The Dim Sum of All Things

by Kim Wong Keltner

  “Yeah, okay. Come on,” she said.

  Lindsey drove and Michael dripped.

  “I liked your e-mail,” he said. “I’ll have you over for organ meats anytime.”

  Her heart leaped. Speaking of organ meats, she wondered how or if she should bring up the fact that she lived with her grandmother. He was bound to notice the old-person smells, in addition to the unavoidable Chinese smells. She hoped they would not be greeted by a pot of pig’s feet simmering in vinegar on the stove.

  “Hey, I’m sorry that lunch thing never worked out,” he said. He launched into casual conversation about work and thanked her, explaining how the liberal application of arnica and tea tree oils had saved him from the vegan witch-hunt. As he spoke, Lindsey unconsciously tuned him out, starting to panic about the state of her apartment.

  What if Pau Pau was home for some reason? Would he gag at the overpowering stench of tiger balm? Was the bathroom clean and denture-free? Was her bedroom strewn with bras and undies?

  She was barely stopping at Stop signs, but she forced herself to concentrate so he wouldn’t think she was a bad Chinese driver.

  She pulled the car into the driveway, and Michael got out quickly, seeming concerned about soaking the upholstery. Usually, the idea of anyone soiling the inside of her car sent Lindsey into a minor fit, but this was the guy whom she had been practically stalking. He was different. She managed to keep her cool, despite the big wet spot on the seat and puddles on the floor mat.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said nonchalantly.

  Slamming the car door, she looked around to see if any neighbors or other tenants could see her coming home with a partially clothed man. In the stairwell on the first-floor landing, she stopped and said, “I have to tell you something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Okay, um, I live with my grandmother, so let me go in first and check if she’s there, so she doesn’t have a heart attack when she sees you with no clothes on, okay?”

  He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I guess this is kind of unusual. Are you sure this is okay with you?”

  “You’re more than okay to me,” Lindsey said, and then immediately felt like a fool. She beckoned him to follow her up the stairs.

  Once they reached her door, she asked him to wait a second. She turned her key and slipped quickly inside. Pau Pau, thank God, was not there. But that was not Lindsey’s only concern. She grabbed some lavender-rosemary room freshener (an impulse purchase from two weeks ago—what luck!) and frantically sped around the apartment, madly spritzing the rooms to rid them of the faintly medicinal smell. She scooped up random socks off her bedroom floor and checked the bathroom for BENGAY, denture glue, and stray hairs in the bathtub. She grabbed Pau Pau’s jars of stinky ointments, boxes of arthritis plasters, and anything with Chinese writing on it. Sprinting to the hall closet, she dumped everything messily onto the floor.

  “Uh, come on in,” she said, opening the door calmly.

  Michael was barefoot, with his shoes and socks under one arm. He glanced around, unaware of the pains she had gone through to strip the environment of anything offensive.

  “Shower’s over there,” she said, her eyes darting around. As they stood in the hallway, a framed photo of her parents watched her.

  Michael wandered around the living room while she retrieved clean towels, making sure they bore no hotel logos that would betray her family’s love of pilfering while on vacation.

  “This picture of you is so cute,” he said, inspecting a childhood photo of Lindsey taken at Candlestick Park.

  “Oh, thanks,” she replied distractedly. She was nervous and wanted him to get in the shower so she could continue her cultural scouring of the apartment.

  Finally, he took the towels from her and headed to the bathroom. He shut the door, and Lindsey waited for the sound of water to begin. She relaxed. Things weren’t that bad. The linoleum floor in the kitchen was clean, the Formica table had been wiped that morning, and Pau Pau’s room was immaculate, as always.

  She sat on the edge of her bed and waited for the shower to stop. She worried that he might open the medicine cabinet and find something unappealing, like a Chinese ear-scratching stick that had escaped her notice.

  He soon emerged—clean, damp, and embarrassingly sexy. She blushed and stared down at a sizeable tumbleweed of fuzz on the carpet.

  “Um, do you have any clothes I could borrow? You know, that might fit me?” He wore the towel around his waist and combed his hair with his fingers.

