by Eddie Huang
Immediately, they could tell I was Taiwanese from my accent and said as much. Tim came in behind me and assured the bouncer that I was Taiwanese and indeed had money to spend. Within minutes, we were swarmed by waiters looking to sell tables and girls that wanted to get booked. They grabbed my arms, rubbed their thighs against my legs, and caressed the small of my back. If you were ever curious what it felt like to be a girl in the club or a ribeye in a shark tank, go to Jiu Yan Qiao.
Looking to avoid getting robbed, we left the club after I took a piss.
“Damn….They’re aggressive in there.”
“You wanted to come here! Locals very aggressive about getting your money. That’s why international don’t come here.”
“These hos got the persistence of HPV.”
“These hos got something,” said Tim, laughing.
We walked around the block and saw the same scene outside the same clubs, but eventually reached a stretch of bars with live singing.
“You like these spots?”
“Not really, but we can check out. It’s local people’s karaoke singing. Have you done the high-class karaoke, though?”
“Yeah, I fucking love karaoke.”
“What do you sing?”
“ ‘Careless Whisper,’ ‘End of the Road,’ ‘Hey Ma,’ ‘Iron Lion Zion,’ ‘Bump n’ Grind,’ just the hits.”
Luckily, the bar had dice. We got a few beers, played some dice, and listened to locals sing Chinese pop songs.
“You really like playing the dice, huh?”
“Yeah, I did it in Beijing and miss it. No one has this game in America.”
“This is old stuff. So weird that you like it!”
“It’s different, man. You’re just used to it.”
I sat at the bar for a good hour listening to people sing terrible Chinese pop records with the smells of dead fish and rotten vegetation drifting off the polluted river behind me, eating peanuts fried in recycled oil. After a few minutes, a raggedy-ass homeless dude covered in dirt, shirt and shorts ripped, with no shoes came over to me with a monkey on a leash. The monkey was visibly trying to run away from its owner, screaming and kicking as it got yanked by the collar. All around Chengdu and Shanghai, I’d seen the same hustle. Guys like this would wait outside karaoke joints, high-end restaurants, and clubs where women would come out around 2 or 3 A.M. stumbling, wanting a photo with the monkey. Unfazed by homelessness, I ignored the monkey and looked away.
But the monkey grabbed my leg. I tried to shake it off, but the monkey kept coming, and its owner barked at me in a heavy Sichuan accent to take a photo.
“I don’t want a fucking photo!”
“Take the photo! Take it! Monkey want you to take it!”
But it didn’t. The monkey didn’t want me to take a photo. It was trying to run away from its owner. Every time he pulled the leash to bring the monkey closer, it hissed at him, kicked at him, and spat at the floor like Homeless Nate’s*3 shawty on Orchard Street. But this wasn’t a domestic dispute.
It was a different kind of slavery. I looked at the monkey: eyes jumping out of its head, tearing at its collar, screaming to get away with its face bright red, patches of hair missing as well. I still remember the way it hissed and screamed to get free like a mini-human with fur. It didn’t look like an animal in the sense that there was separation between us. It was fam, and I tried to understand how someone could do this to family.
This was the humanity that was slowly coming into focus for me: something raw and exposed, something primal, something rotten that the matrix in this region hasn’t corrected yet. Living in a civilization with the latest software updates, we forget that human nature is the same in America; it’s just autocorrected and cleansed of Chingrish. Watching the homeless man yank the monkey chain, I saw the dark shadow humanity casts over all life.
I looked at the monkey again, and it appeared to be suffocating. It kept running toward me with its eyes wide and watering, grabbing at the collar around its neck. The homeless man had nearly choked the life out of the monkey, leaving just enough for photos.
I stared at that monkey waiting for it to tell me something.
—
People talk about escape, but I don’t believe in traveling for the purpose of forgetting. I travel to find myself again.
When I’m in an unfamiliar place, I gain negative space: the silence in confusion is all-knowing. Even hearing people speak a language or dialect you don’t understand allows you to hear yourself. You can watch them mouth the words, speak with their hands, but everything’s kind of in slow motion. A conjuring. You can see intention in the motions.
