Brittany had planned.

This realization was not to come until much later, however. In truth, this reality did not descend into Brittany’s consciousness until three years after they were married, five years into Tony’s graduate education. Brittany had attained modest success as an insurance actuary: she had consistently taken, and passed, the actuarial exams which increased her salary, and she was making a comfortable income. That is, if she were single and living in a suburb. Instead, she and Tony were ensconced in a small apartment, situated in a densely populated urban zone between the posh neighborhood immediately surrounding campus and the slums on its periphery. The screen door was a rusting metal security gate that regularly deposited flecks of steel onto their linoleum floor. This cost exactly two-thirds of Brittany’s take-home pay.

What’s more, Tony was not making much additional money. Gainful extracurricular employment as a graduate student often results in fallen academic status. This further results in being considered last in line for the too few fellowships in a department that accepts more students than it can responsibly fund.

Instead, at the end of each academic year, there is a mad scrambling for the too few TA-ships that are available, with the hopes burning in every student’s breast that she or he will be graced with a job that demands on average thirty hours of work per week teaching, grading and lesson-planning while they are paid for only twenty. This is because the professors are too preoccupied with writing to actually teach. What’s more, although the wage is based on a twenty-hour work week, it’s paid as a salary. Thus the exploitation goes unfettered and unchecked. In the real world, Tony’s wage would qualify him for welfare, food stamps, even Section 8 housing.

December: The Tree, Part II

2010-12-21T08:52:00.000-08:00

Brittany graduated high school as its sole valedictorian and received a full scholarship to a local university. College began a time of genuine triumph for Brittany. During her first year, she finally shed her excess poundage and with the extra money from her scholarship, embarked on a complete makeover of her wardrobe. She also acquired a temporary boyfriend who was tall and blonde. And while he may not have been well-endowed intellectually, Brittany tolerated him long enough to return home and parade him at the high school homecoming because he was composed of flesh and blood rather than sighs.

Brittany herself was blessed with an acute intelligence which she applied to science and math with equal success. She did tend to reinforce certain stereotypes about style-challenged female science students: ski vests paired with ill-fitting jeans, feet clad in the occasional mis-matched socks, but after all, who noticed? She was still one of the few of Euro-American women who was reasonably attractive. Thick around the bones, perhaps, a bit brash. But still she had naturally sandy blonde hair.

Unfortunately for Brittany, intelligent, Euro-American boys in the math and sciences were insufficiently numbered. She sniffed that her professors couldn’t speak English properly: words like “jacket” came out “jicket” and the students were apt to display an embarrassing degree of abject enthusiasm. And the labs. Always located in the basement. Ugh. Yet despite the lack of available men, Brittany forbore these trials because, frankly, she enjoyed the work itself.

Now as is common knowledge, every undergraduate must endure a minimum of introductory sciences, even for Bio-Chem majors such as Brittany. Thus it was that Brittany found herself in an Intro to Chemistry class, prepared to utilize the spare time for other homework.

By happy chance, the first day of class also ushered in a decidedly cute male specimen.. She sat near him and he flashed her a shy smile. Brittany felt her stomach flutter. During the rest of lecture (which Brittany ignored), she planned her next outfit: something that would show herself to advantage. Perhaps a dress, demure yet decisive.

Next class Brittany found a seat next to the same boy, one over for discretion. She threw a smile his way. Occasionally she crossed her legs; after all, she had worn a dress.

As for Tony, he primarily noticed that the girl next to him didn’t take notes. At the end of the hour, Tony leaned over the vacant chair, “So, don’t you need to take notes?”

Brittany gave a becomingly impish grin, “Well, actually, no. I’m actually a Bio-Chem major but I need this for my G.E.’s—isn’t that stupid?”

Tony agreed. “Yeah, that’s why I’m taking it, too. So, I guess you already know this stuff?”

Again, Brittany smiled. She twirled a bit of hair around her finger: “Well, I guess you could say that,” she admittedly coyly. “I guess this is kind of a ‘mick’ [-ey mouse] class for me.”

“Really?” Tony’s brain began to click, “You know, I’m having a little trouble with the formulas—maybe we could get together sometime and you could help me?”

Brittany hesitated strategically.

“We could meet at Larston café in North campus—I don’t want you to think I want free tutoring or anything.”

She acquiesced. “Okay, we can do that. How about later today? I’m free after two.”

It was Tony’s turn to hesitate. “Oh, well, actually I’m getting together with some friends…” and for the first time Tony witnessed the downturn of Brittany’s mouth. It was extremely becoming. Tony found himself wavering.

“Oh, well,” Brittany replied airily, “I suppose we can meet some other time.”

“Well, how about later on tonight? I’ll treat you to a burger and then we can study at the student union lounge after.”

It was Brittany’s dream come true. As every one who has had a “study” date knows, it is more date and far less study. And so it was, as red-blooded young Americans will do during study dates, they talked. The mutual history revealed was less important than the process of sharing, lasting through the early morning hours. Throughout, Brittany tilted her head to the side, her giggles punctuating the night. Finally, Tony walked Brittany home and watched as she unlocked her apartment door. He gave one last smile and waved goodbye.

Inside her bedroom door, Brittany exhaled an entranced sigh. She was lovestruck. He was intelligent, fair of hair and skin and he harbored no suspicious genes. He was, like Brittany, an admirably pale-skinned “mutt”. He also seemed on his way to something great. Blonde hair in a man is practically a guarantee of success. That he was currently in the architecture program could be an added bonus.

Brittany finished her undergraduate career with none too few accolades. Unfortunately people with undergraduate degrees in pure math and sciences find it difficult to find gainful employment in their chosen fields. These fields do tend towards requiring advanced degrees. But Brittany was not inclined to continue on to graduate school.

Tony planned to graduate the same year and although it was without the honors bestowed on Brittany, he had a promising career ahead. Brittany knew that she could not pursue glory in the sciences, having finally settled upon the insurance industry as safe, if not entirely riveting. However she decided that Tony could achieve notoriety building grandiose monuments to Western superiority, thus satisfying her own career ambitions vicariously.

But after Tony graduated, he embarked upon an occupational detour Brittany thought was decidedly unsavory. Unwarranted, in fact, for if travel was what Tony desired, there was a perfectly acceptable package tour through western Europe beginning not three days after graduation ceremonies. Why did he want to go to China, she wondered peevishly. Come to that, what was in China but toilets that didn’t flush, a glaring lack of motorized transportation, and foods incorporating suspicious cuts of beef? Haggis at a local Irish pub, this was what Tony needed. Come to that, this was what Brittany needed, a good dose of European romance before she embarked upon her less than lustrous career as an insurance actuary.

Tony insisted, however, on pursuing this “China adventure,” and not simply for a respectable American vacation of two weeks, or even for a post-graduation celebration of three months. No, he had decided to travel throughout China for a year, had even lined up a job as an English teacher in a far off village in some province called Hebei, of all things!

“I’ve wanted to go to China for some time, Brittany. And this is the best time to go. After college.”

“What’s so great about China? What’s wrong with Europe? I want to go to Europe!”

“I told you that I was interested in the culture there. You remember that class…”

Brittany cringed at the memory. It had dominated their date conversations for weeks after.

“…and I want to see it for myself.”

Brittany gave a small hrrmph. This was clearly an impulse that required nipping. She began her entreaty with judiciously placed threats combined with enticing alternatives. None of these worked, but she had not yet demonstrated her full arsenal: a spectacular waterworks display. At first it was a delicate tear or two rolling silently down her cheek, then a dainty snuffle into a crumpled tissue, and finally a crescendo of sobbing that would have put Scarlet O’Hara to envy.

Surprisingly for both Brittany and Tony, he withstood this onslaught with firmness. Despite her sniffling, Brittany was enchanted—she realized that Tony was a better catch than she had imagined heretofore. Tony was of admirable parentage and now it was clear that he actually possessed something of a backbone. Not that it would be good to encourage its exercise in her defiance. Yet, molded properly, this could translate into great success. Brittany imagined a large house, surrounding acreage that was modestly sizeable and the envious faces of her friends, neighbors and, most of all, her high school tormentors. For her dream house resided in the upscale neighborhood of the “popular” set in high school. Brittany didn’t believe in dreaming far from home.

She hiccupped strategically and then sniffled with finality.

“All right. You’re clearly being stubborn.”

Tony, surprised that she capitulated with relative ease, immediately felt chastened. He relented, “Well, honey, it’s only for a year. Then I’ll come back and everything will be the way it was. I promise.”

“Really?” Brittany felt hope surging once more, “Well, alright. You have to promise not to see anyone else, okay? I mean, I want us to be faithful this whole time. And we’ll have to buy you a phone card, can you call long distance in China? We’ll talk on the weekend, right? And we should plan what you’re going to take, especially medicine. You never know what kind of diseases they have over there!”

And so it went, with Brittany usurping the arrangements. She decided that the trip might prove beneficial after all because it would finally excise this exotic obsession from Tony’s system. He would be ready to tackle the world of architecture with a fresh attitude. In fact, his trip to China might add a certain caché to his resume, an extra selling point that few other architects would possess at such a young age. Suddenly, Brittany was glad for her Tony’s trip, the depth it gave him and the added air of sophistication it vicariously lent her.

December: The Tree

2010-12-20T00:59:00.000-08:00

Sweat trickled down his brow. Kitchen saws are made for tackling squash, not Christmas tree stumps. Unfortunately, Tony owned nothing more suitable but he couldn't wait until the following day to buy a proper saw. Well, to be accurate, he was actually afraid to wait. Brittany might get angry.

Brittany had always been a bit of a blister. Loud and unabashed about her needs and opinions. These complimented her size which at age twelve, was eponymous: twelve. Admittedly she was tall for her age, but no prepubescent height justifies that size trouser. Once she had espied her mother sewing a pair of shorts for her sister, two years her senior.

Brittany picked them up and stretched them to extreme, “Wow!” she exclaimed, “these look like they could fit an elephant!” She gave a throaty laugh at her own wit. The irony was that they were smaller than those lying on the table, waiting for assemblage. Those were for Brittany.

Brittany was not part of the in-crowd. she was that combination of intelligence, obesity and superciliousness that endeared her to few friends. But this did not particularly trouble Brittany since she maintained several imaginary ones, the most popular being Elvis. When Brittany felt lonely for solace of the male persuasion, she would invoke an Elvisian spirit and belt out an enthusiastic, if somewhat tuneless version of “Blue Suede Shoes,” accompanied by an appropriate jiggle of her hips. In fact, during junior high, this fact became generally known and many of the popular set would periodically request a performance. They would then totter off, snickering and, later that day, would mimic Brittany’s Elvis impersonation.

Brittany’s mother shared her trait of overbearing tactlessness. Myra often demonstrated it during lengthy disquisitions for the benefit of Brittany’s friends. Her favorite was to proclaim that Brittany was of pure “Nebraska mutt stock.” It appeared that being a product of innumerable “mixed” marriages was eminently better than hailing from a single ethnicity, for this was inevitably too foreign, not American enough. This theme was elaborated upon frequently to edify Brittany’s American-Chinese friends:

“Did I ever tell you that Brittany here is a pure American?”

Brittany would nod in proud agreement.

“Yes, you did…”

“…And that she has roots from over seven different European countries, including Sweden, Ireland, Italy…” Brittany’s mother would drone on. “In fact, we’ve been here for three generations! Although one of Brittany’s grandmothers did immigrate from Poland,” she admitted.

