by Charles Yu
“I’m not White.”
“White-ish. Close enough.”
“Yeah. That’s why I play Ethnically Ambiguous Woman Number One.”
“You may have a point. So what…are you?”
“What am I? Nice, Willis.”
“You know what I mean. Lee can be, you know, like Sara Lee, or General Lee. But it’s actually, like, Lee. As in, Lee?”
“Lee, as in my paternal grandfather was from Taichung. He moved to the States and lived with us after my grandmother died.”
“You’re a quarter Taiwanese?”
“If you want to quantify it that way.”
“Wow. Just—wow.”
“What did you think I was?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe you were part Latina? Or maybe just came back from Hawaii and had a nice tan? Do you speak?”
“E-hiau kong Tai-oan-oe.”
“From your accent I can tell you speak better than I do.”
“Do you need a moment?”
“This is very confusing for me.”
“If you think it’s confusing for you, imagine how I feel.”
“Seems like it’s worked out pretty well for you.”
“I’m sure it seems that way.”
“You’re like a magical creature. A chameleon.”
“Able to pass in any situation as may be required,” she says. “I get it all. Brazilian, Filipina, Mediterranean, Eurasian. Or just a really tan White girl with exotic-looking eyes. Everywhere I go, people think I’m one of them. They want to claim me for their tribe.”
“Must be amazing.”
“Yeah, I mean, I can be objectified by men of all races.”
“But you said it yourself. You can pass for anything.”
“Seems like it’d be easier to be one thing.”
“I’m one thing. An Asian Man. And that’s all I am. Trust me, it’s better to be you than me.”
“Oh, boo hoo, I’m a poor helpless Asian Man. It’s so terrible being me.”
“I have to talk with an accent because no one can process what the hell to do with me. I’ve got the consciousness of a contemporary American. And the face of a Chinese farmer of five thousand years ago. Asian Man. It’s a fact. Look it up. No one likes us.”
“Not with that attitude they won’t. And by the way, I think I might like you. Maybe. A little.”
Wait, what?
LOVE STORY FOR A GENERIC ASIAN MAN???
No way.
LOVE STORY FOR A GENERIC ASIAN MAN???
For real?
LOVE STORY FOR A GENERIC ASIAN MAN???
They’re rare, for your kind, but if you’re lucky, in a lifetime, you might get one good one. Make it count.
LOVE STORY
You and Karen. The scene is set. Take your places. She’s a tourist, you’re a Delivery Guy. You can’t stop looking at her.
BEGIN ROMANTIC MONTAGE
KAREN
Oh.
Are we starting already?
SPECIAL GUEST STAR
And for some inexplicable reason, she likes you.
KAREN
I guess we’re starting.
Why inexplicable?
SPECIAL GUEST STAR
Because look at you.
And look at me.
KAREN
Why are we talking like this?
“Sorry,” you say. “Force of habit.”
“I don’t want to practice dating, Will. I want to actually date.”
“How do we do that?”
“You don’t know how to date?”
“Not really,” you say, looking down.
“Oh. Oh! I thought you were kidding,” she says, realizing you are not. “Why don’t we start with coffee?”
“I like coffee.”
At coffee you ask her questions. What are her hopes, her fears? Where does she see herself in five years? She says those are bad questions. Those are questions if she were interviewing for a position at a law firm, not questions to ask on a date. You say right, right, as if you knew that, and then it is quiet for a second and she starts laughing and your face goes flush and you feel like you might have to run out of the coffee place but instead you start laughing at yourself and it feels so good. To have no idea what you are supposed to do or say and to be sitting across from this person who has just taken your hand and squeezed it then let go right away and then you’re walking EXT. BOARDWALK—NIGHT, under the moonlight and she says, hey, how did we get here? You say moonlit strolls along the water are supposed to be romantic and she says this isn’t a place, it’s an idea, a generic romantic setting and you say well they don’t call me Generic Asian Man for nothing and you laugh at yourself and this time it’s easier and she laughs, too. This time instead of her making you laugh, you made her laugh and that feels good, making this person laugh, and you tell her that. She says she always thought you were funny. She’d worked with you before, and in the background you were always making cracks, whispering stuff to Fatty Choy or one of the other guys, little jokes under your breath, pretending that you were just trying to deliver a takeout order of Fried Rice Combo but then you accidentally witnessed several murders and that BLACK AND WHITE was really, at its heart, a show about the dangers of eating too much Chinese food.