When you’re transported and exposed to something different, you have to think. You gotta work. You gotta learn the Earth’s vibrations all over again. You pay attention and you feel alive. You remember everything you forgot, and if you really really open your fucking eyes you may learn something new. Or find something old. Even in a world of enslaved monkeys and insidious chains, we can live with grace, respect…and tradition. It was time to call Dena’s dad.
The phone rang twice, and my heart raced.
He picked up.
“Eddie! How’s it going, pal?”
“I’m good, Mr. Fusco, how are you?”
“I’m great. Great. You know, we’re doing great.”
“Ha ha, that’s great.”
“Yeah, you know, I know Dena’s going to China tomorrow!”
“I’ll be there to pick her up. It might be the only thing I’m on time for this year.”
“Oh, you better, Eddie, you better! That’s my baby, you know.”
“I know….That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Fusco.”
My hands started to shake a little bit. It felt the same way I used to feel when I was going to speak publicly or punch someone in the face. But I wasn’t here to punch anyone in the face; I was here to respect. But what if I respected wrong? How the fuck do you do this? How do you ask someone for permission to marry his daughter? I really hadn’t thought this through.
“What’s up, Eddie? Tell me.”
“Look, I don’t want to dance around this. I just gotta tell you. I love Dena. I have never felt this way about somebody and it’s not a fleeting, juvenile, like, ‘oh, I just have a crush on her’ thing. I love her. I love everything about her. She’s a good person, she makes me happy, and she’s my partner. I want to take care of her the rest of her life and be with her.”
“Wow, Eddie, my heart’s racing a million miles an hour right now. Geez Louise. Wow. I don’t know what to say. As a father, you know this day is coming sometime, but you just never expect it. Holy cow!”
“I know. We’re different, you and I, but I feel the same way, Mr. Fusco. It’s crazy. I am asking for your blessing because I’m flying Dena out to China…”
I had to take a breath.
“Because I want to propose to her.”
“Eddie,” Mr. Fusco said and paused. “Eddie, you got it, buddy. You got it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fusco. Thank you. You know, I thought for a while about not calling. I was going to propose regardless of what you said because I love her. It’s not about the institution of marriage, it’s more the statement of love. So I thought about calling Mrs. Fusco to see what she thought, but I figured I should just call you. In both our cultures, for all the rights and wrongs and differences, we both know in this situation, I’m supposed to call you.”
“You’re right, Eddie. It’s the right thing to do. And I gotta tell you, I respect you for it. I do. You did the right thing, buddy.”
I’m not sure it was right. It kind of just was. I wanted to cross a bridge so I paid the toll.
I paid the toll, I asked the father, and I felt like a monkey.
* * *
*1 I had written this legal memo, printed it out, then eaten a bowl of beef noodle soup by the computer. Since it was a first draft, I didn’t think it was a big deal to save paper and turn it in as-is…but it was a big
deal. I ended up having conversations with multiple people about “decorum.” Considering that Japanese businessmen presented business cards with two hands and a bow, they were probably flabbergasted at how the child of Japanese occupation thought it was OK to turn in memorandums with beef noodle soup. #GreenThumb
*2 As I said it, I could hear Young in my head goin’ “That’s riiiiight!”
*3 This homeless guy Nate and his boo were always fighting outside of Bereket on Orchard Street.
Fish
“Eddie, you go down the stairs there, underneaths to the terminal, then look for sign to arriving and you find her. We wait here in Skoda mobile, man,” said Rabbi, standing outside the airport.
“OK, thanks, Rabbi. I’ll be back in a second.”
“No worries, Eddie, man zhou,”*1 said Fish.*2
The day had come. Dena was arriving.
I’d been planning for weeks with Rabbi and Fish. After paying respects to Mr. Fusco, I wanted to pay respect to the gods. Not in an organized religious way, but in a personal, spiritual, and cultural way.
Since the gods led me to Dena, it was time to pay respects at Emei Shaan,*3 one of the four sacred Buddhist mountains of China in Leshan. According to legend, Emei Shan belongs to Buddha’s oldest son,*4 Puxian, who also happens to ride white elephants with six tusks on a lotus leaf instead of holding a bus pass. King Jaffe Joffer and Kanye could have a son named Far East Akeem Kardashian West, and he STILL ain’t seen excess until he seen crosstown, six-tusked, WHITE elephant cab Buddhist excess.