Brittany’s friends nodded politely. One of her few friends, an equally smart Chinese girl, ventured to insert, “You know, my family’s been over here for four generations…”

Which sentence was never finished because this launched Brittany’s mother into another lecture of cultural superiority: “The Chinese culture is so interesting,” she boomed. “We know a thumbnail,” here she ticked off her nail demonstratively, “only a thumbnail of that culture.” She would then elucidate on the general ignorance of Americans regarding the “China-man.”

Brittany often tired of these conversations once they veered from her own ethnic heritage. She would resort to daydreaming about the time she would finally lose a little weight and the popular set would drop spontaneously at her feet like slaves. When she was able to pry her friends away from her mother, she would drag them into the back guestroom where her boyfriend was residing, since Brittany, at age fourteen, was still firmly entrenched in the world of make-believe. Thus it was that “Clark Gable” reclined on a dilapidated couch, which served as a bed, whom she gave an airy kiss. The couch stood next to a sewing table/kitchen, where Brittany prepared a sumptuous repast for herself, Clark Gable, and her two spinster sisters played spinster sisters basking in Brittany’s reflected brilliance.

Wine was essential to these scenarios. Brittany knew that every special dinner (and what dinner is mundane with Clark Gable as one’s boyfriend?) needed wine. Brittany had learned this two years earlier during Thanksgiving festivities. To celebrate the occasion, her mother had splurged in the wine and spirits section of the supermarket with two bottles of Cold Duck, a bargain at three-ninety-nine a bottle.

“So what’s that?” Brittany eyed the bottle innocently.

Her mother looked at Brittany with pride and laughed. “That, Brittany, is Cold Duck. It’s for our Thanksgiving dinner.”

Brittany sensed the importance of the moment, if she played it right: “So why is Cold Duck so special?”

Brittany’s mother gazed fondly at her daughter, “Would you like to find out? I think you’re old enough to try some.” She reached into the cupboard and extracted a modest wineglass to demonstrate her open-mindedness. This she filled a third full and then handed it to Brittany. Myra had begun embracing increased alcohol consumption five years previous, when her husband had left her for another woman he met at his job working for the county recorder. Prior to this, Myra had scorned weak-minded women who required the aid of self-medication to endure both their days and their relationships. But now because Myra technically no longer had such a relationship, she felt that her newfound acceptance of alcoholic solace was neither problematic nor hypocritical.

Brittany was thrilled at this initiative gesture, her first rite of passage into (drunken) adulthood at the ripe age of 10. It hearkened Brittany’s favorite scenes from Gone With the Wind when Scarlet O’Hara vanquished a lusty Rhett Butler or a restrained Ashley Wilkes with a restorative swig. Brittany took the glass, gave what she imagined was a coy, yet triumphant smile, and gulped it down like a shot of whiskey. She then emitted a faint burp to cement her sophistication. Her mother laughed aloud and glanced at her other children as if to say, “Isn’t she so clever?” Then, to ensure that the rest of her children could enjoy the Cold Duck equally Myra poured half a bottle into the gravy.

A New England Story, Part IX

2010-12-12T20:14:00.001-08:00

“Can you believe all this stuff mom had?”

We were facing Ann, and I was, as my wont, demonstrating an enthusiasm that was directly, yet inversely proportional to my interest. In other words, I couldn’t care less. So I amused myself with fleeting observations. Watching her. We were standing in the living room, with its view of Manchester Bay. The sunlight glinting of the water and the snow, blinding at times.

Ann’s body was angled away from us, in a defensive posture. She kept scanning the living room, as if seeking refuge from what she clearly felt was a threat: our honesty. She never looked at either of us directly, which I thought was infinitely curious:

“It’s so much work! I just keep finding things to shove into garbage bags, especially in the other bathroom.”

“Oh, really?” I began to pay attention more to her words. “Some of that stuff under the sink is ours.”

“Oh.”

That was it. Nothing like an apology, let alone concern.

“Yeah, so maybe you shouldn’t throw anything else out until I look at it.”

Ann’s eyes began to scan furiously for something, anything else to look at.

“We also found a lot of creams and facial cleansers by Dr. Perricone and some other brands like La Mer.”

Suddenly, Ann’s attention focused. She turned her eyes straight at me. “Really? Hmm, maybe I should take a look at some of those things while you’re going through the other trash.”

“Oh, yes, you might find it interesting. You would not believe the collection of unguents, decoctions, creams and vitamins. Your mom was determined to work from both the outside in and inside out.”

Lance couldn’t repress a snort. “Tch. I can’t believe all the money she spent on herself. And all that she wasted. There are so many jars and bottles that are half-used. It’s such a waste of money.”

“Well, it made her feel good, didn’t it?”

I couldn’t resist a scoff of my own. “Doubtful, or else she wouldn’t have kept buying more and more.”

“Nurse! Nurse! Can you get me that cream please?”

“Where is it?”

“In the drawer here. I can’t reach.”

The nurse, a normal, overworked woman who knew more than the doctors but got paid less than half, began rummaging in the nightstand next to the bed. “Is this it?”

“Yes, thank goodness you found it.”

Before she handed it to Paige, however, she took a look at the prescription. “Wait, was this prescribed to you in the hospital?”

“No.” Paige looked annoyed

“Well, you can’t use this. You can’t use any medications or creams that haven’t been prescribed here in the hospital. What is it for?”

“It’s for my eyelids. So they don’t sag.”

“Definitely not. I’ll give this back to you when you are released.” With that, the nurse left.

“Nurse Ratchett,” Paige muttered. Then she turned to me. “Lane, can you bring me the Renova from home? It’s in my bathroom, in the medicine cabinet.”

I looked at the now empty doorway.
“Oh, I won’t tell her.”

“Well, okay.” There was no point, clearly, in protestations.

“I know I’m going to burn off half my skin, but I don’t care,” she laughed. “I’ve got to get rid of these wrinkles.”

“Let’s have a tag sale,” I suggested.

“What a fabulous idea! I think it would be great!” enthused my husband.

Ann, however, was less than amenable to the idea. She had seen the labels on her mother’s clothing, an homage to both of their desires to be “Brahmin’s”: Dana Buchman, Max Mara, Ferragamo shoes, and a smattering of lesser labels such as the luxe line at Banana Republic.

Indeed, Paige was infinitely generous with herself. Many of the clothing items even had their tags attached. This was, of course, quite convenient when it was necessary to give Ann, her only daughter, a gift because rather than go shopping at a store, she would simply go “shopping” in her closet. Which process conveniently justified another trip to either Lord and Taylor or Neiman Marcus, to replace said “gifts.”

Paige’s thrift-ness knew no bounds.

Neither, it turns out, did Ann’s.

“Just think of the money we can generate to pay that enormous Visa bill,” I said.

It was a calculated comment. Strike Ann at her pocketbook because she was cheap and didn’t want that money to come out of her inheritance.

“Hmm,” she wavered. “Maybe it could be good after all. Yeah, I think it will work, so here’s what we’ll do.”

As Ann proceeded to attempt to claim ownership of the project, it became clear that she had absolutely no idea what to do nor how to do it.

Instead, she offered to assist in weeding out all the items which were not saleable, to wit: cosmetics.

Said she, “I wouldn’t want it all to go to waste. I’ll clean it up.”

An hour and a half later, Ann had cleaned up the entire bathroom by emptying it into a box which she intended to ship to herself care of her attorney employers in Honolulu.

I looked on in silence.

All is vanity.

January

2010-12-07T07:54:00.000-08:00

Synchronized Eating

Graduate seminars are designed to cultivate grand insights. They possess ostentatious, verbose titles like “Early Scholarship on Post-modern Chinese Literary Analysis” which, truth be told has excited more than one student. Or so Lena had been told, though she herself had yet to experience this response.

However, what Lena had also noted was that seminars also provided a key strategy in the apathetic professor’s instructional repertoire since conveniently they fulfill the minimum teaching obligation with an equally minimal effort. This is because a weekly seminar consists of a reading assignment to be “presented” by a graduate student for (flexibility allowed for nervousness) approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. The ensuing two and a half hours is a discussion which ideally should be led by the professor. Oftentimes Lena had watched some annoying, pimply young graduate student inevitably appropriated said task since surely his classmates were as thrilled by his intellectual agility as he himself was. Lena frequently thought that if strangling these people was not an appropriate response then at least stuffing their mouths with food might serve as a socially acceptable alternative, rather like placating a dog with a bone.

Most importantly, however, seminars allow professors to farm ideas from their graduate students. You see, although many of these people are often less than enthused about teaching, they are profoundly interested in their own ideas being developed for a forthcoming book. The problem? They require just a few more clever insights to fill in the remaining three hundred pages of a three-hundred-and-fifty page book. Thus seminars are often hinged on a professor’s pending manuscript. Observant students like Lena noted that at any time a worthwhile insight is made, the professor surreptitiously wrote it down for his book while attempting to appear so disinterested as to be doodling. This fools no one.

Such a heady mix of blasé disinterest and clandestine idea “sharing” often results in classes that are downright numbing. They act like insidious tranquilizers, the pressure slowly, inexorably crushing its victim with drivel like, “Do you think we can draw an analogy between Post-modern literary theory and the freeway system?” Then, at the end of three hours, one suddenly has found that one’s brain has dribbled slowly out of one’s ears and the next ten minutes are spent soaking it up with a paper towel and wondering what to do next.

Occasionally, however, debates do rage, even if they are unrelated to the topic. At the moment, some students were heatedly discussing the legitimacy of contemporary, “popular” authors like Amy Tan and Iris Chang while Professor Marty Rathbone was taking surreptitious notes:

“I think Amy Tan has done a lot for Chinese-Americans. She’s raised the awareness of the things Asians have to grapple with,” said an earnest first-year student.

Lena objected, “We’re not even talking about her for goodness’ sake! But if you want to discuss her, we should discuss how she’s set back the image of Chinese-Americans. Her books are filled with Chinese women who need white men to save them. It reinforces that China and Chinese people need to be rescued by America, culturally, politically and conveniently, economically. And by the way, why do we always use ‘Asian’ as a code for ‘Chinese’ anyway? Since when did it become taboo to say ‘Chinese’? When Euro-Americans decided they were too threatened by China? Tchh!”

Another student named Cindy chimed in, “Well, I can’t stand these pseudo-historians like Iris Chang. She did the entire field a disservice by using research that’s politically-influenced. It’s clearly meant to appeal to the populace, and it dumbs it down.”

Lena objected, “Why is ‘scholarly’ always code for esoteric and elitist? What’s wrong with making recent history accessible? As long as it’s accurate. Besides the China field these days doesn’t even acknowledge how it was shaped by political agendas too. We all know East Asian studies grew out of colonialism—it intellectually justified economic imperialism. We’ve all read Orientalism, right?”

A third student named Andy entered the fray, “Well we’ve moved beyond that now. We need to acknowledge that now, scholarship is divorced from politics.”

Lena disagreed, “Well, I think you’re wrong. Everyone keeps citing all that old research, especially on tv shows where they’re all stupid anyway. So we certainly have not ‘moved beyond’ it. I’m glad someone finally had the guts to make history accessible and show that ‘area studies’ and history aren’t pre-political. I’m tired of scholars who pretend that their analysis is completely objective. Don’t we all have agendas in ours work?” Lena found herself jabbing the air with her forefinger in emphasis and then immediately withdrew it in embarrassed haste.