You really noticed me? You want to ask her but you don’t. You just let that fact sit with you—Karen Lee was aware of your existence before the two of you met. She saw you back there, not in the light, even when you weren’t able to see yourself, and that fact changes everything. Now you’re INT. CHINATOWN, sharing a bowl of tsuabing shaved ice with red bean and condensed milk and you’re asking her questions about herself. You find out she has four younger brothers, the youngest of whom is in middle school. Her dad died when she was fifteen and her mom remarried. You like looking at her, it’s true, seeing in her face, her features, little habits that you recognize, a Chinatown face, and also things that you don’t, some threshold ratio of familiarity and difference, of comfort and newness, extending not just to the way she talks, the tones and rhythms of speech, but also thought, to the way she sees the world—from the background, from the margin. She may look like a future leading lady but she has the clear-eyed pragmatism of someone who started in bit parts. She takes care of people—her brothers, her mother—and you start to imagine ways that you could take care of her, care for the one who is always caring for others. You like how she is self-aware without being overly self-conscious, how she says what she means and does what she believes in. Your whole life you’ve wanted to be Kung Fu Guy, to be something you are not, and here is this person who is whatever she is at all times.
More coffee, more cold desserts. Talking. Some kissing happens. More talking. You play games. Would You Rather. Would you rather: be Handsome Dead Asian with no lines or Silly Oriental who says silly things? You do voices, slip into roles you’ve both done, share the dumbest things you’ve ever had to say at work. More tea, more eating of fried things, things on sticks, and laughing and taking on goofy roles. You want to tell her how you feel. You rehearse what you’re going to say, imagine yourself in profile, dewy and tender-eyed. She notices you rehearsing.
“Will? What are you doing?”
“Being in love with you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re falling in love.”
“Same thing.”
“Not the same thing,” she says. “Falling in love is a story.”
She says that telling a love story is something one person does. Being in love takes both of them. Putting her on a pedestal is just a different way of being alone.
You try not to ruin this. She doesn’t let you ruin it. It’s going well. It keeps going well until the point where it normally stops going well and seems like it’s going to
start going less well, but then it gets to that point and it doesn’t stop going well.
Karen sees you, talking to your mother. She approaches, smiling, nervous, sweet. A feeling rises up in you, a taste in your mouth, metallic, like fear. Karen and Old Asian Woman, meeting, in conversation. You can’t imagine it. You can’t imagine it so you can’t let it happen. How do you stop this? Run away? Tackle her? Tackle your mom? But none of that’s necessary. All that happens is you do a thing, small, a turn of your head.
“Oh,” she says. “You don’t want me to meet her.”
“I do, it’s just,” you say. “She’s not the easiest—”
“It’s fine, Will. I get it.” And she does. Karen doesn’t let you ruin things. She understands your anxiety. She waits until you’re ready for them to meet.
When you do introduce them, your mother doesn’t say much. She smiles warmly, shakes her hand. Speaks some Taiwanese to her. Karen answers back. In Taiwanese. Karen says something about you that you don’t quite understand. Your mom laughs. They both turn and look at you, smiling. What the hell is happening? This is not the way things are supposed to go. This is supposed to be when things fall apart but instead they are doing the opposite.
And then you stop being dead.
END ROMANTIC MONTAGE
BLACK AND WHITE
POST-DEATH
NOTICE OF REINSTATEMENT
RE: WILLIS WU
This is to confirm completion of the mandatory forty-five (45) day silent period following your most recent death event. You may now resume activities. Please note that by re-entering the system, you hereby acknowledge and agree to waive any and all status or other accumulated benefits you may have accrued pre-death. No continuity with any previous role will be recognized.
—CENTRAL CASTING
You share the news with Karen. This should be a good thing. For you to be back at work, with more purpose, more money to spend on dates. To save toward a future. You celebrate together over beer and noodles.
You start working again. Same shit jobs, but now you have confidence. Now you have Karen. You start doing better. Still bit parts, but the bits are slightly larger.
You climb the ladder. Again.
Generic Asian Man Number Three, Two, One.
Karen’s career continues on its ascent as well—a higher, faster arc than yours. That doesn’t bother you. You’re happy for her. You are. You know she’s destined for bigger things than you. Dating someone more successful than you comes with the territory of being who you are—there are more roles for Karen. Apples and oranges. Doesn’t bother you in the least.
You see each other less. Twice a week becomes once, becomes once every other week. You talk but you don’t.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Where have you been?”
“Working.”
“Okay.”
“A lot.”
“Do they not give you breaks?”
“I have to focus on my career.”
You do. And Karen supports you. Her support gives you even more confidence which leads to even more work which leads to more confidence. No more Generic—now you’re a guest star again. There’s something about you that’s different. They can see it, whoever they are that make these decisions. You’ve got that intangible something now. That’s what they tell you. Guest star, guest star, guest star, and then next thing you know, you’re recurring. You’re on the verge of something, a big break. You can feel it. And then it happens for you. A meeting with the director.
He tells you: All these years. Ever since you were a boy. What have you dreamed of? He tells you it’s right there. You’re so close. Just keep working. Any day now.
You can’t believe the news. Kung Fu Guy. Any day now.
