Tropic of Orange

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  Bobby looking at the photo plan. They got a Plan A for thirty-five bucks and a Plan B for thirty-five bucks. Difference is in the photo sizes. A, you get two 8 × 10s, ten wallets, and eight 4 × 5s. B, you get one BIG ONE, ten wallets, and eight 4 × 5S. First married, he took Rafaela over and got the B plan with the big photo, 12 × 15. He wanted one big for himself. Then, when Sol’s born, they went back. Got another Plan B with a 12 × 15 of Sol. Put them in frames. On the wall in the hallway. Both of them still there in the hallway, staring back, looking beautiful. Big as life. 12 × 15. His whole life, staring back. Plan B.

  Next door, there’s the clothing. Fancy stuff. Not just made in Taiwan. Styled in Taiwan. Silk shirt. Looks silk but maybe polyester. Black and white. Pleated job. Down the pleats, it’s open like vents. Show some skin. Got these black ribbon strips to hold the openings together. Skinny tough guy like Bobby look bad in digs like these. Bad for a Singapore Chinese. Bad if you live in Phnom Penh, Bangkok, or Ho Chi Minh City. Something scarce however for a cholo like Bobby. Life coulda been different. Coulda been hanging with the boys in Singapore with a black-and-white silk shirt with slits. Just like this one. Showing some skin. Looking like the Asian dude in the poster. Two Asian beauties in tight dresses puckering up to either side. Suave sophisticated. Fingering a cigarette. Some brand named 555. Says it in English: Where smoothness is everything. Coulda been smooth. Don’t matter now. Bobby given up smoking. That’s it. Plan B.

  Next stop, it’s a video store. Chinese videos. Some’s Hong Kong. Some’s Vietnam. Some’s Thai. Some’s Cambodia. Action/Adventure. Kung Fu. Gangster. Romance. Bobby thinks Action/Adventure maybe. This way you get the Kung Fu and some story. Chow Yun-fat. He’s the man. That’s it. Then there’s Erotic. Cover posters with naked women. Got their heads pulled back, cat eyes narrowed to slits, tongues just slipping through their teeth. Men got their backs to the poster or maybe their sides, pawing the women, making it happen. Everybody’s looking hot and steamy. Coulda taken these near the giant pots of boiling noodles, over giant woks with bok choy and peanut and sesame oil, back of a Chinese kitchen. It’s hot. A real workout. Still it makes Bobby itch. He could use some action. Man, he could really use some action. No sex. No smoking. He’s dying. Any video will do. Maybe make it worse. But how could it get worse? One Action/Adventure. One Erotic. That’s it.

  Bobby’s time to kill is up. He’s gotta meet the snakehead. Get a stall in a restaurant. Second stall on the right. No one there yet. Bobby orders tea. He could order a beer, but he doesn’t. Against his rules. Beer for after hours only. Lately, though, he could screw the rules.

  Man slips in the stall. Slips in from nowhere like maybe he works in the kitchen. Like he’s a snakehead. Nods. Speaks Mandarin smooth. Speaks friendly like he knows Bobby and always has. Like he knows the family. Maybe he does. He’s got a picture of the cousin. Puts the photo down in front of Bobby like a trump card.

  Bobby wants to cry, but he remembers to look cold. It’s not a he. It’s a she. Photo looks like his sister. That’s right. It’s a girl cousin. But how come it looks like his sister? Can’t be. Sister used to look like this. Sister’s older than him by ten years. So who’s this? Bobby says, “Don’t know her.”

  “Funny. She looks like you.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Only twelve.”

  “How come she’s alone? Where’s her family?”

  “There was a brother. Nineteen. The Lucky Golden Dragon couldn’t dock. Looked like it was going back to China. He was desperate. Left all his belongings with this sister and jumped ship just off the coast of Baja. Maybe he could swim. Maybe not. Never found him. Body never turned up. Maybe the sharks got him.”

  “Then who wrote this letter?” Bobby takes out the letter.

  “What does it matter? The information is reliable, isn’t it?”

  Bobby’s thinking. Older sister had some kids, but these can’t be them. Sister’s in Singapore. Maybe it’s a trick. Fake picture.

  Snakehead says, “She could be your sister or even your daughter. The resemblance is amazing. Are you from Fuzhou?”

  “When was this picture taken?”