Silence greeted this mini-lecture followed by uncomfortable shifting and sideways glances. Lena sighed and then apologized, “Oh, well, I guess that’s what happens when I’m hungry. I lecture.” A few titters could be heard as the awkward moment passed and the students settled down again into a rhythm of quiet boredom.

And that is the thing about seminars. Three long hours tends to engender hunger. In addition, seminars are inevitably scheduled around some traditional eating hour: either lunch or dinner directly precedes or follows them. After all, if someone does enunciate a revolutionary insight, there will be plenty of time afterward to write it down because what follows penetrating observations is a lot of nonsense. Plenty of time for food. Lena herself had partaken in Seminar Eating more than once. As have most graduate students, especially in the Humanities where one needn’t worry about mixing reagents with one’s lunch.

Of course, there are issues to consider. For one, graduate seminars are often held around a crowded table, configured conference-style to foster momentous observations in a non-hierarchical setting. This results in a minimum of allotted space for each student, especially if graduate students not enrolled in the class are “auditing.” One scarcely has room for one’s notebook and elbow, let alone space for a big plate of salad or a bowl of pasta. What’s more, salad is a noisy food, which can be socially embarrassing, while school pasta wafts aromas from pungent to sour. And they both command additional tabletop space, a precious commodity. On the other hand, a sandwich is a quiet food, emits no odors and requires no additional space because it can be placed on the lap. It is, in a word, the perfect seminar food.

Lena herself had the good fortune to sit next to such a thoughtful eater.

She had seen Phillip a few times in the hall near the department, quietly extracting his junk mail from his student mail box. He always looked furtive, as if he were replacing his mail with a small bomb or some equally insidious object. And then, as he straightened up to leave, he would snuffle a nervous laugh, aimed at no one in particular, and slink away. During one such escape, he had actually stepped on Lena’s foot since his head was pointed in the opposite direction from his feet—he had been laughing a goodbye to the air on his right.

“Ouch!” Lena exclaimed.

“Huh?” Phillip’s head whipped around. “Oh, wow.” He looked down at his feet and noticed that one was on Lena’s. “Oh, sorry. Sorry.”

Lena, unwilling to let him off the hook for keeping his foot on hers for such an unnecessarily lengthy period, said, “That hurt.” Then she began rubbing her foot.

“Sorry, sorry,” Phillip repeated. And then slunk off quickly.

The next time they saw each other in the hall by the department office, he nodded and then grinned sheepishly. “Hope your foot is okay.”

“Yeah, it is. Thanks for asking,” Lena smiled back. “So, how’s it going?”

Such repartee appeared to confound the limits of Phillip’s social skills, however, for he merely nodded again and then flattened himself against the opposite wall as he made a quick escape.

At the time, Lena had thought, Well, at least he’s quiet. He won’t be making any grand speeches if we ever have seminar together. Thus it was that Lena was glad that there was at least one other relatively quiet student in her seminar, one who would certainly not co-opt each discussion as an opportunity to display his intellectual gifts.

Lena now nodded approvingly at Phillip’s choice, an egg-salad sandwich. Quiet, easy to deal with and no unnecessary additional effort involved. Indeed, the sandwich was rather like the owner. Phillip had been untouched by the previous discussion and instead, was placidly preparing to partake in his repast. That looks good, Lena thought a bit wistfully. I wonder if I can sneak one in during break. For the rest of the initial presentation, Lena thought longingly about an egg-salad sandwich, on sourdough with perhaps a single slice of mozzarella, a little pepper and fries on the side.

To her right was Wang Zhenli. Her presence was a bit of a surprise. It was known throughout the department that she was a Comp Lit major.

This seminar must be like some sort of intellectual purgatory, thought Lena.

Wang Zhenli changed her name the minute she stepped off the plane. When the immigration staff attempted a rather mangled version she corrected them,

“No, my name is Jenny.”

She was proud of her adaptive abilities and this did not stop at names. She was an astute dresser, skilled in parlaying both her limited financial resources and her innate fashion sense into a style that looked chic and thrifty. A perfect combination for her newfound career as a graduate student in Modern Chinese History because it conveyed sensibility with conscientiousness. Most impressive to both staff and faculty. It is surprising the message clothing will express if one simply takes the time to read it. And Jenny certainly did.

Jenny also possessed a manner often interpreted by more sympathetic professors as “refined.” Her speech was soft and measured. This was initially a tactic used to smooth out any peaks in her accent. Yet professors who were enamored of the exotic Orient or “Ornament” as some are wont to call it, construed this speech style as indicative of an elegant character. They were entranced. Her advisor, Professor Williams, even wondered if she would last at the department, American schools being a tad too “rough” for her temperament—perhaps what she required was the sophistication of an English college.

Thus was a haze of favorable mythology built around Jenny. Now, Jenny was not maliciously calculating, but she did perceive the air of partiality she had engendered. And, as like many an opportunistic American, she used it to her advantage: she immediately acquired a job as a Research Assistant (in the Humanities, this is code for secretary to a professor). She would perform her dry duties with a cheer and speed that soon made her quite indispensable. But she would drop subtle hints as to her financial straits, which were not alleviated by the paltry recompense of an RA position.

As well he should, her advisor felt responsible for her. Professor Williams saw that Jenny required both his help and his protection. From her second year on, Michael Williams obtained a TA-ship for Jenny and worked with equal diligence at the Fellowship reviews (that is, fellowship allocation meetings). Jenny had been assured of this fact by other faculty, and it was reflected in her gradual accumulation of such awards as her graduate career progressed. Seminars, too reflected her currency, for Professor Williams had more than once centered these around subjects they were both interested in. It became known that such-and-such seminar was formed “because Jenny was researching it with Williams.”

Of course, there was no sexual interest in Jenny. She was careful in portraying herself as a female, but of the academically neutered variety. Hence her skirts were never too short (as some American women were in the custom of wearing to class), her blouses were staunchly opaque and often long-sleeved, her boots modestly heeled and her hair was not flicked at each word her advisor uttered. It was not that she was desired so much as admired. An American ideal of the East Asian woman, without the sex: demure, intelligent, elegant and above all, non-threatening. In short, a pleasure to both gaze at and work with.

During said seminars, Jenny was careful not to eat. She knew that eating was an activity that communicated vulnerability. One’s mouth was open when biting, and in normal circumstances Jenny’s habit was to cover her mouth with her hand but seminar was not normal under any circumstance. One hand was always poised to take notes, so unless Jenny spontaneously sprouted a third arm, there was no way to discreetly cover her mouth.

In addition, food was aromatic. At least the food that Jenny liked did. Although she was adaptable in matters of speech and dress, what passed for American food was criminal as far as Jenny was concerned. Greasy burgers with bits of pickles and a sour sauce that evidently contained tomatoes. Overcooked pasta (didn’t Americans understand noodles at all?) with, again, a sour tomato-y red sauce. Honestly. A soup base enhanced with mushrooms and tender shoots of Chinese broccoli or a rich, savory soy-vegetable-blackbean sauce were the proper accompaniment to noodles.

Clearly, not only was eating a potentially vulnerable activity, but those foods Jenny enjoyed required more space, implements and hands than Jenny could responsibly employ during seminar. A bowl of noodles in soup, Chinese guotie, a bowl of rice complemented by several vegetable and meat dishes, these comprised Jenny’s meals. Outside of seminar. With such logic, Jenny determined that eating was not the appropriate venue for consuming any type of meal.

Drink, however, was an entirely different matter. First, one could perform this task with one hand and still maintain a modicum of decorum. Secondly one became thirsty during seminar. This was a proven fact. Three hours in a poorly-ventilated room with exactly three inches of personal space allotted per student resulted in two conditions: huddling to maintain this precious spatial boundary, and two, because the huddling was unsuccessful and it was stuffy, perspiration. Jenny, ever practical, knew that while one did not require solid food during a three-hour seminar, it was simply not healthy to deprive oneself of liquids during this same period.

If Lena’s neighbor to the left, who was after all an extremely serious Buddhologist (or Bored-ologist, as Lena was wont to call them) detected a low grumbling from Lena’s stomach, not a word was said. This was because, as soon became evident, eating a sandwich actually entailed a good deal of effort for Phillip.

The crux of the matter was Phillip didn’t like to soil his hands with lingering crumbs or odors (though how odorous egg salad can be is debatable). This proved challenging because a sandwich requires some tactile intervention: one has to, after all, hold it somehow. Wrapping the sandwich in plastic wrap or a napkin was an obvious solution, yet somehow such remedies had eluded Phillip. And admittedly, sandwiches can leave crumbs behind. Apparently for Phillip this possibility simply would not do. Instead, he took a bite of his sandwich and then set it down quickly on the paper plate to avoid any unnecessary contact. He then chewed with a gusto that comes only from an open mouth. The sound permeated the entire room and Lena stared at him with spellbound disgust.

Phillip was blissfully oblivious to her response. Instead while he was earnestly masticating, he extracted a small bottle of hand disinfectant from his right jacket pocket. He whipped his hand energetically out from his pocket, so forcefully in fact that Lena instinctively drew back lest he hit her in the process. She then watched, with not a little fascination, at the enthusiasm with which he applied a liberal amount of gel to his hands. Most people will simply rub gel over their hands once and allow it to dry. After all, it is simply alcohol suspended in a gelatinous solution. It does evaporate, and quickly at that. Phillip, however, subscribed to a different methodology which involved rubbing one’s hands continuously until the last trace of gel had disappeared. So, if we say that chewing a bite of food takes roughly 30-40 seconds, and then one adds an additional 10-15 seconds to actively dry one’s hands of disinfectant gel, that is a solid minute of demonstrative eating.

Now for the average person it might take anywhere between ten to fifteen bites to finish a sandwich. Imagine if you will sitting in a small classroom filled with a conference table and chairs occupying 80% available space Then add twelve of your most distant academic acquaintances, a disaffected professor and a dearth of ventilation. Now insert Phillip into that situation. Biting, masticating, applying disinfectant. For, let us say, twelve times.

While chewing, Phillip completely ignored the content of the seminar. Not that this is difficult, nor is it blameworthy. In fact, Lena thought, bravo to the student who successfully ignores what passes for drool, excuse me, droll during seminar. But why, Lena wondered, does he feel it necessary to share the drool emanating from his mouth?

As for Jenny, one of her principle qualities, and she was justifiably proud of this. Her apartment, for instance, was a shared abode, furnished with tasteful second-hand pieces and inexpensive decorative touches. Food was purchased at a local Chinese market, not only because the prices were exponentially cheaper, but the selection of fresh fruits, vegetables and cuts of meats was greater than anything at any mainstream American market, from the gourmet shops to the middle-of-the-road purveyors. This solidified Jenny’s opinion that Americans, when it came down to it, did not possess discriminating palates. Witness their hot dogs and nothing further need be said. For literally $20, Jenny would return home with four bags full of fruits, vegetables, a selection of meat, various condiments and snack foods.

Armed with an assortment of food and drink, Jenny was always well-prepared for liquid refreshment during seminar. She brought a different brew to each, for variety was as important as quantity, sometimes a tea. Jenny possessed an almost innumerable amount, brewed from the highest grade of loose leaves, and not those odd sweet blends or flower bud concoctions that passed for “Chinese” or the euphemistically named “Asian” tea marketed to Americans who desired a hint of non-threatening exoticism in their beverages. Other times juice or a combination of tea and juice as she had seen in the market. Said brews were brought in a moderately sized thermos (not so large as to be unwieldy) which could be handled with one hand, leaving the other available for note-taking.

