by Mike McKay
***
Twenty minutes later, the tailless mermaid, in the yellow jersey of the Tour de France, well ahead of the peloton, blasts though the last stretch of the dirt road and passes the finish line in the Koreamerican Patch-1. The spectators yell and applaud. And I am not even out of breath. Getting better at this stupid sport, I guess.
In our Garret Road Slum, there are no streets, only ‘Roads’ and ‘Patches’. A ‘Patch’ initially meant ‘a plot of land’, but over years the meaning shifted. Now it's more like ‘village’ or ‘compound’, although our ‘Patch’ is not your typical city block. Explaining how the Amerasian Patch works to the hardened individualist Yankees from the North is not an easy task, but I will try anyway.
So, the Patch. If you squint real hard, you may imagine yourself in the middle of the Fifteenth Century Asian village. Endless vegetable beds are all over the place. Two girls push a water-lifting wheel. Farmers in conical hats return from the rice field. And all the rest is as expected: rickety huts on stilts, a tiny Buddhist shrine amongst these huts, chickens and pigs digging through the dirt, barefoot kids playing at the village common grounds. Got the picture? Now just unsquint a little, and you discover yourself in the XXI Century Asian village, with all the advancements: all the above, but the roofs are made of rusted metal, complete with TV antennas and solar panels. Bicycles are everywhere. Not those Tour de France contraptions on ridiculously thin tires, but our real work bikes with strong frames – you can happily load five hundred pounds, or even more, as much as you can push.
And if you are tired of squinting, the XXI Century Asian village turns into the standard XXI Century Houston slum. One wall still bears faded sign of the IHOP restaurant chain, plastic film glitters in the window frames, tarpaulins and old tires are used in shack construction instead of palm leaves and bamboo poles. Dressed in T-shirts and shorts instead of exotic sarongs, two girls at the water-lifting wheel have stereo earbuds and step over the wooden planks clearly following some pop-music beat. The village kids at the common grounds are not playing some antiquated Asian game. It's modern and sophisticated weekly match of softball, as they proudly define it, ‘with fast serve and full rules’. The boy at the home base has whacked the ball with high-tech aluminum bat. By the way, the yells and applause for the imaginary Tour de France leader are real – from one of the softball teams. After the mighty strike, the fifth-grader has passed the second base and now is flying towards the third, stomping dusty ground with his bare feet. Sometimes I wish I can play softball too.
“Home run!” the umpire declares. The boy makes a little winning dance. The opposing team exhales a defeat sound and throws the ball to the pitcher.
“Anyoung haseyo, Auntie Kate!” a skinny teenage girl delivers first a traditional Korean bow and then a traditional American smile, waving her home-made catching glove. A little break in the game: the kids smile, nod, and wave to me. So cute.
“Are you from the Beat, Auntie Kate?” the umpire-cum-scorekeeper inquires. Fourteen-year old, he is probably the oldest here and naturally in-charge of the entire show. “Do you need something from the market? We can send a runner. Right away.”
We are not relatives. The Slum Rules are such that every woman of about my age is called ‘auntie’ by all the kids in the Patch, and I must call them ‘nephews’ and ‘nieces’. If I was two or three years younger, they would call me ‘big sister.’ And I must call ‘auntie’ every woman who is eight or ten years older than me.
I smile to the kids and wave my gloved hand. “Anyoung! Thanks, I am OK.”
I have always marveled how polite the Amerasian kids are in here. To be honest, when I first came to Houston I had strong preconceptions about Asian slums. But I quickly learned to appreciate this lifestyle and the Slum Rules too. It's easy to get used to good things. A city block in my native Michigan differs from the Amerasian ‘Patches’ in Houston slums not only by the absence of proper streets, the water-lifting wheel and the Buddhist shrine. In Detroit, an adult approaching a teenagers' game causes nothing but a wild-animal stare. And the wild stare is the best possible outcome. Let say, if it was me on my skate, the conversation might go along very different path. Oh, who do we have here? A freaking legless vet! Hey, cripple, can we borrow your skate? We will return it. Maybe. And show us inside your bag. And inside your pockets. Or you prefer a knife? Of course, I would never give them my skate. Want to see inside my bag? And what do we have in here? Click! Surprise! I have a nice blade of my own. Come close, shit. I see you don't need no balls no more… So the things might turn rather bloody – on both sides. The kids in Detroit never play softball. Knife throwing (for distance and accuracy) and setting abandoned buildings on fire (for extra warmth and awesomeness) are two least violent street sports up-North.
Leaving the softball players behind, I push my skate along the dirt path. The paths in our Patch-1 are wide, almost like roads. This place was built immediately after the Meltdown, and many believed the crisis was temporary. The gas would become cheap again, and the cars would return. After fourteen years, the gasoline did not get any cheaper, so the rusted frames of partially disassembled cars became storage shacks or chicken pens.
O-ops! And who is that old lady, cunningly waiting under the communal kitchen shed? Naturally, this is my mother-in-law. Captain has the bridge! First Officer, punch the General Quarters, if you would! All to the battle stations. Comms, signal to the Space Fleet: detected by the opposing force at the traverse of Kitchen, engaging the opponent. Scotty, are you done with your Shield repairs? Get lasers and space torpedoes hot! For our USS Enterprise – surrender is not an option.