I wanted Dena to see CHINA like I’d seen it and known it and, even in Orlando, lived it. I was all she knew about China. To her, I was the single manifestation of a five-thousand-year-old culture. It was time for her to meet the parents.
I couldn’t wait to see Dena.
Before we picked her up, I’d been rolling around Chengdu with Rabbi trying to find a place that could fade my hair or even had clippers for sale so that I could blend my own damn hair. It took hours, but we finally settled on a salon for broke men that felt like a karaoke gigolo bar did a hostile takeover of the Hair Cuttery. Every stylist had a haircut like Justin Bieber, threaded eyebrows, and black button-down shirts unbuttoned to the pecs. I ended up teaching these goons how to fade, shape up, blend, and pull ice pick sideburns like I was instructions on the back of chopsticks. With my John Starks No. 3 Knicks Nylon Away Jersey and skin to 1.25 fade, I was ready to burn my player pass.
“Dena!”
I saw her wheeling her bag down the hallway with sneakers and a pink dress on. For a second, it felt weird. I hadn’t seen her in so long, she felt distant. Her smile was excitement with a dash of hesitation and possibility of rain. I smiled awkwardly.
What the fuck, b? Why are you thinking about this? It ain’t a first date! Just be yourself, I thought.
I couldn’t help it, though. I went to kiss her and I could tell that it came off mad stiff, like pressing a toothbrush to her lips.
“Hey!” she said, pulling back and laughing.
She ran her hands over my fade.
“You look cute when you get your hair cut.”
“Thanks, boo.”
“Do people do fades out here?”
“They do now.”
“Ha ha, it looks good.”
“Ehhh, it’s aight. White girls won’t notice.”
She pinched my arm. “Ohhhh, you’re the woist!” she said.
“Ain’t shit changed out here,” I joked.
It was back.
“You hungry?” I asked.
Pops always told me, the first question you ask anyone when you pick them up is “Tse lu fan ma?”*5
“Yeah! Let’s eat.”
I took her bag and walked her out hand in hand.
Outside, Rabbi was eagerly awaiting us right at the foot of the stairs. Son was so close that he literally had to back up so that we could walk out.
“Dena! This is Dena! I have been watching you fly!” screamed Rabbi.
Rabbi’s sister Mei Mei was also with us that day. She was so excited; she kept telling me how hard it was to pretend that she didn’t know I was proposing. When Dena came down the stairs, I saw Mei Mei jump and clap her hands, then immediately stop herself.
It made me laugh.
“Watching me fly? What do you mean?” asked Dena.
“I mean, shit, uhhh, you know, I watch you fly. I check the flight, watch you fly,” Rabbi said as his English began to fail him in his excitement.
“Ohhh, you’ve been watching the flight. I get it.”
“Yes, yes, I watch it,” he said, deadpan.
“Dena, this is Rabbi. Pronounce ‘Ra-bee,’ not ‘Ra-bye.’ ”
“This guy always want to rub it in. So I teaches the Torah, big deal.”
“Wait, Rabbi is Jewish?”
“Nooooo. It’s like this. I thought Rabbi sounded cool, so I pick as my English name and everyone call me Rabbi, then one day I find out what a rabbi really is. I do not am Jewish, so then I say my name is ‘Ra-bee not Ra-bye,’ but you still spells like Rabbi.”
“Rabbi, I give you a hard time, but did you know in the NFL there is a guy named Priest Holmes? If you ever make it to the NFL, it won’t be weird at all that you are a Chinese running back named Rabbi.”
“I think you fucking with me, right? This is that thing you told me….Irony!”
“Eddie, is this what you’ve been doing all month, just giving poor Rabbi a hard time teaching him about irony?”
“Yes! Yes! This what Eddie do, Dena. We show him all of Chengdu best food, most fun, then he make fun of us and teach us the irony. He really is like-a the Seinfeld.”