The process of drinking proved to be equally elaborate: first, Jenny would unscrew the outer lid which also functioned as a cup, which Jenny never used. The inner lid kept the brew warm, and had a spout for pouring. Again, this was useless since Jenny drank straight from the thermos itself. During a lull in seminar activity (those long silences which intersperse even longer moments of boredom), Jenny would unscrew the inner cap and take a long, slurpy draught.

As expected, the liquid was extremely hot and Jenny wanted to avoid burning her mouth. Jenny’s tongue, indeed her entire mouth, was quite sensitive to hot beverages. She had burned her mouth before, resulting in an unsightly rippling along the roof of her mouth followed by a painless, yet rather unsettling peeling. This experience had been most unpleasant and thus Jenny did her best to avoid a repetition of such incidents.

These facts resulted in the noisy slurping. Yet sipping noisily was not the only precaution Jenny undertook. She also positioned her lips ever-so-slightly away from the lip of the thermos, effectively trying to inhale the tea from the tip of the thermos, apparently assuming that the micro-centimeter of distance between these two surfaces would sufficiently cool the hot beverage.

Well, it was inevitable that this resulted in some dribbling. Onto her notes. Which, by the way, were written in ink, the kind that was not indelible, on notebook paper. Notebook paper is not known for its absorption. In fact, liquids spilled onto this paper usually spread throughout the entire surface and then require further mopping with a napkin. Large, all-encompassing stains and warping, these are the effects of spillage upon notebook paper.

Jenny, however, failed to bring napkins with her. This was her one blindspot: that she constantly seemed to forget this routine. It didn’t burn any memories onto her synapses, no connections were ever made. She simply repeated it, with a kind of childlike surprise at the consequences. Therefore, because she had no napkin, she would brush off the excess liquid with her sweater sleeve (or hand, if it was a hot day) towards the edge of the table, as if they were crumbs to be scattered on the floor. Liquids do not scatter, however, they drip in a cohesive mass onto the surface below. Which happened to be Jenny’s lap.

With some consternation at the effects, Jenny produced a low, distressed cry and quickly replaced the lid. Some minutes elapsed and again Jenny thirsted for some refreshment. She opened the thermos again, repeating the slurping technique, but somehow convinced that because she was aware of the consequences they would not repeat themselves. She was wrong and once more, her notes functioned as a liquid catch-all tray. This time she knew not to sweep the effects onto herself, so she lifted the paper off the table and shook it behind her, raining droplets of tea onto her neighbors backs and inserting a loud rustling into the silence.

Lena began receiving sympathetic glances from her classmates. Outside the classroom students could be heard laughing, chattering, eating. Inside, it was stereo eating. Slurping on the right, chomping on the left.

The sound was of Phillip placidly smacking his lips, chewing his sandwich drew annoyed, disgusted looks. But staring does not make sounds. Figurative puffs of smoke steaming out of their ears, in a cartoon this might release some high-pitched whine, but in real life nothing can be heard. The same is true of veins popping. This does not actually make any noise.

The first time Phillip performed his ritual, Lena gazed discreetly in his direction, fascinated by the sheer volume of it all. She had then scanned the room and saw a few people also looking pointedly in Phillip’s direction. They, too, had experienced a slight degree of shock and then annoyance, but were confident in the fact that he had seen their annoyed glances. It seemed reasonable, therefore, that he would curtail his gustatory pleasure the next go round. A smile passed quickly over her lips and Lena bent her head. She felt certain that these silent communications had been “heard” and that Phillip was now chastened into silence. And then she wondered what hand sanitizer tasted like.

On Lena’s right, a moment of self-consciousness had overtaken Jenny. She shrank quietly back into the crouch that marks graduate students in cramped seminar quarters. Of course, thirst would eventually overcome any hesitations and thus a repeat of her ritual process would overtake any semblance of dignity and repose.

In order to make certain their collective annoyance heard, a series of low mumbles began emanating from the other end of the room, a feeble attempt at refocusing attention away from the collective repast flanking Lena.

A student spoke. Others joined in, to drown out the sound: “So, what you’re saying is…” and “I think…”

As may well be imagined, these attempts failed completely. Phillip placidly rubbed his hands after taking each bite while Jenny unsuccessfully attempted to shrink into a nonexistent shell while she slurped her tea and rattled her notepaper. By now, all the seminar members were vicariously partaking in this collective repast which seemed intentionally coordinated. Phillip would bite, chew copiously and with mouth wide open, rub sanitizer on his hands and as if on cue, Jenny would slurp her tea from a distance, spill half onto her notebook, and then rattle her notes.

Professor Rathbone decided to ignore the entire seminar altogether and was furiously writing about something that clearly had nothing to do with the class. On occasion, however, he would steal fascinated glances towards Jenny. She exuded such refinement, an inscrutable sophistication so typical of the Chinese national. What happened? He seemed completely impervious to Phillip. He was a man, after all, and hence of completely no interest to the contemporary intellectual colonial.

The Saint Bernard

2010-12-02T14:25:00.001-08:00

Simon possesses one quality that is rather unusual for most Americans: he speaks six languages, three of which are not European. Granted, he is European—Swiss, to be specific. Once a fellow student had snidely observed: “After all, French and Italian are just English spoken differently.” While this is obviously a gross understatement, anyone with a bit of knowledge will avow that speaking Korean does not facilitate the acquisition of spoken Japanese or Chinese. And while all three share the use of Chinese characters, Korean and Japanese assign different meanings to these characters at seeming random. What’s more, Korean and Japanese also possess alphabets. Thus Simon’s grasp of no less than three East Asian languages and three Romance languages is something of a coup.

Unfortunately, Simon speaks none of these well. Which may explain his tendency towards a pronounced speech impediment, a puff crossed with a stutter. Moreover, it appears that Mother Nature decided to play a joke on his face. Rectangular and fleshy, his jowls jiggled rhythmically when he spoke. The overall effect was of a constantly worried mien that wagged as its owner clipped out words in anxious puffs. Indeed, he resembled a tall and rather earnest Saint Bernard, replete with dark brown hair.

“Oh! (puff) how are you, (puff) Bill? I-I-I saw (puff) you talking with Skillman (puff)—is he going away this (puff) quarter?” Skillman, as in Ronald Skillman the Third (or Turd, as some students were wont to call him) was a Professor in Modern Korean Literature. He was also an example that it is not only men of large corporations who know how to manipulate “the system,” for he had successfully finessed three raises out of his college in as many years by threatening to take offers elsewhere.

While delivering these sentence fragments, Simon’s entire head waddles alarmingly from left to right like a dog shaking off excess water. Human anatomy is not built for such motion and human heads are not meant to wag freely as dogs can do: it causes dizziness, disorientation, even head injuries.

Disorientation is clearly the side effect Simon suffers because he so easily gets lost. Going to places that involve a minimum of distance. An eighth of a mile, say, a quarter at the outset. Fortunately, Simon was married to an extremely resourceful woman. Unjin had been found in Seoul during one of Simon’ numerous explorations into Korean Literature and, apparently, Culture. She was average looking, but quite skilled about such things as cooking his meals, reminding him to bathe periodically, and keeping her husband on course (literally).

Which is why Unjin had strategically cultivated her husband’s friendship with the aforementioned Bill. Bill ensured that Simon always returned home safely. In return, as a token of gratitude, he enjoyed home cooked meals by Unjin. After all, Bill himself was single and so anything that reminded him of his mother’s home-cooking was a welcome reprieve from packaged noodles and frozen foods-for-one.

Unjin drew the limit at dressing her husband, however. So Simon approached this with a minimalist practicality: flannel shirts paired with sweatpants. Now, some have said that a man who wears sweatpants in public possesses self-respect no longer. Simon, however, felt that to pursue self-respect in clothing was strictly oxymoronic and besides as an academic he had transcended such mundane concerns.

During the seventh week of term, Simon had been told by “Skillman” (professors are so often referred to solely by their last names as a compromise between respect and social awkwardness) that an important “talk”—not lecture, merely a “talk”—was being given at the local university-affiliated museum. Said institution was a scant one-quarter of a mile from the edge of campus.

Unjin had been informed of this evening engagement and she had immediately contacted Bill. In exchange for a sumptuous dinner for two (Bill and Simon, that is), it was agreed that Bill would accompany Simon to the talk. After all, it was also related to Bill’s studies, though more distantly so. Bill consoled himself that it might even prove a bit of variety from his ordinary squint at the local television fare. If he was lucky, there would be catering of the dessert variety at the talk, a nice way to finish off the spicy meal he and Simon would certainly share. Time and day were set and Bill was assigned to meet Simon after seminar, at 5:00 sharp.

Theoretically, this rendezvous should have been quite simple: Bill would wait for Simon outside the classroom and together they would proceed to the museum via public transportation. When they arrived, they would feast on their dinner al fresco and thence towards the hall where the talk was being held.

Simon, however, had failed to grasp the exact meeting place. He recalled something about “five o’clock, now don’t forget” from his wife, but he wasn’t certain as to the location of this five o’clock rendezvous. Perhaps it was at the museum complex, for he knew that he and Bill were slated to dine together in the picnic area. It was quite possible that Bill was waiting there for him, in which case Simon was already late. What’s more, Unjin possessed an astute grasp of English when necessary and was thus constantly scolding Simon for being socially challenged, even boorish. Bill would most assuredly report to Unjin any mishaps. These thoughts occurred at precisely 4:45 in the afternoon, in the midst of seminar. Best to leave immediately to ensure a prompt arrival at the museum. Expelling a worried puff, Simon noisily gathered his notebook and backpack and rushed out the door.

Bill, meanwhile, was still in the reading room, studying the latest theory on Modern Christianity in Korea. At 4:45 p.m.—just in case Simon got any clever ideas—Bill set out for Simon’s class and when he arrived, propped himself against the wall directly across the door. No possibility for missing Simon. At five minutes to 5:00, a slow stream of stunned-looking graduate students began stumbling out of the classroom. After the professor ambled out, Bill began to wonder at the dedication of his friend. He walked into the room, preparing to greet his friend with some ripose to that effect when he was met with emptiness. He checked behind the door to make certain his friend was not hiding behind it as a joke. though with Simon’s girth, this would have been difficult. The result was the same: emptiness.

Bill arrived at the picnic area of the museum, having correctly deduced that his hapless colleague had repaired there erroneously.

“B-bill,” Simon stuttered reproachfully, “where have you been? You know, I-I-I have been waiting for over twenty minutes! I thought you weren’t coming or something. And-and you know my wife made food for us already.”

With a tolerant smile, Bill chided Simon: “You do know we were supposed to meet at five outside your class, right?”

“Oh, were we? I-I wasn’t sure, so I thought (puff) it would be better to come here. I thought c-c-certain you would come here. And here you are,” he smiled.

“Yes, well, next time, maybe you should write it down.”

“Yes, yes, Bill, I will do that,” Simon nodded. Simon was nothing if not earnest in his apology. “So, er, shall we go?” Simon began puffing copiously between words.

“Simon, dinner? You know, that food your wife prepared?”

“Ahh, right, yes, well, let’s eat, shall we?” With incisive jerks Simon began extracting various plastic containers from his backpack and setting them out on the table. It was quite a spread, with a dessert of chocolate cake thoughtfully included. Simon smiled at Bill and Bill silently thanked Unjin.