  “Just before departure. Passport picture.”

  “Passport? If it were a passport picture, she’d be here already.”

  “If her brother hadn’t jumped ship, she’d be here. Now who’s going to guarantee for her? Who’s going to pay her way?”

  “She’s a girl. She didn’t cost anything. Everyone knows you bring in the girls free.”

  “This one was guaranteed by the brother. She wasn’t going to be a prostitute. Such a shame. All alone. So young. Unspoiled. A very nice girl. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to abandon her.”

  Bobby don’t fall for this talk. “You said he left all his belongings with her. Probably left enough to buy her freedom.”

  “Some clothing. Books. Mementos. Poor people. Besides, if you bring anything of value on a trip like this, it will be stolen.”

  Bobby don’t believe it. “How did you find my name?”

  “It was written in a book in his things. There’s a letter as well.” Snakehead spreads a folded piece of paper out. Chinese characters Bobby can still read pretty well. It’s his dad’s handwriting. The same as always. The letter says to look up his son in America. Here’s the address. Good to have friends. One shouldn’t be alone.

  Still Bobby remembers to look cold. The price is too high. Anyone knows the price at the border. Five hundred dollars max to cross by car. Fake documents. Door-to-door service. But that’s the Mexican price.

  “Ten thousand is too much,” Bobby says.

  “Ten thousand is cheap. She cost us a boat trip. Every day she’s eating. We could stick you for the brother, too. He owes us thirty. To be frank, either we unload her on you, or we just unload her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s safe. Tijuana. Waiting. Waiting for your answer.”

  “Let me see her first.”

  “It will cost you. Better to pay now. We’ll have her here next week. From today, every day you make us wait, it will cost you. Room and board.”

  “How do I know she’s real? Anyone can come up with a picture and a letter.”

  “Maybe I’m wasting my time. Maybe she’ll just have to take her chances.”

  “How much to see her?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Too much. I’ll give you two.”

  “Four hundred.”

  “Three.” Bobby pulls out three big ones.

  Snakehead nods. “Walk through the gates to the Mexican side from the end of the line at San Ysidro. Stand at the corner to one side of the taxi stop. Tomorrow. Noontime.”

  “Give me her picture.”

  Snakehead shrugs. Hands Bobby the letter too. What’s it to him. Easy ten thou. Slips out.

  Snakehead said tomorrow. What day’s today? Wednesday; 24th. Second mortgage due 24th of every month. Take it out of his checking. Where’s he gonna get ten thou? Gotta be another way. Rafaela might know. She could help. Rafaela knows Tijuana.

  Bobby stares at the photo looking like his sister when she was a kid. Even if she’s not blood connection, she sure looks it. Bobby tries to feel cold, and he can look cold, but he’s not like that. Rafaela knows this. He knows she knows this. So why’d she disappear? But he’s not gonna cry. Walks out to the street. Got to get something to eat. Down the corner, there’s a sign: Chinese burritos. Fish tacos. Ensopada. Camarón chow mein. Hoy Especial: $2.99. Comida to go. Por qué no?

  Bobby’s got the takeout, the medicinal herbs, the Miraculous Stop Smoking, the photo, the letter, and the two videos. He gets it all in the house, past the security door and the dead bolt. Gets the water boiling, the tea steeping, the takeout nuked. Studies the letter. Stares at the photo. Twelve years old. So? He was twelve when he came. Tea don’t go with the takeout. Chinese burritos. Chinamex. Who they trying to kid? But it’s not bad. Probably need to change the diet too. Tea don’t work with
this food. But it’s not bad. Unwraps another. Gets it nuked, too. Gets a video in the machine. Check out the Erotic. Check out the messages. Eleven messages. All asking about trabajo de limpieza. Still working that wrong number. Nothing from Rafaela. Nothing. Trabajo de limpieza? Trabajo de limpieza? Everybody’s asking. If there’s work, they want to do it. Got families to feed. Got rent to pay. Got dreams. Got hope.

  He’s sipping his tea and sniffing the Miraculous Stop Smoking. Medicinal. Smells like every herb in the pharmacy. Taking long deep breaths. Adjusting the yin. Adjusting the yang. Gonna lose that smoking urge. Meanwhile, the erotic video gets to brass tacks fast. Licking and humping. Working the hips. Working the thighs. Pressing the breasts. Sucking the nipples. Pumping the buttocks. Trabajo de limpieza? Se busca trabajo de limpieza? Pumping. Breathing deep. Working. Hard. Adjusting the yin. Adjusting the yang.

