The Dragon and the Stars

by Derwin Mak

  Filling the shotgun seat with his bulk, Garth Endo folded his arms across his broad chest. “I still say Little Eire’s better. It’s next to Anglotown. We can get drunk and sing Danny Boy for the Micks.”

  Hooting with laughter, Andy Fan leaned between them from the back. “Yeah, I’d like to hear you sing that, you sentimental jackass. Where the hell are pipes callin’ you, anyhow? Japan?”

  Garth gave him a light-hearted swat with the back of his hand. “I’m gosei, baka-boy! You oughta remember that by now. Fifth generation! Even my grandparents don’t know anybody in Japan. And you got the green hair, dude. Is that Kelly green?”

  Ken laughed. Andy’s degree was in film, television, and digital media, with a focus on screenwriting. He had a modest new job reading scripts for a small production company, and for a year he had dyed his black hair day-glow green.

  “It’s an artistic statement! ” Andy yelled, laughing.

  “It’s a lotta snot!” Garth growled back. “Get a snot rag!”

  All three roared with laughter.

  “Remember that seventies movie Anglotown?” Andy grinned impishly. “The one starring Jack Nguyen? The last line is a classic.”

  Garth turned to Ken. “Damn it, he’s going to start in with movie quotes again.”

  “He’s unstoppable.” Ken shook his head.

  “ ‘Forget it, Jake. It’s Anglotown,’ ” Andy intoned.

  Garth gave him another back-handed slap.

  Ken sped on, the skyscrapers of downtown in view ahead. He would start work in one soon, with his new business degree and his new job at a financial firm. Tonight he was taking his pals to a particular restaurant. A waitress there had caught his eye a month ago. He hadn’t told Andy and Garth about her.

  Beyond the skyscrapers beckoned Anglotown, a strange and mysterious island of Anglo culture in the fused Asian America of greater Southern California.

  Out of sight over the coast, the sun remained high, but downtown and in Anglotown, tall buildings threw shadows that gave the streets an air of mystery. Storefronts were darkened and the streets seemed empty. Most of the people visible from the street were white, many wearing work uniforms or dirty aprons. When they spoke to each other, they sprinkled in their own slang, using words that rarely entered mainstream English.

  “I’ve heard Anglotown has all kinds of underground tunnels, secret rooms and passageways,” said Ken. “Maybe it’s just urban myth, but the rumors go way back.”

  “Urban myth,” said Garth. “Let’s look for the Loch Anglotown Monster, too.”

  Andy laughed and gave Garth a whack on the arm.

  Ken parked and led his friends up the sidewalk, looking around. He didn’t remember the name of the restaurant. It was a weeknight, with few tourists out.

  Some of the tourist-based businesses in Anglotown had the pointed windows, steep gables, and gingerbread of Victorian homes. The shapes created other-worldly shadows, hinting at ghosts from when California was mostly Anglo and Hispanic. Other buildings reflected Colonial Revival, meaning a rectangular shape, two or three stories, symmetrical façades, brick or wood siding, pillars, and windows with shutters. Yet none of it seemed quite right; the shutters were just for show, nailed against the front walls, and many structures had been added awkwardly. Signs, written in archaic lettering, swung in the breeze from horizontal posts out front that evoked New England or Britain itself. None of it seemed to belong in Los Angeles, yet it all belonged in Anglotown.

  “Smells good,” said Andy. “Is that meatloaf cooking?”

  “I smell pot roast.” Garth, who knew about all kinds of food, raised his head and breathed in. “Hey, does this hakujin restaurant you like have cheap prime rib?”

  Ken ignored him, eyeing a narrow storefront jammed between a big seafood restaurant with a Cape Cod front and a bank with a Victorian-era façade. “Chillicothe Katfish Kitchen” was painted on the door above “Genuine Missouri Style Cuisine.”

  An Asian couple in their twenties stepped out.

  Ken caught the guy’s eye. “You know an Anglo named Smith?”

  “Ha! You know one who’s not?” The guy laughed way too loud.

  With a sigh, Ken held the door for Andy and Garth so he could see for himself.

  The restaurant was dark inside.

  “Hi, welcome to the Chillicothe Katfish Kitchen.” Cindy Smith, according to her name tag, gave them a glittering smile and picked up some laminated menus.