The talk as it turned out was on an obscure investigation of Korean history that proved completely unhelpful and uninteresting to Simon. As many academics are wont to do, when Simon is uninterested, no matter if he has been told to attend by his advisor or not, he will leave. Immediately. He does not wait for breaks, he does not exit discreetly. Rather, he gathers his books and papers into his pack, brushes a few peoples knees, trips over a bag on the floor, and then expels a long sigh as he heads for the door. Which is exactly what he did this night.

Neither was Bill riveted by the topic, but Bill chose the more discreet academic contingency plan: sleeping quietly. In fact, Bill had refined this skill so that he could nap by propping his head on his hand. As there were no sudden droops and his head was never supine, he didn’t worry that snores might escape his nostrils—just peaceful, rhythmic breathing. A nap was perfectly understandable after a long day of tiresome seminars—three additional hours of earnest attention being more than anyone could responsibly ask for.

Bill awoke during the break, signaled by loud sighs of relief and the scuff of shoes anxious for escape. He opened his eyes and raised his head casually, as if he had been merely contemplating some of the complex issues that had been raised. He turned to his left to speak to Simon and found instead an empty chair greeting him. Bill whipped his head to the right. Perhaps Simon had actually been sitting there. But no, that was empty, as well. Indeed, the auditorium had emptied rather quickly.

Bill shrugged and decided Simon would return at some point since there was nowhere for him to get lost. Thus comforted, Bill headed towards the lobby in search of coffee and, perhaps, donuts. He found two carafes of coffee and filled a Styrofoam cup to the brim. He then espied a tray, upon which there were cookie squares comprised primarily of butter, sugar, chocolate and nuts. He filled a napkin with two and tucked into them with relish, emitting minor rumblings of appreciation as he savored each bite. Then he went to the men’s room. By the time he had returned, the talk was about to resume. He sat down for another session of quiet sleeping.

After listening to five minutes of steady droning, however, Simon had still not reappeared. Bill’s initial twitch of irritation grew quickly into mild anxiety. He decided he would first check the restroom stalls. With not a little exasperation, Bill swiftly gathered his belongings. He tried unsuccessfully to hurdle over two octogenarians who were showing their displeasure with him by refusing to move their legs. He repaid the favor by showing them his rather flaccid derriere. Then he headed straight to the restrooms and peaked underneath the doors for a wayward pair of legs Nothing. He then returned to the lobby which was also distressingly empty.

Bill released a long-suffering sigh. He set out for the paths outside, correctly deducing that Simon had left the lecture some time earlier and was now attempting to return home. Given his sense of direction, however, Bill thought it likely that Simon was still somewhere on the premises. The trick was to discover exactly where.

Now, it has been noted that many men in East Asian Studies shun exercise. Perhaps this is because of a preoccupation with East Asian languages, East Asian women, or both. Whatever the cause, it is a well-known fact that scholars studying that region of the world favor the plumpness scale more generously than, say, science majors who by contrast often appear unnaturally gaunt. Thus it was that while Bill was nuancing the severe scolding he would deliver to Simon, he also had to pause frequently to catch his breath. Once that was done, he would resume his determined, though rather halting pace along another pathway, muttering to himself as he worried about the stern reprimand he, too, might receive if he didn’t find Simon.

Fortunately, Simon’s sense of direction is nonexistent. He had only reached the picnic tables four hours previous because there had been staff to direct him. They had long since gone home, leaving Simon with no convenient guides. Just a few modern lamps highlighting various picturesque pathways. There was no indication, however, exactly which pathway led to the bus stop. He was stuttering out murmurings of frustration as he had walked, effectively, in a circle.

As may well be imagined, Simon was eventually found and delivered safely to wife and home. When invited in for a cup of tea and a light snack, Bill heartily accepted. He then proceeded to relay the details of the afternoon and evening. Unjin looked at Simon as she would a child. She sighed. Then she looked at Bill with supreme calmness and said, “So, what would you like for lunch tomorrow?”

September

2010-11-30T16:26:00.001-08:00

September

“So what I need is someone to babysit about, oh, once a month. My son just moved in with me recently. He was living with his mom until about a year ago.

Actually, it’s been a bit of an adjustment, having him around. You know what I mean?”

Lena’s perfectly understandable response to this was, Not really, and Wow, that was way too much information.

Wisely, she did not voice such thoughts and instead, offered a smile and nod, in her case, empathetically.

Lena did not consider herself particularly sad or desperate. Like most Humanities grad students, she prided herself on some basic qualities: a commitment to intellectual excellence, combined with a keen awareness of one’s social responsibility in using that intelligence. At least, that was what she thought other graduate students were like.

Turns out this was all a complete delusion.

For one, Lena was rather desperate. Financially speaking, that is. Which is why $50 a night to babysit was practically a windfall, the likes of which did not come along often. This may appear a paltry sum to those gainfully employed, but not for graduate students, most of whom plunge themselves into the depths of massive debt to acquire various advanced degrees.

However, Lena liked children. She imagined taking him to the park, maybe baking cookies together. Sedating him with DVD’s Lena herself had enjoyed as a child. This aspect of the scenario would fullfill the aforementioned “sad” part.

“So you know what academic life is like.”

You mean poverty, frustration, exploitation?

“Lots of traveling. Conferences. I figured with your financial situation, this might help you while you’re helping me.”

Perfect. As long as I don’t have to do anything too weird.

“Think you can do it?”

“Uh, yeeahh—I think I can do that!” Suddenly, Lena straightened her neck and then gave a great sneeze.

“Bless you—are you alright?”

In response, she sniffled and answered, “I’b okay.”

“You’re sure…” The professor began evincing a slight whiff of what might actually be concern.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Now that I can talk properly again.

“…Because I really need the help and I think you’re the perfect person. I asked another one of my students last year and it didn’t go so well.”

“No?”

“Weell, no.” He paused, uncertain as to the proper tone to take. “You see, I think it was because she couldn’t speak English that well.”

“What was?”

“Weell, he sort of pulled a knife on her,” he chuckled. As if that lessened the impact.

OMG! He what?! “Oh, really? What happened,” Lena asked with a smile. As if this was a completely normal occurrence. Happens every day, doesn’t it?

Relief flooded his face. He wasn’t going to get turned down. And he had done his duty, revealed the worst. “Yeah, they had a bit of a disagreement. But it blew over. Like I said, it was because of her language skills. You won’t have that problem. Being born here and all.”

Gee, thanks, next why don’t you ask me where my parents are from?

“Oh, I see.” Lena reflected that she had perfected the art of the bland and yet encouraging response. Maybe I should be getting a degree in Clinical Psych instead. Sure pays better. “Well, that must have been hard all the way around,” she smiled brightly.

“It was, it was. But I think he’ll like you much better. So you think you can still do it?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” In a parallel universe.

He smiled. “Well, that’s great! So here are the directions to my house and I’ll meet you there at seven on Tuesday. You can meet my son then, alright?”

Lena began to nod, which launched another sneeze. She rose, waved goodbye, and headed for home.

By the following week, Lena’s periodic sneezes had developed into a rattling case of pneumonia. It was the third time in two years and Lena’s ribs were sore from coughing. Her friend Meredith volunteered to drive her to the house and wait for her but Lena demurred and insisted she could drive herself.

When Lena arrived she walked up a pair of chipped steps towards a distressed, rather dilapidated stoop. Surprising since the house itself was located in a wealthy beach suburb. Paint peeling off the molding in large swathes. The door festooned with large pockmarks which resembled—bites? Could that be possible? And a forlorn pot in the corner sprouting a long-dead cactus.

Lena knocked on the door and waited. In response, she heard a cacophony of whooping. But nothing else happened. She knocked again, rapping harder this time.

Finally, a teen of about 15 opened the door and said, “Yeah?”

Lena coughed and he instinctively backed away. “Sorry. I’m supposed to meet Professor Grant here at seven?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”

As she entered Lena espied several other similarly aged boys forming a rather surly welcoming committee. They paused en masse to look at Lena. The consensus was that she provided little interest so they proceeded, again en masse, towards a set of back rooms around the corner.

Lena realized that her charge was the teenager, he of the monosyllables.

Uh-oh.

He led Lena to the living room, straight ahead, and pointed to a worn leather coach.

Lena looked back nervously towards the noise emanating from down the hall. She clutched her bag close for protection as she sat down gingerly.

Her anxiety triggered a round of deep, wet coughing which sent her charge-to-be scurrying. Lena gazed up at the cavernous ceiling and realized that it was two stories, with shallow, sharp acoustics that amplified noise perfectly.

The constant hum of teenage antics punctuated by occasional shouts and the wafting of herbal “refreshment” made Lena increasingly nervous. After ten long minutes, she was relieved to hear the front door open and slam shut.

Finally, she thought.

“Hello, Lena! Sorry I’m late. You know how traffic is. I guess you’ve already met my son—Ryuta!”

The boy who answered the door emerged from the back rooms and grunted towards his father in acknowledgment.

Professor Grant gestured vaguely towards his son, “So, this is my son.”

“I gathered,” rasped Lena.

Admittedly such answer left little options for response so instead Professor Grant smiled apologetically and said, “And have you met my wife, yet?”

Lena shook her head and then coughed.

“Wow, that’s some cough. Are you alright?” he bent solicitously over Lena.

In answer, Lena produced a few more coughs and managed to wheeze, “Well, actually, I have pneumonia.”

“Oh goodness, that’s awful!”

This exhausted the reservoir of Professor Grant’s concern for at that moment his wife walked in. She was barely older than Lena herself. In fact, Lena seemed to recall her flitting around the department a few years earlier.

“Ahh, here she is! Midori! Come and meet Lena.” He turned to Lena, “You may remember my wife. She was a student of mine a few years ago.” He beamed.

“Yes,” Midori agreed. “I told him that I could either be his student or his wife, but not both! So we decided it was better to get married, right honey?” Midori simpered. She bent over Lena, “You look a little green—are you alright?”

Lena just shook her head and motioned the couple on as she began a bout of coughing.

“So! Let’s take you on a tour of the house and tell you about your duties, okay?”

Lena nodded as she glanced back at the raucous noise emanating from the downstairs hallway. Wisps of smoke languished in the air.

Will and Midori turned their backs.

Midori smiled determinedly at Lena and said, “I want to thank you personally for agreeing to do this. We’ll both be going to the conference and obviously we don’t want to just leave Ryuta home alone.”

Gee, lucky me.

But what Lena said was, “What’s the conference on?”

“Oh, we’re really looking forward to it. It’s on Japanese Art during the Muramachi period—Will here is giving the first paper,” Midori said proudly.

“Really? Wow, that’s really great.” Such platitudes, Lena found, were an extremely useful component of grad student-ese.

Will nodded a thanks and then said, “Well, shall we start our tour? So this is the kitchen area as you can see,” Professor Grant swept his arm expansively, showcasing counters covered with food wrappings, half-masticated meals, and piles of dirty dishes.

Lena coughed loudly.

“Of course, we won’t expect you to clean all this up,” he said quickly. “In fact, part of your job is to make sure that Ryuta and his friends don’t get too out of hand. I don’t really want him to have friends over, but I don’t think we can prevent that. Ha ha! You know high school kids. Your main job will be to keep an eye on him and make sure they don’t do something crazy. Once when we were gone, they were dive-bombing into the pool from the sunroom. So basically you’ll be watching to make sure nothing goes too wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, we’ve already told him that you’re basically going to be his warden. You know, watching over him and out for him,” said Midori.