  Words congealed in Lindsey’s brain like sections of Mandarin oranges suspended in Jell-O. She hurried to her dresser and pulled out what she thought was a plain white T-shirt, but she quickly realized it had a Hello Kitty face on the pocket, so she shoved it back in the drawer. Searching around, she vaguely remembered having some of Kevin’s clothes from months ago when he came over after playing volleyball. Behind her veil of bangs, she tried not to stare too hard at any part of Michael’s anatomy as he stood nearly naked.

  She handed him a pair of blue nylon shorts and a faded black T-shirt, and he returned to the bathroom.

  When he emerged, she said, “I can throw your clothes in the dryer downstairs if you want. Do you need anything else?”

  He tossed his towel on the armchair, then turned to face her. He stepped closer and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Well, hmm, let’s see…,” he said. He smiled at her, and she felt his hand lightly on her back.

  Thinking he might kiss her, she tried to ignore the disturbing fact that he was wearing her brother’s clothes. In her peripheral vision, Gung Gung and Jimmy Carter were smiling. “Go for it!” they both seemed to be cheering.

  There was a click at the front door, followed by the sound of shuffling steps leading in the direction opposite Lindsey’s bedroom.

  Lindsey’s eyes became as large as Nilla wafers, and she suddenly could not breathe. She began to hyperventilate. Although Pau Pau was a hallway and two rooms away, the romantic mist of lavender-rosemary had faded away, and the powerful odor of Tiger Balm seeped down the hall and wafted up Lindsey’s nostrils immediately.

  “Oh my God. Don’t move!” she whispered between short, hopping breaths.

  Her panic struck Michael’s funny bone. He mussed her hair and tried to put his arms around her.

  She stepped away from him, practically shoving him off. Her stomach turned over, and she didn’t know if her urge to barf was caused by the excitement of him being so close or by the dread she felt, knowing she was caught red-handed “playing hanky-panky.”

  Pau Pau was sure to have an aneurysm if she discovered a white devil in her granddaughter’s bedroom. There was only one thing Lindsey could think to do. She had to hide him.

  “Don’t move!” she whispered again.

  “You’re being silly. Let’s just go say hi to her,” he said.

  She clapped her hand over Michael’s mouth and told him to shut up.

  From the framed photo above, the thirty-ninth president of the United States gazed down at her. He seemed to say, “You’ve blown it now. You’re ruining everything.”

  Forgetting that she had dumped all the Chinese medicines and ointment jars in the hall closet, Lindsey now grabbed Michael’s hand and shoved him inside. He tripped on a plastic jar of honeylike goo, which cracked into bits under the weight of his heel, releasing a peppery camphor smell into the stuffy air.

  “I’m going to distract her. Meet me at the bottom of the stairwell,” Lindsey said. Slamming the door, she left Michael in the dark.

  Pau Pau called out, “Linsee-ah?”

  Lindsey came running around the corner.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” she replied, careening to an abrupt halt on the living room carpet.

  “What smell?” her grandmother asked, sniffing the air.

  “Room freshener,” Lindsey answered, speaking softly so that Michael wouldn’t hear.

  Pau Pau headed toward the bathroom, but Lindsey jumped in front of her.<
br />
  “Ai-ya! What wrong with you?”

  “Where are you going?” Lindsey asked in a panic.

  “Go to toilet!” Pau Pau screeched in Cantonese, pushing past her impatiently.

  Now was her chance. Lindsey ran to the closet door, threw it open, and found Michael standing there with folded arms and goop on his bare foot. She grabbed him, cast him out the front door, and repeated, “Meet me at the bottom of the stairs!”

  “But what about my shoes?” he whispered before the door whoofed shut.

  Pau Pau came out and found the closet door flung open with her medicines strewn about and the broken jar oozing on the carpet.

  “Ai-ya! What happen?”

  “I was cleaning and I dropped that. I’ll clean it up right now!” Lindsey made a feeble motion toward the spill, but Pau Pau was already gathering up her small jars and vials of herbs.