Don't get me wrong. I am not at war with my mother-in-law. But she is a walking ultimatum, with energy of a Category-5 hurricane and decisiveness of an attack submarine commanding officer. She hates me because I am not ethnic Korean. She loves me because our hut looks Korean, and because I keep it meticulously clean, exactly as a proper Korean wife is supposed to do. She pities me for my missing legs. She admires me for my medals and my job in Police. She complains I never ask her to help. She praises me for not complaining and doing everything myself. All at the same time, and with Category-5 hurricane intensity. Most importantly, she makes sure my husband and I consume enough calories and right amount of protein every day.
“Anyoung haseyo, Ma,” I say approaching the kitchen shed. Being spotted, I very well can take the initiative. Does she know we have no water at home?
“You're early. I thought, you three are dining out tonight. Tan's birthday?” a single range-setting shell is fired. The super-dreadnaught gracefully turns for a broadside, whilst at her battle bridge her Senior Gunnery Officer is calculating if we have eaten dinner.
“The plan didn't work out, Ma. Tan and Kim were called to a crime scene.”
“Far?”
“In the Chinamerican Patches. I am afraid it will take a long while.”
“I decided to leave some food for you two, just in-case.” From the kitchen top, she lifts two glass containers with something appetizing. Ka-boom! A mighty broadside salvo from all main caliber guns, and right on-target! Of course, ‘just in case’ is nothing but thin excuse. She leaves us food every day, independent from our plans for the evening. OK, today I don't mind. I fail to be the perfect Korean wife in one aspect: I am not much of a cook, and if it comes to cooking Korean, I am practically hopeless.
“Oh, thanks, Ma,” I diligently make a surprised face, as if I believe in her ‘just in case’ statement. “Tonight it will come very handy. I'll take it.”
“I'll carry it for you.”
“No, Mom. I can take it myself. I am on wheels!” No way I let her carry the things for me, especially in front of the whole Patch. But more important, she should not see our empty water jerrycan!
“On wheels!” The in-law says grumpily, but passes me the containers, “do you need rice too?”
&nbs
p; “Thanks, Ma. Rice – I'll manage.”
“Manage! Do you have water at home?” Lucky us, she did not look into our jerrycan today.
“Yesterday, we had it half-full,” I give a half-honest answer. Helm, full portside! Scotty, be so kind, set the radar counter-measures!
“How are your legs today?” Great. The second salvo from the in-law dreadnaught comes short of target! My cruiser lacks the gun caliber, but she has advantage of maneuver and speed.
“Today – not too bad. No pain.” Scotty, now both engines – full speed ahead! Breaking the contact. Aye-aye, Capt'n, full ahead.
“Did you smoke?”
“Once.” Really – twice, but my in-law thinks that one To-Ma-Gochi a day is a medicine, while two or three is an acute drug addiction.
“I hope the pain goes away.”
“Right.”
She always asks this. A typical pre-Meltdown generation, she still doesn't believe there are conditions, which cannot be cured in a couple of weeks with some wonder-drug. As far as I was told, fighting with phantom pain is pointless. But instead of a fight, you can make a peace accord: manage your condition with regular meditation and an occasional puff of Marijuana. So far, I am doing it quite well.
“If you need something, don't go yourself. Send the neighbor kids or ask them to call me, OK?”
“Sure, Ma.” Holding the food containers with one hand, I push the skate with the other, targeting to our little shack.
Very well, Scotty. We made through it with minimum damage, no sweat. Yes, Capt'n: minimum damage. And having the ‘just-in-case’ package is not too bad. May I remind you, ma'am, that we've got only rice, Kimchi and soy sauce at home? You're an unbelievable pessimist, Scotty. We also have half-a-jar of jam and even acorn coffee! Not to forget our main weapon: brownies in the top-secret hold. Attention all hands! Captain's orders! Changing to bikini top and shorts! Jerrycan on stand-by! Navigator, set course for the water well, if you would! And be so nice to avoid the enemy radars this time.
The standing plan is for Kim to fetch water on his bike tonight, but this is unlikely to happen. No probs, the Tour de France leader will pump her upper body a bit more. The only issue, I must avoid detection. The last thing I want is the fifty-five-year old lady wrestling the empty jerrycan from her daughter-in-law. She did it on few occasions, to my total embarrassment. The idea that your mother-in-law has to fetch water for you somehow does not fit well with my self-esteem. Especially considering that she wakes up at four in the morning and walks no less than ten miles every day, in any weather, and with two baskets on her shoulder-pole. She runs her own fast-food business: XV Century style. In the morning, she prepares the meals and delivers them by lunch-time to the Landfill workers. After lunch, she walks to the market to buy supplies for the next day, and so on. Naturally, for the water run I can ask any of my so-called ‘nephews’ and ‘nieces’. But I will need more water tomorrow: scrubbing the shack floor, shipshape. OK, tomorrow I will whistle from the porch and abuse my executive auntie's powers. Today, the polite ‘nephews’ and ‘nieces’ may play their oh-so-important softball match…