“Ahh.” Nothing more could be reasonably said, could it?

Midori laughed a bit sheepishly. “Well, we do have to admit that we had a slight problem with this before. I guess Will told you about asking one of my friends to stay with him?”

No, he hadn’t mentioned that she was your friend. Ugh.

“Wasn’t that a great time, honey?” Midori slipped her arm through Will’s and they smiled at each other in remembrance. “Anyway, that was when Ryuta had just moved in with us. I’m sure that’s why they had that problem.”

“Of course,” Lena asked.

“Communication problems—you know how teenagers can be,” she smiled encouragingly.

In times of distress, monosyllables are extremely reliable. Especially when one Lena was constantly being reassured that she must already be familiar with presumably mundane situations which were in reality quite alarming.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Midori reassured with another smile.

“He’s not going to play some prank on me? Put a frog in the bed or something? Is he?” Lena looked at Professor Grant, then Midori, and back again.

Silence ensued. Will and Midori looked at each other, uncertain how to respond. Then they laughed as if her question was a merely joke that required no response.

“No, really.”

Midori’s voice suddenly grew harsh, “He better not! It’s our bed, after all.”

Professor Grant clapped his and rubbed them together in transition, “So! As I was saying. Your duties. We thought that you could cook a little dinner for him, maybe pack a lunch, that sort of thing. Is that alright?”

And with that the issues were settled, at least to his satisfaction. So with those words, he turned and headed towards the stairs.

“Let’s go on up and I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

Lena trailed behind Will and Midori to the first landing, adorned with an enormous painting by a contemporary Japanese artist, spotlighted under a lamp.

She then proceeded up to the landing on the second floor.

Chaos.

It was a much larger landing with solid, waist-high walls that overlooked the kitchen and living room below.

It looked like an enormous, horizontal closet.

Every inch was covered with of mounds clothing strewn about haphazardly.

Midori said, “Oh, you can just ignore that.”

Don’t know if that’s possible, thought Lena, but if you say so.

Silence can prompt responses like no words can.

As if compelled, Midori explained, “When I quit the department, I decided I wanted to try something different. And I just love clothes. So it seemed logical to try to get into the fashion industry. And Will has been so supportive.”

On cue, Will stroked Midori’s hair and they grinned in unison at Lena.

Lena smiled weakly.

“I think it’s so important to follow your passion, don’t you? And I just love shopping. So I thought I would try fashion design. Or costume design. Something like that. That’s what all this is. I’m actually working with the costume designer at the community theatre up the street right now,” she said.

Again with the too much information, thought Lena.

“Anyway, you won’t need to come in here. As you can see, on your left is the bathroom. To the right is the bedroom. That’s where you’ll be sleeping,” she explained.

Lena peaked into the bathroom and espied a mint green bidet. With a plant in it.

“So, do I have to water the plants, too?”

Midori followed Lena’s gaze on the plant. “Oh, that?” Midori giggled. “Well, yes, if you wouldn’t mind, we’d appreciate it if you could water the plants. But I’ll take it out of that first.” With another giggle, Midori walked over and lifted the plant out of the bidet and set it instead in the bathroom sink.

Turning resolutely towards the bedroom, Lena suddenly sneezed, which led to a series of bone-racking coughs.

Midori made sympathetic cooing noises as she and Will waited to show Lena the bedroom.

It was actually one large room, split into two by ceiling-high bookshelves, forming a library/office.

The best part of the house, as far as Lena could tell. No trash. No mess. And some really beautiful cherry-stained bookshelves. Nice bookshelves always inspire envy in an academic. As does a library inside a house. Lena sighed. She ran her hands admiringly over the shelves and then began looking idly at their book collection, covetous daydreams occupying her mind.

And another thought: Can I go now?

That, of course, would have been far too easy.

For just then, a thunderous clomping could be heard, exactly like a herd of elephants, or so Lena imagined.

“Dad! Midori!” Ryuta bounded up the stairs, shouting as if his father and his stepmother were across a distant field. “Come quick! There’s a fire downstairs!” Five of his closest acquaintances were clattering behind him.

There’s that herd.

Lena flattened herself against the wall of the stairwell as Will and Midori hurtled down the stairs after six teenage boys who now had to turn around and rush down the stairs.

Seconds later, sounds of recrimination began echoing sharply off the two-story ceiling.

Lena tentatively went downstairs a few moments later. She looked around towards the kitchen and saw Will, Midori, Ryuta and his friends, all huddled near the kitchen, gazing in awe as flames leapt towards the ceiling. Uncertain what to do, she elected to guard the escape route by the front door. She figured, after all, that with all those degrees, they would know what to do.

The fire was caused, evidently, by a disagreement between the burner and an excess of bacon fat. Will shouted at Ryuta who shrugged his shoulders helplessly. A crack was revealed in Will and Midori’s relationship as he then turned to her for assistance.

“Could you not just stand there? Could you please find the flour?” Will’s asked with restrained sarcasm.

“Hey, don’t take this out on me. I did not do this, if you recall.”

“Oh, helpful. Very helpful.” He stood there glaring at her.

“Dad! Do something!” Ryuta shouted.

Will was recalled to the fire-extinguishing task. “Where is the flour?” he demanded.

Midori took her time in locating it in the back corner of a cupboard. She walked back to Will and coolly handed him a small bag. “Here.”

Will took it impatiently and then began liberally sprinkling flour over the fire. Once the fire was quashed and the initial excitement was over, certain residual duties remained: shutting off the smoke alarm, cleaning up the bacon-fat-flour spatter, contemplating the singed ceiling, and of course, tending to the rest of the house tour.

Sharp inflections echoed through the house, accompanied by acrid fumes. Which launched Lena into another coughing fit. Professor Grant and Midori recalled themselves and Will gave a discreet cough of his own by way of transition. He walked over to Lena with an exaggerated heartiness. “Well, can you believe this? We never lack for excitement in this house.”

“I can see that,” replied Lena, with not a little irony in her raspy voice.

“At least it will keep you on your toes, right?”

Lena nodded and said, “Well, I can see you have a lot of things to do here—.”

“Right, so how about if I give you a key right now and I’ll leave you a check on the dining table. Just be here next Tuesday after you get off class, is that okay?” With this directive, he looked pointedly back at his delinquent son. He accompanied Lena to the door and shut it firmly behind her.

She looked back at the door: paint had flecked off, revealing additional layers of paint underneath. The molding looked as if it had been chewed by a dog even at its uppermost reaches. Could a dog really be that tall?. Forlorn plants in cracked clay pots were strewn around the step. A distressed exterior to match a chaotic interior. Lena sighed and opened her car door. And then she rooted for a Meiji Dark bar in her bag, for just such emergencies, sore throat be damned.

A New England Story, Part VIII

2010-11-30T15:19:00.001-08:00

Food, in truth, seems to be an obsession for almost everyone we met in Cape Ann, including Lance’s mother. Perhaps because there is such a dearth of it there. One particular restaurant on Summer Street boasted an enormous serving of macaroni and cheese for the reasonably-priced $5.00.

When it was served, it resembled a very large brick. And given the density, could have stood in for one especially in the cold weather when it would be frozen.

But how did it taste, you ask?

Like nothing. Nothing at all. I would like to be clever. Draw some artful and amusing analogy between it and various household inedibles but that would actually be unfair. Because it tasted like absolutely nothing. There was texture, the aforementioned dense one, uninterrupted by cheese since there was hardly any.

I couldn’t understand it. This place was always packed. And it wasn’t just because of the view since most of the patrons were clearly locals.

Hence my observation regarding the dearth of well-prepared, good-tasting restaurant food. I’m not discussing fine-dining. I just want good food. But even the local fine-dining space had turned over several times, at least once a year. It’s mystifying since Manchester makes Beverly Hills look like a pauper’s town.

This time, it had another complete “makeover” with the floorplans, lighting, and orange-ish paint. But the menu renders me inexplicable. People had finally discovered that the best burger on the block is made by Father’s Office in Santa Monica, with his aged beef, arugula, blue cheese and English-style relish, on a long roll. Well, that is, except for mine, which I have now perfected, a juicy, delicious spicy burger with just a few grilled onions and some aioli atop my homemade brioche buns. You should come over and try one. But I digress. This recipe first created by Father’s Office had finally traveled to the East Coast. And so I thought I’d give their version a taste. Remember what I said about burgers—theoretically, you can’t go wrong.

Wrong again!

First, more is not necessarily better. Wayyy to much meat, and far too dense. If you’re not going to age the beef (I don’t) try adding a little water to the mix, literally. It will make the burger nice and juicy and not to dense. And don’t overwork the meat.

Then the blue cheese. Wow, talk about overpowering. It’s the peppery arugula that balances the pungent sharpness of the blue cheese—romaine will literally wilt alongside that sort of cheese.

So, I did what I normally do, slathered it with condiments, thousand island being my choice this time since a mild mayonnaise was simply not going to do.

Well, after a while, you just have to give up. So you go for the fried side: the French fries. Except I hate those over-sized ones. Far too dry. What is good about a French fry is that there should be an ideal combination of crisp outside and soft inside. Too much of one or the other just ruins them. That’s why frites are so popular. Gets it just right.

And then there was this thing called “pulled pork.” Now, correct me if I am wrong but that is the sort of menu item that one expects at Jeb’s Barbecue Shack around the corner (not that they would have one of those anyway in Cape Ann). Why is that on a fine-dining restaurant’s menu, and at $25 a plate? When it’s a sandwich?

You’re thinking, yeah, but hey, that’s the point, take something ordinary and make it extraordinary.

You would be incorrect (I’m tired of using that other word). I know because while I was certainly not feeling so adventuresome, Lance was. If you are wondering how it was, I will offer another observation: that I did not have to worry about my French fries going to waste since his sandwich was accompanied with a salad (??!) and a few freshly fried potato chips.

A New England Story, Part VII

2010-11-29T00:53:00.001-08:00

The season held a magical note of escape so that I felt long-suppressed joy as I shuffled amongst the fallen leaves skittering along the ground in my boot-encased feet. The biting wind shelters me and envelops me. I nestle my face snugly into my scarf and think, “Let it come! I am safe!”

Being wrapped in numerous layers of clothing against the cold, from head to foot, makes me feel safe. It is a mobile cocoon against the wind and snow.

Nothing like the bitterest winter I have ever experienced at its height in Beijing. It’s latitude is farther north, and the wind jolts your senses to how vulnerable you are. Mucous freezes in your nose and the wind whips you in four simultaneous directions. A 650-fill long down coat over five layers may as well be a t-shirt because nothing protects. Nothing saves you.

So I was feeling smug, certain I could not get sick.

Oh, arrogance.

I had forgotten the psychogenic component of illness. Especially for me, of the stomach variety. Nausea that could put me in the emergency room—and did. For ten long and extremely dull hours. No wonder old people, people like Page, dreaded the hospital. Hard surroundings filled with steel implements and paper goods with rough edges. The distance between the idea of a hospital as a place of healing and warmth and its reality of indifference and detachment is an insurmountable chasm.

It wasn’t hysteria, do not mistake this for a hysterical episode. I really was sick. It’s merely that there were some psychogenic factors, I was more prone, if you will, to becoming sick given the stress of constant pretense.

Pretense towards what? Towards whiteness, something I shall never be but was expected of me in that small town on the coast of Cape Ann, and especially by Page’s little world of bigots: her brother, Marshall and his wife, Doreenie. Her third ex-husband, Jere, and of course, her daughter by her first marriage under the gun and just out of high school, Ann.