  “Don’t touch my things! You make too much trouble! Gee whiz!” Pau Pau lapsed into Chinese, muttering about Lindsey making more work for her.

  Lindsey sneaked past her grandmother to retrieve Michael’s wet clothes and shoes from her room. She crammed the stuff into a plastic bag and ran out the front door.

  Michael was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, scraping the medicinal gunk off his foot.

  “Hi there,” she said, trying to sound apologetic. She handed him his clothes.

  “Thanks,” he said, pulling on his shoes. “So, what was that all about?” He looked at her with a grimace.

  Uh-oh. Fifteen minutes ago he seemed like he might kiss her, and now he seemed put off.

  “Do you want a ride home?” she asked. She could tell something had been lost between them but didn’t know how to make things right again.

  “No thanks, I’m all right. I guess I should go.”

  He stood for a second before walking out the door. Lindsey couldn’t think of anything to say, so she watched him through the window as he disappeared out of sight.

  Interview with the Hoarder

  Lindsey ordered a turkey sandwich at the deli and waited for her number to be called. She stood against the wall by the refrigerated case and wondered why Michael hadn’t been at work for the past few days. She didn’t flatter herself enough to think that he was ditching work to avoid her.

  Maybe he was right and she should have introduced him to Pau Pau. She certainly shouldn’t have trapped him in the closet with the stinky Chinese stuff.

  Shaken from her reverie, she realized someone was talking to her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Steve D., the River Phoenix-look-alike.

  “Hey, don’t I get a hug? We are friends, after all, right?” He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze.

  “Do you want to eat together?” he asked, following her as she made her way to the counter to collect her turkey on white.

  “Um, okay. What are you gonna get?” she said.

  “I can’t decide between the California roll or the teriyaki bowl,” he replied, studying the two prepackaged meals, which were each cocooned in layers of cellophane wrap. He chose the sushi and together they left the deli, ending up sitting on a bench in the Yerba Buena Gardens.

  Downtown workers dotted the grass, relaxing in the dappled shade from various trees. A group of schoolchildren played by the water fountains, and a couple of teenagers tossed a Frisbee nearby. Seagulls with black-tipped wings circled overhead, and clumps of pigeons knocked about haphazardly.

  Lindsey and Steve talked about their jobs and then gossiped a little about Steve E. and Mimi, but they quickly ran out of things to chat about.

  Steve D. was busy scoping out each and every one of the Asian women in his line of vision. Lindsey watched him, fascinated by the consistent way his eyes swept the entire area, passing over completely attractive white women and stopping at each vaguely Asian-looking female no matter how attractive or not, age also not seeming to matter. It was like a game of connect the Asian dots.

  “Wow, you’re really something,” she said.

  “What?” He was unaware that he was being watched or even doing anything that could be detected by someone else.

  “You’re scoping out all the Asian women, aren’t you?”

  He smiled, totally busted. But he didn’t seem embarrassed.

  “Yeah, so I am. I think I know that girl over there.” His discarded ball of plastic wrap got caught in a small gust of wind and blew a short distance away.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” Lindsey asked, but he just shrugged.

  She pushed herself up and chased after the plastic film, catching it and throwing it into a nearby wastebasket.

  Steve D. continued to scan the area for Asian life. Lindsey plopped back down and said, “If we’re going to be friends, you really can’t go around littering like that.”

  He nodded and finished his sushi.

  “So, what’s up with your Asian fetish?”

  He smiled. “Whoa, that’s pretty direct of you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s a good thing we’re only friends. I’m probably not demure enough for you.”

  “Definitely not!”

  She outlined the details of her Hoarder theory to him, and, to illustrate her hypothesis, she pointed to his oatmeal-colored pants and his Pendleton shirt, which was a butterscotch plaid. She knew she had him cornered when she asked if he loitered around Japantown, hitting on girls by pretending to be lost. As he listened, Steve’s eyes bugged out of his head.

  “Whoa,” he said, nodding in dumbfounded awe. “It’s like you’ve got a surveillance camera trained on me, 24/7.”