  “Hi.” Ken grinned, glad to see her again. “Three of us.”

  “This way, please.” She didn’t seem to recognize him.

  Andy stifled a laugh and nudged Ken in the ribs.

  Cindy, who was about their age, was a pretty blonde with hair that might have been bleached or, considering her pale skin, might have been natural. She wore a retro 1950s outfit. It included a light blue stretch-fabric halter top without a bra, cut low to show off lots of cleavage and cropped to reveal her toned stomach; very tight, high-waisted white short-shorts; and white socks with red sneakers. Her hair was tied up in a swaying pony tail with a large red bow.

  Single candles burned in glass bulbs on each pink Formica table. The flickering candlelight threw myriad shadows. Ken wondered again if the building had secret rooms or hidden tunnels.

  She turned at a red vinyl booth. “Will this be okay?”

  “Sure,” said Ken, sitting down.

  “Everything you got’s okay with me,” said Andy, grinning stupidly.

  “Shut up and sit down,” Garth muttered.

  Cindy laughed, her smile a little too bright. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Grain Belt Golden draft, all around,” said Ken.

  “You know your Anglo beer.” She gave him an even brighter smile and walked away, her ponytail and rear end swaying.

  Garth pushed against Andy. “Shove over, damn it. I need more space. What the hell’s Grain Belt Golden?”

  “A Midwestern lager,” said Ken. “You can only get it in Anglotown. But Anglotown’s turning into Euro Fusion, anyway. Little Eire’s got Scottish bars. Frogtown keeps fighting to keep out the Little Deutschland shops. All the bok gwai los are adjacent now. In fact, Grain Belt Golden’s more German than Anglo, but what the hell.”

  “Yeah, what the hell, Anglo-Saxons started out in Germany.” Garth glared at him. “But if it’s lousy, I’m blaming you.”

  Andy was still admiring Cindy, now from a distance. “If it’s lousy, I’ll forgive her. I’ll forgive her anything.”

  Garth swatted Andy’s arm with the back of his hand. “She looks great,” said Ken. “Thing is, even in Anglotown, no lo fan dresses like that except to show off for the tourists.”

  “Who cares?” Andy shrugged. “We’re tourists and we’re here.”

  “The bok gwai lo women can be so hot,” said Ken. “They have that reserve, you know? An air of mystery to go with the beauty.”

  “And the different natural hair colors,” said Garth.

  “No green, but they sure do make the world a little prettier.”

  Andy picked up his menu. “So, what’s good in this place?”

  “Just remember, in a place like this, everybody orders separately,” said Garth. “We each get our own dinner. Nobody shares off a serving plate.”

  “You think I never ate in an Anglo restaurant before?” Andy demanded.

  “Those suburban places don’t count,” said Garth. “You think hakujins really serve soy sauce with pancakes? Tuna casserole with water chestnuts and bean sprouts? Anglos don’t eat it that way at home. You order that, I’ll slap you from here to Little Eire.”

  “You want the real thing, you come to Anglotown,” said Ken.

  “Meatloaf dinner,” Andy read from the menu. “With brown sugar glaze or ketchup. Or maybe the deep-fried catfish fillet. I’m not sure.”

  “Chicken-fried steak for me,” said Garth. “Green beans with bacon. Hush puppies? Whatever.”

  Cindy came out of the shadows with cold mugs of G
rain Belt Golden, leaning low to set them down. Smiling, she waited for their orders.

  Ken decided on the meatloaf with the brown sugar glaze, and corn, while Andy chose pork chops with peas and carrots. All the dinners came with a tossed salad and, after a protracted debate, they ordered all the salad dressings on the side so they could try them. Cindy plucked at her halter, thanked them, and swayed away.

  Ken sipped his beer and looked around. A white family with two young children was barely visible in a shadowed booth in the far corner. In the front, a middle-aged Asian tourist couple sat at a small table. Otherwise, the restaurant was empty. He supposed it survived mostly on the business lunch trade and weekend patrons.

  The front windows had blue and white checked curtains. A big wall clock had been made with a shellacked horizontal slice of a red cedar tree trunk. Eight-by-ten pinup photos, showing blondes, redheads, and brunettes, adorned the walls. Many were posed in Midwestern fields of grain or in cities such as St. Paul or Cincinnati. In the life Ken had always known, this kind of decor could only be found in Anglotown.