Fortunately I, like all colored Americans, have been well-trained in mimicking whiteness. In mannerisms, speech patterns, dress, and even in food likes and dislikes (well, sometimes with that last category). I can pretend whiteness, which in colored people means to be a non-threatening “model minority” so as to mitigate their discomfort regarding my glaring colored skin.

I am, after all, a shade of brown. Light, but nevertheless brown. I have absolutely no idea why people call Asians yellow. We aren’t, and that is clearly a case of white people with too much power to define and too much color-blindness.

A New England Story, Part VI

2010-11-27T20:17:00.001-08:00

Food provides shelter. While it isn’t the great equalizer, it does equalize. Everyone chews. Manners, on the whole, can be mimicked to satisfy even the most critical doyenne.

Or so I thought.

It always seems to be like this. You assume—let’s forget about what that spells—that people will demonstrate a modicum of decorum, a certain level of human politeness required when dealing with death and the dying.

Instead, what you should wait for is the other shoe to drop.

The three of us, Ann, Lance and myself, went to an established (read: old and dilapidated) eatery on Gloucester’s Main Street. It was a tavern, really, with a few booths encircling a very old and rather sticky bar. No view, just a few tattered prints adorning otherwise faux-paneled walls.

We three slid, well, sort of since the naugahyde was a tad sticky, too, across the curved bench. I sat in the middle while Ann and Lance were directly opposite each other in a not-accidental stance of antagonism. That is actually one of the first lessons one learns as a graduate student in Psychology: that in group therapy, those whom you sit next to feel most comfortable with you and those who sit opposite? They feel threatened. Pretty simple, really. Try it next time at Thanksgiving dinner and you’ll discover how accurate this small insight is.

So while they were poised for fight, I was trapped and thus prevented from flight. We examined the menu and I immediately decided upon a burger. My reasoning is that with a disc of hamburger meat encased in a pair of buns, it’s hard to go too wrong.

Did you hear that other shoe drop?

Yes, I was wrong. Really wrong.

Because it turns out that you can get a hamburger really wrong. You can dry it out, use extremely cheap, possibly even a combination of mystery, meats on top of hamburger buns that should have been consigned to the “bird food” pile weeks before. I am not a big fan of ketchup on a hamburger. I like a nice, brown, English-style chutney with some blue cheese and arugula on my burger, but I’ll settle for mayonnaise and grilled onions. Or just mayonnaise and cheese. This facsimile of a hamburger, however, was not accompanied by such amenities, so I settled for ketchup, mayonnaise, and American cheese.

Nothing, however, could help this sandwich. Absolutely nothing. The French fries were also a dismal imitation: crinkle cuts—I really dislike those—that had been clearly refried more than once. Oh, In-N-Out Burger, where art thou? For at that moment, I felt positively desperate and even medieval, in my desire for a bit of red meat.

Ann, however, was eyeing the rice pudding. After, that is, doing her imitation of “Sally Albright.”

“I’d like water, but don’t put ice in it.” Don’t even think they had bottled water because they didn’t. “And then could you bring me another glass with water, and a third with ice. And some lemon.”

An annoyed look appeared on the older waitress’s face, “Okay, so let me get this straight. You want two glasses of water, one glass of ice, and then some slices of lemon?”

The question hung in the air: Why can’t you just have a single glass of ice water with a slice of lemon?

And it was asked as soon as the waitress left.

“So, why so many glasses?”

Ann giggled. At 57, she was still convinced that giggling and flicking her hair would compensate for the sagging breasts and the broken front tooth which incidentally gave her the appearance of being buck-toothed. Her mother had never bothered to have her children’s teeth straightened.

“Well, I don’t want to contaminate the water with the ice, and the other glass of water is to rinse off the lemon. You know that they don’t rinse off the outside of lemons before they put them in drinks, don’t you?”

“And the ice?”

“Well, I can rinse that off, too.”

“Won’t that be contaminated too?”

“Not if I rinse it off.”

“So, why all the bother?”

“Welll,” she giggled again, “I think there’s something in the water that makes the people crazy. Have you noticed Mom and Marshall and Doreenie?”

If that is not the calling the kettle black, I really don’t know what is. That, and crazy much?

Because there was not much left to say on the subject—who am I kidding? There was nothing left to say short of, “You, my dear, are certifiable,” Lance and I decided to move onto other things.

Like dessert.

“So that was about the most unsatisfying lunch I have had in quite some time. How about dessert?”

“Ooo! Look! They have rice pudding!”

“Rice pudding,” I said. “Hmm.” Of course, my idea of a good dessert, one that I can make by the way, often involves multiple moving parts and lots of rich ingredients. A butter-and-cream-rich caramel sauce and a few judiciously sprinkled raisins in an apple pie, for example. Or a sugar cage basket holding the accompanying blueberries for a zabaglione parfait set on a sugar plate. That sort of thing. Rice pudding? What I could think of was along the lines of Bread pudding: jazz it up with some caramel sauce and perhaps a ribbon of streusel in the middle, a little more streusel on the top and Voila! A dessert fit for a queen.

“No! That’s not right! You can’t do that!”

“Huh?” In my defense, I do believe that this is a completely appropriate response to the rude rejoinder Ann offered me.

“You have to taste it first.”

“Really?” I attempted, futilely, to keep doubt out of my voice.

“Yes! Of course!”

The disproportionate anger made me, annoyingly, become even more conciliatory.

“Okay, if you say so.”

Alright, perhaps I was a tad condescending, too, but can you blame me?

Appropriately, the rice pudding was served, to prove my point.

The dish served resembled the remains of a toddler's glue project.

I waited for a minute as she tasted a spoonful.

“So,” I asked, “how is it?

For an answer, she offered some to my husband. “Here, try some,” she urged with a smile that looked rather tentative and tight.

Lance reached gingerly over to the small bowl with his spoon. “Eww. Yuck. Tastes like over-cooked rice and sugar.”

Ann refused to look at me. “It’s alright. This is the way it should be.”

“Well, if that’s the way it should be, I think I’ll try Lane’s any day.”

I forebore any further observations. Unlike Ann, I know how to check my own churlish impulses.

The Alley, Part 3

2010-11-18T19:33:00.001-08:00

“Why are you so paranoid? It’s not like anybody can see in here,” he observed, rather witheringly.

And when he realized that was not going to get the response he desired, to persuade me of their unnecessity according to him, he resorted to sarcasm.

I hate sarcasm.

Especially from my husband.

“So what do you want to do then? Cover up all the windows and the French doors with curtains? You want me to put rods up everywhere so you can hang them? We’re going to have to get me curtains, then, right? You want to go shopping for them now?”

His response is absolute proof that higher education and listening skills, as well as relationship skills, are contraindicated. That’s my theory, anyway. I figure, you spend all that time bending your mind to figuring out complicated theories and formulas, the male brain simply does not have enough room to spare for other things. Like practical, or emotional skills. What practical skills, you ask? Understanding, say, that dirty laundry goes in a laundry basket, and when that basket is full, it then needs to be moved to the washing machine and dryer.

Go ahead and accuse me of gynocentrism. You would be right. It’s like a black friend told me, “You know, I’ve spent my entire life learning about white people. I’m done with that.” So you would be right. I’ve been taught all about the Euro-androcentric world. Time for a little focus on myself, I think. Because even if I have plenty of higher education myself, I don’t forget all those other things in my life.

The practical stuff, like cleaning every day. Everywhere I look in my house, I see something that triggers a panicked thought, “OMG! I have to clean that!” a hundred times a day.

And the emotional, “Honey, I know you’re having a really hard time with…(fill in the blank because he seems to have a hard time with most things).”

Or the intellectual, when I begin a conversation on postcolonialism and diamond mining.

The physical? Well, surprisingly, he’s not so good at that, either. Caressing. Hugging. A place to rest one’s head. One time, I was visiting a girlfriend whose husband was an artist, in the mode of Japanese cartoons with oversized eyes and undersized bodies—he was Japanese, after all. He had drawn an imaginary animal-like person with the standard large eyes, cuddled up in the lap of another, larger imaginary animal-person of the same species.

“Ahh,” I said appreciatively. That’s so cute!

“Yeah, Fumi drew that.”

“That’s really sweet.”

She paused for a moment, “You do realize that the little one in the lap is him, right?”

That seems to sum up so many relationships I know of.

The Alley, Part 2

2010-11-18T11:42:00.001-08:00

I heard flowing water from a fountain that soothed even my anxiety.

“I want to put up curtains over the windows.”

For an answer, my husband rolled his eyes. He couldn’t understand my need for privacy, seclusion. Of course, his overtime hours ensured that he was never home before ten, so his own experience of such situations was, shall we say, muted.

Frustration is so easily dismissed with the supposed hormonal vicissitudes of pregnancy. That explanation rarely seems adequate because it masks the inadequacies of relational skills. Which happen to include communication, but can’t be limited to that. There are four components to a successful relationship. Practical, intellectual, emotional, and professional. Men often seem limited to addressing the physical aspect of their relationships, especially when they involve wives.

Given this, I did what any rational woman in my position would do. I yelled.
“Damnit! Would you listen to me? This isn’t about what you want, you’re never here! This is about what I need! Why must you filter everything through your own needs first, and if you decide you don’t need it, then you conclude that I don’t either. You’re not the only measure of needs around here!

It’s as if you assume that you’re the only one with needs. And all my needs are actually just superfluous desires that are completely unnecessary.”

It seems clear, right? My explanation of things of the relational terrain?

I do wish that I could report a positive result. However, I have been told, not by my husband, that I also ought to know that a raised voice, no matter how eminently sensible and rational the content, completely undermines the message.

I can attest to that. So can his response.

The Alley, Part 1

2010-11-17T17:58:00.001-08:00

From a plan view, imagine eight small backyards, four opposite four. The gates face each other, though they are not all of uniform height, so some you can see over the top of, some you cannot. A narrow alleyway, which can accommodate two people abreast of each other, separates the gates, many of which are used as front doors that accessed the living room through French doors. Most are left open, revealing the sounds of clinking forks against plates, and other, more intimate noises one pretends remain private. Floating into the shared space of the alley and crossing over into the privacy of another neighbor.

The upstairs bathroom looked down into the opposite neighbor’s backyard. Our townhome was refitted for the owner’s daughter. Special wood-framed windows that swung in and were not controlled by a crank. I opened it and again saw him sitting outside, with a plate fork and knife on a cheap outdoor table and with a book on his lap.

A New England Story, Part V

2010-11-04T21:11:00.000-07:00

     Dream analysis. Almost no one gets this right, in terms of writing about it. Unless they are professionals. Like, say, a Clinical Psychologist. But then none of them seem that inclined towards creative writing. Perhaps they are too busy actually helping people with real tragedies to bother with fiction.
     But it seems to me that what is missing in fiction writing on dreams is that people don't really understand the symbolism of dreams. How they work and how they are read. So they end up making up some silly trite, pseudo-surreal narrative that sounds totally fake.
   I hate that.
     Because my dreams, while they are eventually easy for me to understand, are never that clean.
   The night Page told my husband, "You two have to leave!" after we had put our lives on hold for her, and entered into a unique type of poverty available only to graduate student couples, was the first night of a series of terrible stress-mares. While I slept through the night, it was never restful. Far from. Every two hours, I would awaken with a pounding heartbeat and rushing in my ears. An hour of tossing and turning would institute another episode.
     What was the first one? I was trying to escape her. That simple.
     She was no Hydra, she was merely scary. Her hair wasn't streaming. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was merely herself.