The plan is to share the news with Karen over dinner. But then she shares her news first. A baby.
“A what?” you say.
“A baby. You know, one of those small humans. You’re not happy?”
“Of course I am,” you say. “It’s just, I don’t know. I can’t see myself that way. I’m a Special Guest Star. I’m doing better than I ever have, but I still don’t make enough to support a family.”
“News flash. I’m doing pretty well myself.”
“Oh I know you are.”
“I don’t know what that means, and we should talk about that later. But for now, I just want to ask, why are you ruining this moment, Willis?”
“Oh my God,” you say. You are ruining this moment. You’re an idiot. “I’m so sorry.” You kiss Karen’s face and neck and face again, you hold her tight then get worried you’re holding her too tight. You take out your stash of envelopes and make a decent pile of tens and twenties and you buy a tiny ring and you get down on one knee and you ask her to marry you. She says yes.
The two of you get married at the courthouse. You have a new resolve, throwing yourself into work. She wonders aloud where you’ll all live. Chinatown? In the SRO?
A month. Two months. A trimester. Another. Then one more. Then:
You’re parents.
You hold your daughter in your arms. She looks at you and you know that she came from somewhere else, somewhere beyond your comprehension, the little tiny interior space you’ve been living in, inside your own dumb head. You know she is an alien from another planet here to save you. A being from some faraway land. She takes one look at you and you know that she knows things about you and you know things about yourself that you didn’t before. You have been a father for approximately ten seconds and you know for certain that you will never be the same.
You and Karen name her Phoebe.
Karen and Phoebe and you, in the SRO. You can’t raise this kid here, you think. But for the time being, until you make it, it’ll have to do. All of you in the room on eight. Cozy. Noisy. The sounds of the building traveling up the central column. Hot garbage wafting up in thermal waves. The baby crying through the night, the neighbors banging on your floor and ceiling. You do the cop show. As Ethnic Recurring. The hours are longer but the envelopes are fatter. You are on the verge. Again. Like you have been for a while.
You come home one day and Karen’s making noises at the baby. The evening switch-off—she hands the baby to you, gets ready to go to her job now.
“I have big news,” she says, her back turned, getting dressed for work. She’s uncharacteristically nervous. You can hear it in her voice.
“Okay,” you say, “let’s hear it.” You don’t know why you said it like that. That starts things off on the wrong note already. Karen knows this is going to be weird, and on some level, so do you.
“My own show,” she says. “A huge role. I’m playing a young mother.” For once it’s about her, as it should be. Breathless, it all comes tumbling out, the responsibility, how important the role is, the anchor of the story. She can’t contain herself.
“There’s even a part for you in it,” she says. “We can move out of here. Start a new life.”
You smile, your face tight. Bounce the baby gently. Look at her little face.
“Willis,” she says. “What do you think?”
“It’s great. It’s great.”
“I know it is. But the fact that you said it like that makes me think you don’t think it is.”
“It’s great.”
“I don’t get it. Isn’t this what you wanted? To move out of here?”
“Yeah. I mean, yeah.”
“But you wanted to be the one who did it. Is that it? You wanted to be the one who moved us out.”
“I’m really close to making it, Karen.”
“You’ve been close for a while.”
“You don’t believe in me.”
“I do believe in you. That’s why I don’t want to watch you do this anymore.”
�
�You don’t think I deserve it.”
“Of course you deserve it. You’ve deserved it for a while. But do you really think they’re going to give it to you? Today they say tomorrow. Tomorrow they’ll say the next day. I just don’t want you to be trapped. Like your father.”
“Trapped? What do you know about my father? Do you even know who he was back in the day? You don’t get to talk to me about my father. Or being trapped.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just saying—”
“It’s what’s best for our family. I have to stay for now. I’ve worked too hard to get it. If I get this, I can provide for you, for our kid.”
“We don’t need you to provide. I can provide. Didn’t you hear me say I have my own show? It can be our show together.”
“You just don’t get it. I don’t want to be on your show.”
“You resent me. For doing better—”
“Say it. For doing better than I have. But no, that’s not it. It’s not about you, Karen. It’s about me. About becoming Kung Fu Guy.”
“Seriously? It’s still about that? After all this time?”
“What do you mean? Of course it is. This is the dream. This is what someone like me has available to him. Of course it’s still about that.”
“There are other things worth pursuing, Willis. The world is out there, and it’s big.”
“Maybe not for me. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I can’t let go of this yet.”
“So what are you saying? You don’t want to be part of this family?”
“I do. I do, Karen. We can make it work. Like I said, I’m close to getting everything I’ve worked for, and as soon as I do, things will change. I’ll come join your show, but with my own thing. I just need to do this.”
“The show’s set in the suburbs. Deep. Nowhere near here. Long-distance doesn’t work with a kid, Willis.”