  CHAPTER 16:

  LA XMargarita’s Corner

  Time was x was Malcolm. Newsweek said now it was Shaq; he being the x Generation. What did they know? Hood’d changed. Now it was La X. La equis la equis noventa y siete punto nueve! Everybody was listening to the Mexican station. Doing banda and stepping to the quebradita. Buzzworm was not about to be behind this eight ball. He was listenin’ up too. Keeping up on the news. Keeping up for Margarita and all the others doin’ time in El Norte. Keeping up so’s to be ready with the dialogue. Some wanted to pit black against brown, but looked like one side got the crack, other got the weapons. And everybody got one helluva war, but who was the enemy? To keep it in perspective, somebody had to be there to get the sides to see eye to eye. Order to see eye to eye, had to get with the program. Far as Buzzworm was concerned, program was the Mexican station. It might not have been the source source, but it was tapping it. Course, Buzzworm listened to everything the air had to offer, but he’d been trying to let the brothers know they had to expand their horizons. Couldn’t be tuned into the Beat or the Power only. Not just Hammer, Boyz 2 Men, Snoop Doggie Dog, Kid Frost. Not just the hop over some smooth woman’s vocals. Yeah. Oooo. Oooo. Had to get behind another man’s perspectives. Hear life in another sound zone. Walk to some other rhythms.

  Course, Buzzworm knew it just might be a question of maturity. Hard to get a young homey to change channels when it was like the clothes you wear, what defined you, kept you part of the thing. Couldn’t get caught listening, for example, to The Wave; someone bound to think you’d gone cerebral or New Age, lost your ability to hop. Not many big enough to listen to his or her own mind. Still Buzzworm’d convinced some to try jazz. “Try it nighttime,” he suggested, like it was evening dress or dinner food or a nightcap. “Jazz,” said Buzzworm, “is the music of the night.” Hip hop in the day, but reserve jazz for the evening hours. Trust Buzzworm; he should know.

  Once he had you listening to the jazz station, then he’d be talking to you about personalities, syncopation, improvisation, blues, fusion. Pretty soon, he was piling on the details, insider stories, anecdotes, hearsay. It got complicated. You had to listen to the station more, call in for requests even, get you some tapes and CDs, find out what you like, participate in the give and take. Pretty soon, you’d find you getting yourself an education. History of jazz followed the history of a people, black oppression, race, movement of the race across the Earth, across this country. Ended up here in South Central. Count Basie and the Duke playing on Central Avenue. 5-4 Ballroom on 54th and Broadway. Charlie Parker, Fats Domino, and Ray Charles at Club Alabam Saturday nights in the fifties. Found out you came from somewhere. History. Buzzworm, he’d catch you if he could.

  Had to figure this was the plan when he took some time with the homey who saw bullets curve in space. Kid who saw bullets curve in space either got some kind of imagination or genius. Then too, maybe drugs’d spliced the mind. That was a possibility Buzzworm had to consider when he got the word the boy came up DOA at County Gen. Personally, he didn’t think so; kid had an attitude, not an addiction—that is, of the chemical sort. Buzzworm had a sense about him; thought the boy’d make a fine revolutionary. Still that’s what the report said. Direct cause of death: high doses of a very pure form of cocaine and unidentified chemicals found in the stomach and digestive tract, probably ingested orally.

  Buzzworm accompanied the boy’s mother to the morgue to identify the body. “What have they done to him? What have they done to him?” she kept crying. He was beat up bad; hardly recognized the kid. Eyes were two big swollen purple bruises. Mouth and nose same thing. Head blows. Body blows. The whole anatomy all punched out. Kid had one of those thin builds with a fast metabolism on a sudden growth spurt. Now everything was swollen flesh. “What are they talking about? Drugs. Coroner’s saying he OD’d. Boy was beat to death. It’s obvious. What are they trying to hide?”

  Buzzworm changed the station and shut his eyes. He had to think about this one. Meanwhile, the mother collected the boy’s things. The watch was there with a few coins, pocketknife, X cap. Watch was still good. Calculator working just fine. How come the watch could go on, but the boy could not? This would be all a mother could bring home of her son—a few worthless tokens in a brown envelope. Maybe this homey had been right. Why did he have to be alive when he was Buzzworm’s age? Well, he wasn’t gonna be.