A New England Story, Part IV

2010-10-29T15:47:00.001-07:00

Food provides shelter. While it isn’t the great equalizer, it does equalize. Everyone chews. Manners, on the whole, can be mimicked to satisfy even the most critical doyenne.

The season, too, held a magical note of escape so that I felt long-suppressed joy merely walking amongst the fallen leaves skittering along the ground. The wind, biting though it was, sheltered me, as well. I would nestle my face snugly into scarf and think, “Let it come! I am safe!”

A New England Story, Part III

2010-10-27T11:46:00.001-07:00

By-the-sea. An official part of the town’s name. It held promise, excitement and anticipation. Wonder and exploration.

Those hopes never materialized.

Hiking to Agassiz Rock or running along towards the cliff to the water in Magnolia, I knew I was merely running away.

When living someplace other than where I was born, I get a feeling of constantly traveling. Even mundane excursions are mini trips. Grocery stores hold constant wonder at the different fare on offer, especially the little gourmet shop in Beverly Farms with half its space devoted to prepared foods I would never see out West. No matter how long I’ve been in a place, I always experience the memory of dislocation, of newness, of not belonging.

I’ve never belonged anywhere. The constant refrain, “So, where are you from?” is not merely a pinprick of ignorance, it is an accusation.

A New England Story, Part II

2010-10-25T15:37:00.001-07:00

Page Elwel did not like her son. It was the irritation of responsibility. Being a sociopath meant she didn’t actually feel guilt for abandoning her son. Instead, she experienced constant annoyance that her son required her for certain basic needs: emotional nurturance, food, clothing, shelter.

But he was not merely an irritation. She saw him as a burden. Something to rid herself of as soon as possible.

Which is what she did. Once, she had almost achieved this with little effort. It had been at her mother’s house, on the water in Gloucester. Antony had been walking along the edge of the pool. He was 4. She hadn’t warned him not to. Just watched coolly as she sipped her afternoon aperitif.

He slipped and fell. Swallowing water, flailing frantically.

Suddenly, a hand reached him and grabbed him by the scruff. Antony was spewing water, crying, choking.
It was his mother's boyfriend who had saved him.

Page had not moved. She was laughing.

“Don’t laugh! Why are you laughing,” he cried.

“Oh, shush,” she scolded. "Besides, it's funny." And returned to her drink.

October

2010-10-18T22:19:00.000-07:00

Desperation and loneliness. They often lead to relationships made the first year of graduate school one spends the second year shedding. Just ask Sebastian Flyte. Smoky breath, unfortunate physical protrusions, and speech impediments come swiftly to mind.

Lena was well aware of the pitfalls, but honestly! How much solitude was she meant to endure for the privilege of being an impoverished thirty-something pursuing a doctorate?

Thus it was that once again, Lena chose to ignore the innumerable "Whoop! Whoop!" alarms signaling in her head. For one, Olivia appeared as if she shopped at a thrift store. That she actually shopped at Barney’s made Lena even more skeptical: how does one spend a small fortune and yet still appear as if one patronizes an establishment specializing in cheap knock-offs of knock-offs. And if this is indeed the desired effect, then what does that say beyond proving the adage that there is simply no accounting for taste?

Nevertheless, during a moment of weakness, Lena responded a shade too heartily to the following salvo:

“Would you like to go out for lunch?”

Lena was thrilled! She had a date! Potentially.
She lied in the affirmative, “Yes, I’d love to!” and then immediately regretted it. Vainly she hoped Olivia would forget.
Olivia did not.

***
The following day after seminar, Olivia asked, “So, what are you doing this Friday? We can get together at my place and then go out for a bite. I know this great little Vietnamese place just around the corner from me. Really cheap, and good, too.”

The first twinges of concern began pricking at the back of Lena’s mind: cheap? What is the definition of cheap? Cheap compared to a pair of jeans that cost more than three months’ worth of a normal person’s phone bills (“They were soo cheap, only three hundred and fifty dollars!”). Or cheap as in affordable for Lena, and if so, perhaps Olivia would treat?

Olivia was blithely unaware of these apparent contradictions: she just wasn’t fond of visiting other people’s homes. In fact she made a strict rule never to do so. One never knew, after all, what level of hygiene they maintained. To prevent any such suggestions, she always emphasized points she knew appealed to other grad students: price and proximity.
“How does that sound?

It was all progressing rather quickly for Lena, but boredom made her willing. After all, most Friday nights, she simply ordered pizza and watched a dvd with “Fussus,” aka Korbel, the Clydesdale kitty. This at least had the promise of variety.
"Okay. Text me your address."
***

Lena arrived promptly at 7:00, ravenous and ready to go out. “Hey, Olivia, I’m starving! I hope this place is good.”

“Hi, Lena.” Olivia hid discreetly as she opened the door. “I just got out of the shower.”

Lena expelled a mildly disappointed sigh, “Oh.”
Clearly, 7:00 was a vague concept that implied a forty-five minute leeway.

“Have a seat. I’ll be ready shortly. You can introduce yourself to my cats. That one in the corner is Zhong Zhong.”
A diminutive of the word meaning “heavy” in Chinese, the cat was indeed generously proportioned. Olivia enjoyed dropping occasional Chinese words throughout daily conversations because she was half Russian-Jewish, half Chinese. Like many half-Asians, she embraced that side by wearing it as a badge. It signified a cultural membership that simultaneously emphasized that she was also half-white, a hedge against racism.

Lena cooed, “Hi,” and he immediately lumbered over to her leg, which he greeted with a rub.

As befitting any cat lover, Lena immediately began slobbering shamelessly over him. Zhong Zhong hopped onto the coach and extending his long body for maximum rubbing. He began rumbling excitedly as Lena sat down next to him and then he clambered into her lap.

“Wow, is he heavy! What does he weigh, like fifteen pounds?”

A timorous laugh emanated from the bathroom and Olivia replied in the affirmative. “Actually, the vet said almost twenty.”

“Um, have you tried something? Like maybe putting him on a diet?” As soon as the words escaped her lips, Lena espied an enormous mixing bowl filled with about two pounds of dry food. “Oh my god, you feed him in that?!”

Olivia emerged from the bathroom with an eyeliner pencil in hand. She looked casually at the bowl. “No, that’s not just for him. That’s for all of them.”

;On cue, her two other cats appeared from the bedroom and walked casually past Lena. The striped tiger gave Lena one glance, jumped spontaneously upward and then skittered off for parts unknown. The other flattened her ears at Lena, hissed, and then jumped onto a bookshelf.

“Geez, a little testy?”

“Oh, yes, that’s Xiaomei. She doesn’t like many people. Except me, that is,” Olivia giggled. “She’s very protective of me.”

“Ahh. Well, I’ll stay away from her.”

As she patted Zhong Zhong, Lena decided to pursue the issue of the enormous catfood bowl and asked, “So, why is it that you keep such a huge bowl of food out?”

Olivia laughed a bit sheepishly, “Well Zhong Zhong seems to like to eat a lot. And I have to make sure there’s enough for the other two.”

“Uh, maybe that’s because you have it out all the time? You know, depending on your cats, you shouldn’t always have food out.”

The answering shrug was almost audible.

Now, cat lovers will disagree, but their veterinarians do not. Depending upon temperament not all cats require a constantly available food supply. Depending upon a cat’s temperament, aforesaid availability can lead to gross obesity, as demonstrated by Zhong Zhong.

The conversation about overeating seemed to make him hungry. He jumped from Lena’s lap and waddled over to the bowl. In seeming slow motion, he lowered himself onto the floor immediately in front. Then he heaved his head over the bowl’s edge and began hoovering catfood like a vacuum, which process occupied three solid minutes.

In response to his display, Olivia’s protectress, Xiaomei, decided that she, too, wanted to partake in the fiesta. She walked towards the bowl. She growled and hissed. Lena was not, evidently, the only one who was afraid of Xiaomei for Zhong Zhong looked up with immediately with alarm. Then, with a maximum of effort, he extracted his head from the bowl and slunk away.

“Overfeeding can sometimes make cats sick, you know.”

This appeared to be an apt observation, for at that moment, Zhong Zhong suddenly froze. Staring at a point somewhat distant, he first hacked delicately. Then his entire body shuddered, he gave a terrific wheeze and barfed a healthy-sized furball.

Ever helpful, Lena exclaimed, “Oh my god! The kitty is barfing!”

Olivia emerged from her bathroom, now presentably attired and freshly made for the local cheap eats. “What did you say? I was doing my makeup.”

“I said the kitty is barfing. Actually, now he’s done.”

“Oh, poor thing!” Olivia reached over and patted Zhong Zhong on the head. Then she straightened and turned to Lena, “So, are you ready?”

Lena could not help but stare at the remains of this spontaneous eruption. Olivia, meanwhile, placidly donned her shoes (Chanel, she informed Lena), then her jacket. As she prepared towards the door, Lena could stand it no longer.

“Um, Olivia, are you going to clean that up?”

“Hmm? Her gaze followed Lena’s outstretched arm. “Oh, that? No, I’m going to wait until it dries.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, it’s easier to clean up when it dries.” Lena’s look of puzzled distress prompted a further explanation. “You see, when it’s dried, I can just use a paper towel to gather up the furball,” Olivia explained.

Olivia then gave Lena a demonstration by directing her attention to another episode of feline gastrointestinal distress, this one suitably dried. Olivia then took a sheet of paper towel, covered it, and with both hands she gathered up most of the remains in a quick scooping motion. Some bits had stubbornly melded with the carpet fibers, however, so a few seconds of concerted tugging ensued. Olivia finally prevailed over most of it and then turned to Lena, “See? All done,” she smiled.

Lena stared dumbfounded.

“Are you coming?” Olivia asked casually over her shoulder.

Lena wanted to ask about cleaning the carpet. True, it was a 70’s shag that should have been replaced long ago, but still. And the smell. Ugh. Then again, perhaps Olivia didn’t mind. One look at Olivia told her that Olivia was quite certain that knew what was best, for her cats and her carpet.

As Olivia led the way briskly down the street, she regaled Lena with the triumph that was her new vacuum cleaner. It possessed whirlwind action and came with a removable dust cup for easy cleaning. Dinner needed to be rather quick, it turned out, because she was anxious to try it out. Lena wondered if it had a steam cleaning attachment.

A New England Story

2010-10-18T16:14:00.000-07:00

“Lane! Lane! Can you help me please!” Her impatience rang out in clipped tones.

Lane rushed to the bedroom. That’s odd. Why is she lying face down on the carpet? Towards the bathroom?

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Page croaked.

Ahh.

“I took some laxatives.”

Some? Some?

“How many?”

“Three.”

Lane took just a moment for herself to reflect again on the stupidity of people in general and this woman in particular. “Okay, here, let me help you up.”

Unfortunately, Page was dead weight. Half again as much as Lane.

Still can’t figure out why everybody calls her skinny, Lane thought as she struggled to tug Page towards the bathroom.

“Can you put your arms around my shoulders?”

Page ’s response? A guttural, “Uhhh.”

Hmm. Guess not. Lane tried to maneuver under Page , to prop her up on her own shoulders. Which resulted in her being pinned down by a red-faced, sweaty, and increasingly angry mother-in-law.