“Anyway, I’m Dena!” she said, turning toward Mei Mei. I don’t think she fully understood what I was saying about football or irony in China, but Dena had a way of absorbing confusing information on a surface level and then wiping the slate clean of awkwardness with her charm.
“Hi…hi,” said Mei Mei quietly. She couldn’t speak English.
“She is very pretty, Eddie!” Mei Mei whispered to me in Chinese, then covered her mouth to laugh.
“She says you really pretty, Dena.”
“Ohhh, thank you, Mei Mei.” She gave a blush and a smile, then tapped Mei Mei’s shoulder in gratitude. I’d never seen this pageant queen version of Dena. It was intriguing to see her with three Chinese people in the palm of her hand like she was Miss America, but I had to blow her cover.
“Don’t get gassed, she’s never seen white people so she probably thinks you Julia Roberts,” I poked.
“You are the worst!”
“Yes, yes, I agrees, Dena. Eddie definitely the worst,” said Rabbi.
“This is Fish!” I said.
“Hi, Fish, I’m Dena.”
“Hello! Fish,” said Fish, pointing to himself.
“Yes, Fish,” Dena reiterated.
“Yes, Fish,” he said again as I realized the poor guy had just about run out of English phrases. Fish gathered his thoughts and then spoke again.
“I…I hear, uhhh, many things…ABOUT YOU! Yes, I hear many good things about you.” There was extra emphasis as he struggled for each word, but I was proud of him. Fish was speaking some dope English.
“Thank you, Fish!”
Fish immediately went to grab Dena’s bags, and I fought him for them.
“Xiao Ming, please, let me, you must,” said Fish, and I relented.
We all packed into the Skoda and took off.
“Dena…ahhh, do you like-a the spicy?” asked Rabbi as he got right down to business.
“Yeah! I like spicy. Eddie gives me a hard time, though. He says white people just put hot sauce on things when they don’t get it.”
“It’s true! Hot sauce speaks so well,” I blurted.
“Hmmm, Eddie say many things about America and white people, but I will ask you myself because I do not trust Eddie’s information. He too irony,” said Rabbi.
“Ha ha, yes, any questions about white people p
lease direct them my way, Rabbi.”
“OK, so you like the spicy,” he confirmed.
“Yes.”
“Then we take you for your first Chengdu meal for hot pot! This is very famous in Chengdu. You must try.”
Not fully understanding what was going on, Fish and Mei Mei forwarded all their mid-conversation questions to Rabbi and would ask him to translate what was said every thirty seconds. We continued the rest of the night speaking for thirty seconds, waiting for Rabbi to translate, fielding questions from Fish and Mei Mei, then proceeding to speak again.
It wasn’t a burden, though; it was the best basketball game I’d ever been a part of. To watch Mandarin, English, Scranton, Chengdu, and New York run the motion offense in a Skoda mobile was my mountaintop. There was constant movement, everyone was unselfish, and you never knew where the next joke was coming from.
I think the satisfaction was all over my face, too. Dena kept squeezing my hand when I smiled.
“You look different!” she said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Did you lose weight?”
“I hope so! I been ballin’ out here and eating less processed food.”
“I can tell. You just look different.”
“I’m happy,” I countered.
We pulled up to Da Zhai Men Hot Pot right across from Hakka Homes. There were always waits of thirty minutes to an hour at Da Zhai Men. We usually avoided the lines and just went to more in-the-cut local hot pot joints, but with Dena in tow we decided to do it big. Da Zhai Men is a brand name. You get a mega-restaurant with multiple rooms, picture menus, and all the pageantry of a Cheesecake Factory plus duck intestines and pig’s blood. Sometimes, the universe lets you have it all.
“Eddie, should we order the yuan yang guo? The two flavors with one mild or all spicy for Dena?”
“She eats more spicy than me, dude, but get yuan yang guo for me. I like to switch it up.”
“OK, is there anything she don’t eat? Or too funky for her?”
“Nope. She gotta try it sometime.”
“Do it big, Rabbi,” said Dena fearlessly.
“OK….I think if you gonna do it big we should have lamb, fresh fish balls, duck intestines, duck tongue….”