  “You got another son, too? Younger?” he wanted to confirm.

  The woman nodded.

  He scribbled a number on the back of one of his calling cards. “You ever heard of the ROCers? Group of mamas ROC-ing. Means Reclaim Our Children, see? Can’t do it all by yourself.”

  She put the card in her purse.

  Homey’s crew was particularly quiet. No one was talking. Nobody pointing fingers. Nobody saying it was them that did it. “What about the drive-by yesterday?” Buzzworm wanted to know. “What was that all about?”

  “Just general shooting. Nothing personal. Happens all the time.”

  “Boy was beat up. Nothing personal?”

  “Beat up happens too.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Dunno. Coulda been kickin’ it. LAPD come round jacked him good.”

  “Maybe kid was jumped out. That what happened?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Why’d he want out of the crew?”

  “Who says he wanted out?”

  “Could be took his life to get jumped out.” Buzzworm figured maybe the homey took a beating to end his commitment to the crew. Got beat up to get in; got beat up to get out.

  “Can’t prove none of that. Dude’s too tough to die that way. If he got beat up, he walked away. Can’t nobody take his respect away. Gotta give him that.”

  “Walked away?”

  “So they say.”

  “Walked away where? Over a cliff?”

  Crew laughed. Cliffs in Watts would be good. Too bad it was all urban flatlands. Only cliffs around: maybe freeway rubble. So they suggested, “Into traffic. Hit and run. Could be.”

  “What about the cocaine? Since when you messing with such pure stuff?”

  “What?”

  Buzzworm couldn’t figure this one. They were just a tagging crew, running around marking up the walls. Bunch of kids running. It was mostly an overdose of hormones and poverty made them run. Running fast, but not fast enough. Things were aiming to catch up with them: drugs, petty theft, assault, robbery. But it wasn’t time for homicide, Buzzworm thought. Wasn’t time. Maybe they were telling the truth. The dead boy had walked away.

  One kid in the crew was listening to a Walkman. “What you listening to?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Buzzworm smiled, unperturbed. “Gimme a hit off those headphones of yours.”

  Kid shrugged and handed him the phones, but Buzzworm was genuinely surprised. “Son,” he said, “this is classical.”

  “So?”

  “So when’d you go cultural?”

  “Trying to listen for this thing.”

  “Thing?”

  “Shit.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “T
hing in my head. Sounds like this stuff here, see.”

  “Beethoven?”

  “Bay who?”

  Buzzworm gave him back his phones. He felt confused, first about the dead boy who saw bullets curve and now about another homey who listened classical.

  Then he remembered Margarita who listened to oldies. Buzzworm looked at one of his watches. It was lunchtime. Maybe he’d wander over and see Margarita at her corner. Sometimes she had her homemade pupusas. He liked the ones filled with potatoes and carrots, but any kind would do today. He got onto the Mexican station; he wanted to razz Margarita with a little mariachi, try to sweet talk her with some Spanish cooing, sing her the Cucaracha, tell her how everything south of the border was México, tell her her kids were all gonna end up marrying Mexicans, make her mad enough to cuss him out in her Pipile language. Maybe even get a few Chupacabra stories in. But Margarita wasn’t there.

  Margarita was dead. He got the page. Met the family in a one-room duplex, Pico-Union projects. Margarita had been in the kitchen at the sink, peeling oranges, eating, washing dishes, chopping vegetables, stirring up dinner, doing everything at once. Just like Margarita, doing everything at once. Then all of a sudden: boom. Slips to the ground. Looks like she’s sleeping. Mami! Mami! Wake up! Wake up! What’s happened? They dragged her to emergency. It took hours to get in. The older kid knew when she was dead. He couldn’t hear her heart, couldn’t hear her breathe anymore. Sat there in the waiting room, holding her head, keeping the news to himself, scared to tell the younger ones, wanting to know what he was supposed to do, wanting to be young and stupid again. What he couldn’t understand was what the folks at emergency were trying to tell him, trying to tell him it looked like his momma died of an overdose. Looked like she finally took too much. Too much of what? he wanted to know. Too much of work?