  “You’re the only one leaving the area,” Ken said to Garth. He studied his friend. Garth was a published poet already, in several prestigious publications, with a bachelor’s degree in fine arts. He was about to start grad school at the University of Iowa writing program. All three had grown up in the Los Angeles sprawl, and none of them had been to the Midwest, where whites and their culture were dominant. “Any idea what it’s like there?”

  Garth looked away. “Damn. I guess it’ll be one gigantic Anglotown. I don’t know what they’ll think of me.”

  “No telling,” said Ken. “But Toronto and Chicago have Anglotowns. New Orleans, too, ’cause the big cities have dominant Asian populations. I bet from Ontario down to Texas, it’s mostly one big Anglotown. Those are the states that supported the Asian Exclusion bills in Congress back in the 1800s and after.” He paused. “Think about it. If those bills had passed, everything could’ve been different.”

  “You’re right,” said Andy. “Those states aren’t like the rest of the country. They didn’t even make the MidAutumn Moon Festival a state holiday.”

  Ken nodded. “But I think it’s better now since the race riots. They even elected a Chinese mayor in Pekin, Illinois.”

  “Oh, good,” Garth muttered. “How fitting.”

  “At least you have an English given name,” said Ken. “They can all pronounce it in the Midwest. You have a Japanese name, too?”

  “Yoshio,” said Garth. “After all these years, you never asked before. But, yeah, my family still gives Japanese names.” He shrugged. “It means ‘Righteous,’ or something like that. I don’t really use it.”

  “Yeah, definitely go with ‘Garth’ in Iowa,” said Ken.

  “My Chinese name’s An-Ning,” said Andy. “It means Peace and Serenity in Mandarin. My grandparents were kids when they came from northern China in 1940-something. They’d lived through a couple of wars, so peace was a big deal to them.”

  “Why don’t you use it?” Ken asked.

  “We’re all speaking English, aren’t we?” Andy grinned. “An Ning sounded too much like ‘Annie’ to me. So I when I was a kid I started using Andy instead.”

  Garth gave Ken a playful look. “ ‘Ken’ is a Japanese name as well as English. Are you just passing, Mr. Wong?”

  “Yeah! I don’t want to be associated with you!” Ken laughed, and clinked mugs with them as they joined in. “On my dad’s side, we go back to the Gold Rush era. I guess back then, going with English names seemed like a good idea. Asian given names have only been cool for a generation or two. But my folks named me Kendall. My middle name’s ‘Quong Ta.’ It’s Toisanese for ‘Big Brightness.’ I hope it doesn’t sound that clumsy in Toisanese. Maybe if I want the extra prestige someday, I’ll use it.”

  Andy nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe once I start writing and directing, I oughta use my Chinese name. I’m gonna think about that.”

  Cindy brought their salads and six small dishes of salad dressings. She smiled at them brightly before leaving.

  “Hey, speaking of detective movies set in L.A.,” said Andy, as he studied the bright red Russian dressing. “One of the all-time best is L.A. Confidential with the Hong Kong star, Russell Koh. But he turned down the upcoming remake of the The Big Sleep. You hear about that?”

  “No, and I like it that way.” Garth sniffed suspiciously at the blue cheese dressing. “But you’re gonna tell me, anyway, aren’t ya?”

  “George Kulani agreed to star in it. He’s yonsei, since you’re so big on counting generations. But some activist group sent a petition to the studio. They say a white guy should play Philip Marlowe, not some yellow guy in whiteface.”

  “They got a point,” said Garth. “Marlowe’s white.”

  “What about just getting the most talented actor?” Andy stood his ground now that the talk was on his turf. “Kulani’s a damn good actor with a huge fan base. He’s bankable. The makeup’s no problem. He’s got the acting chops for it.”

  “Speaking of chops, shut up and eat,” said Garth.

  Cindy soon returned, carefully balancing three full plates. With a self-conscious smile, she suggestively leaned down low once again, setting the correct plates in front of each diner. She slowly straightened, looking at them as she played idly with the front of her halter top. “More beer, guys?”