  Instead of being repulsed by his admission, she actually considered him amusing.

  “So, the Siamese cat is out of the bag,” he said. “I’ve got yellow fever, all right. I love rice, udon, and kimchee. If I’m at McDonald’s, I always order the Chinese chicken salad. I love Asian women, especially Koreans. I love the idea of geishas, and I have fantasies about having sex with dim sum waitresses on top of those rolling carts!” He excitedly fished through his pants pocket. “Wanna see my personals ad?”

  Flipping open his wallet, he poked his finger between two Kimono-brand condoms and slipped out a tiny square of newsprint. It read: “WANTED: Wanton wonton waitress. Sausage seeks steamy buns. I don’t have a lot of dough but expert at making sweet dumplings sticky.”

  She couldn’t believe it. She handed back the clipping and said, “You’re disgusting.” Then she began to laugh so hard that a couple of paper napkins went airborne and she didn’t chase them. He laughed, too, enjoying cracking her up.

  She caught her breath and said, “Let me guess. Your favorite bands are Shonen Knife and Pizzicato Five.”

  “YES!” he yelled out, amazed. “I hang out in Asian grocery stores waiting for unsuspecting chicks. I lay in wait and pretend I don’t know the difference between the red mochi and the white-bean mochi. I get cute girls to explain them to me—”

  “You’re so heinous—”

  “I’ve got a Korean phrasebook, a Japanese one, too. Sometimes when I’m on the bus, I—”

  “Ohmigod, you’re one of those guys on the bus—”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  She was thoroughly pleased. She felt triumphant that a self-admitted Hoarder of All Things Asian had now confirmed her theory.

  After they finished their lunch, they headed back toward their respective offices. At the corner of Third and Market they said good-bye.

  “Maybe some night I could call you,” he said. “You could bring over your opium pipe and we could watch reruns of Kung Fu.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. She turned to walk away, but he surprised her with a big hug, saying, “I got your number from Miss Madlangbayan—I’ll call ya.” And off he went.

  That evening she called Mimi.

  “Why did you give Steve D. my phone number?”

  “I thought you’d want me to. Didn’t you?”

  She could hear Mimi chuckling at a sitcom playing in th
e background, paying more attention to the TV show.

  “I think he’s pretty funny.”

  “Yeah, hella cute too. You kinda like him, huh?”

  Just then Lindsey’s phone beeped with another call on the line. Mimi heard the pause and said, “Go ahead and get that. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “All right, call you tomorrow.” Lindsey clicked over to the incoming call.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, it’s me, Steve D.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  “So, what are you doing right now, Miss Lindsey Owyang?”

  “Wow, at least you got my name right this time.”

  “Yeah. So what are you doing?”

  “Um, nothing. I’m talking to you.”

  “Do you want to come over? We could watch cable and I’ll make Top Ramen. Or Maruchan. Or Sapporo Ichiban. Or Bibim Mein. I’ll make anything you want.”

  “I’m busy,” she said, though actually impressed by his ramen repertoire.

  “Oh, come on. I worship you, y’know,” he urged playfully.

  Lindsey thought for a moment. She knew he was just a liar, but she always fell for lines like that.

  “Okay,” she said, agreeing to be at his place in a half hour.

  “Sexcellent!”

  As Steve abruptly clicked off, Lindsey held the phone in her hand for a moment. She shook her head with amused dismay.

  TONIGHT ON THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL:

  HOARDERS OF ALL THINGS ASIAN.

  OUR FEATURE WILL STUDY THE MATING HABITS

  OF THESE URBAN PREDATORS.

  Like banana slugs clinging to the supple bark of tropical trees, this Caucasian male subspecies appears harmless but imperceptibly secretes a mollifying slime from his extremities, which he uses to glom onto a favorite variety of Asian female: Korean, Filipina, Chinese, Vietnamese, or other small-boned variations. Developing a specialized appetite, he stalks his prey by using cultural knowledge gleaned from previous victims to tempt another into his lair, which reeks of Drakkar Noir cologne.