  “Make it a pitcher,” said Ken, and his companions nodded.

  She smiled just at him this time. “Of course!”

  Ken watched over his shoulder as she walked away and saw her look back at him. She smiled again. Encouraged, he returned the smile.

  Andy looked up at Ken with a mouthful of pork chop. “How’d you find this place?”

  “I came down for some new suits and got them tailored here out of English wool. It’s cheap in Anglotown. Then I looked for a place to have lunch.”

  Cindy returned with a pitcher of Grain Belt Golden and topped off all three mugs. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Can I ask you something?” Ken asked.

  Her smile faltered for the first time. “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you heard about George Kulani playing Philip Marlowe in a new movie? I wondered what you thought about that.”

  Cindy’s smile snapped right back. “George Kulani’s hot. I love everything he does.”

  “But should he play a bok gwai—uh, a white guy?” Andy asked.

  “Oh, I don’t care,” Cindy shrugged. “I’ll go see it.”

  “Cool,” said Andy, his eyes on her cleavage.

  Cindy walked away, but this time she glanced behind her. When she saw Ken watching her, she smiled again.

  “She’s just angling for a big tip,” Garth said sourly.

  “Works for me,” said Andy. “Since Ken’s treating us with his pile of cash!”

  Ken caught Cindy studying them from across the room. When she realized he was watching her, she turned away abruptly. He was surprised that she didn’t smile this time.

  “Look, guys.” Garth stared into his beer. “I’m not good at this, okay? But I just want to say, thanks for all the good times. It’s been really cool. I won’t have friends where I’m going next. So, uh, to the three of us, okay?”

  Ken and Andy clinked mugs with him. “Kampai!” Ken called out, using the Japanese term for bottoms up.

  They all repeated it and drained their mugs.

  Garth nodded to himself, satisfied.

  Andy picked up the pitcher and poured for everyone.

  “So Cindy likes Kulani,” said Andy. “So what? Women everywhere love Kulani. Lots of white women like Asian guys.”

  “They want to trade up,” said Ken. “Who wants some Anglotown dude who’s going sweep floors all his life or get shot up in a gangland turf war?”

  “I got that,” said Garth. “You get a job outside Anglotown, who owns the company? Who’s your supervisor? All Asians. Awkward for a lot of white dudes. But it
might be different in Iowa. Backwards, maybe. I dunno.”

  “Don’t forget the mass media,” said Andy. “Like Koh and Kulani playing heroes on the big screen. They’re like Clark Gable, Keye Luke, and Lane Nakano for earlier generations. But so what? I don’t care why white girls like us. And some Asian guys got a thing for them, too.” He looked pointedly at Ken. “Personally, I’m not so particular. I still got my Latina girlfriend. ”

  “Stick to movies,” Garth muttered. “Otherwise, I’m gonna puke.”

  “Ah, yes! ‘Forget it, Jake. It’s Anglotown.”’

  “Sorry I reminded you,” said Garth. “I shoulda just puked.”

  Ken and Andy laughed.

  Garth eyed Ken. “And my last girlfriend was Nikkei. But you’re hot for Cindy.”

  “Hey, in Iowa, white women are all you’re going to see!” Ken laughed.

  Andy joined the laughter, but Garth glowered and looked away.

  Ken sipped his beer and looked for Cindy. She was wiping down the empty table where the middle-aged Asian couple had been sitting. Now the only other patrons were the Anglo family in the corner.

  Andy leaned down close. “Okay, Ken. Are you going to talk to Cindy or what?”

  “What the hell.” Ken got up, feeling a light buzz from the beer. He walked through the shadows to the back of the restaurant, where she had gone after cleaning the table. On the wall above her, a black and white clock was shaped like a cat. With every tick-tock, its eyes and tail switched back and forth.

  Weird, he thought.

  “Is everything okay?” Cindy gave him with a look that was wary, yet still flirtatious.

  “Sure, it’s great. I was just wondering, you know, what it’s like here.” He knew he sounded lame. “I mean in Anglotown. Are you from here?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I was born and raised here.”

  Ken’s beer buzz was amping up. “Does Anglotown have secret tunnels?”

  Instead of answering, she leaned toward him, her manner suddenly intimate. “You okay? Your face is all flushed.”